Our home hiking range is dominated by three forks of the river. The South Fork runs along the freeway. Lots of official trails and generally easy travel. The Middle Fork is wilder and full of untrailed mountains and logging roads. Generally easy travel. The North Fork is part tree farm inaccessible without a permit and part flesh ripping, carnivorous plants hungry for human flesh. Not generally easy travel.
Am I being hyperbolic? No. Over the years I've ventured into the North Fork valley. It has rarely gone well. Start with a try at a beautiful peak and lake. Bad. Later, I tried to get to a lake in the same area. Nope. Or when we tried to get to a nothing peak and were stymied by a ragged ridge of rocks and brush or another trip when we made the summit, but our descent wound us up in an epic brush bash. Lame and never again.
Except of course we'll do it again. That destination way back in 2006 that introduced us to the terror of the North Fork? It's been on my mind all these years. Persistence is a good thing while adventuring except when it's not. This trip is an example of both.
We parked in the same spot at the end of a logging road. Shotgun shells and trash littered the "trailhead." We jumped into the woods and wound our way past downed trees, little swamps, and patches of devil's club. It was a steep climb to the ridge, but straightforward. The traverse across the rock field was long, but again, no problem. The summit was nice, the lake nicer, it was good. Of course, that was just half way.
To get home, we'd just need to retrace ours steps. But, ugh, the brush was lousy on the way up. We don't want to do that again. I bet we can find a better way down. Look at the satellite pics. It will totally work.
So we dropped off the ridge a little earlier than if we had planned to follow our route up. Initially, it looked like a good idea, as it always does. Then we found the cliffs that made us change course. Then we were in the maples. Not the stately big leaf maples of SCIENCE!, but the spindly vine maples of nightmares.
The maples slowed our progress to a crawl. In fact, they sometimes made us crawl. Between pushing branches out of the way, being slapped in the face by those same branches, falling in holes we couldn't see because of the branches, and getting scratched and cut by miscellaneous pokeys hidden by the branches it was no fun at all. We finally exited the brush and found ourselves back in the forest for the last mile to the car.
Did I learn any lessons? None that will stick with me. Did I get tetanus? Not this time. Will I go back? Of course. After all, even Type 2 Fun is fun, right?
