"I've Got My Own Back"

For two miles, we had followed a shaded trail that led through a lonely pine and ash forest outside of Bend, Oregon. For the last mile, we had seen no one. At the two-mile mark, we arrived at a fork in the trail, where a weathered wooden sign directed hikers to turn left if they were bound for Moraine Lake, nearly 7,000 feet in elevation on the slopes of the South Sister. We turned and found ourselves on a thickly-wooded, rapidly ascending slope.

It was a sunny day but unusually chilly for early September, and, as we plodded up the silent slope, the temperature continued to drop. As we neared 6,000-feet, the pines thinned, and the wind found us, and it was far too cold for two people from Hawaii.

Despite the cold, the sky was blue and crystal clear and the day was enticing, and we forged on. Eventually, the trail leveled, and we rounded a final turn and beheld the lake, a stunning opal-blue pool cradled by the pine-covered slopes of the South Sister. Shimmering and resplendent in the late afternoon sun, it was everything we had hoped it would be, and it was entirely ours. There was, apparently, no one in miles.

 It was late in the day and we had little time for photos, as the lake is surrounded by walls of pine and low hills, and the sun had nearly dropped beneath them. I scurried to the top of a high hill of loose cinders, sinking a bit with each step, but finally attaining the crest and snapping a few photos before the sun disappeared.

As I picked my way down the cinders, a thick mist appeared suddenly from the heights of the South Sister and descended in a slow, tumbling avalanche down its slopes. The blue sky became a gray sky, and then there was no sky, only a gray mass that enveloped the pines and the lake and us.

It began to snow. It started as a light dusting, so slight that at first we were not even certain it was snow. Very quickly, the flakes became more prominent, powdering the ground and collecting on our hat brims and backpacks; and, with shaky fingers - we were very cold - we pulled out the cameras to get photos of the snow before it melted. We do not get snow on O’ahu, and it was fun and exciting, and we quickly forgot all about the lake.

Within a few minutes, the slight snowfall became a brisk, ambitious snowfall, and it was no longer fun and exciting. Snow gathered on pine branches, and small mounds built on the top of our backpacks. This is how visitors get in trouble, we realized. The snow fell harder, it was extremely cold, and we were extremely unprepared. It was time to go. I put my camera away, and we prepared to head back down the trail.

And then I saw her.

She appeared like an apparition, stepping suddenly from the pines at the far end of the lake, a weathered backpack and camping gear on her back. She stopped and gazed at the lake. For more than a minute, she did not move, as though transfixed by its beauty.

Noticing us, she walked in our direction, spurred, perhaps, by the camaraderie that is spawned by chance encounters in the wild. She was a young woman, perhaps in her mid-20s, and there was a diamond stud in her nose. She asked if we knew of a good place to camp. We replied that we did not. It is our first time here, I told her. She turned to look at the lake, and the last, long shafts of the dying day illuminated her face. Her expression was wild and bold, and she had a swashbuckling confidence that was appealing.

She said the lake was beautiful, and she wanted to be able to see it from her camp when she woke in the morning. As we turned to look at the lake, an icy wind feathered the water and traveled up the knoll, rustling the pine leaves around us. My wife stamped her feet from the cold. The snow fell harder.

The mysterious wanderer glanced at the sky and the pines, and then she looked again at the lake, which was already partially covered in shadow, and she said, “I think this spot will do fine,” and she slid out of her backpack and matter-of-factly began to set up her camp. We chatted for a while longer. She was dismissive of the cold; and she smiled indulgently, but said nothing when we mentioned the sign in the parking lot warning of a mountain lion that had been seen on the trail. There was a fearlessness about her that was commanding.

“You’re alone?” inquired my wife, who had been expecting to see a companion emerge from the pines by the lake.

“Yes,” she replied.

“You don’t find that a bit unsettling?”

“Not at all,” she laughed.

“I could lend you my husband,” my wife said jokingly. “He could watch your back."

She smiled beautifully. “Thank you,” she laughed, “but I’ve got my own back. That arrangement has always worked for me. It saves me from having to depend on someone . . . someone who might let me down."

She said that like someone who had once been let down . . . but just once.

It was getting late. We knew we would need to hurry to reach the parking lot before dark, so we exchanged final pleasantries and bade her farewell as she made preparations for the night. Our footfalls left dark prints in the snow. We jogged until we could no longer clearly see the trail, and then we picked our way through the inky stillness of the South Sister’s lower slopes. It was night when we arrived at the car.

I thought of her that night when I lay in bed. I thought of her tucked into her sleeping bag, alongside the lake, nearly 7,000-feet high on the South Sister, entirely alone with the temperature near freezing, and I wondered what her thoughts were, and I wondered if the snow was still falling, and I wondered what sounds she would hear in the night. I didn’t know her name, I didn’t know her history or anything about her except that she had a diamond stud in her nose. I wasn’t worried for her; I had no doubt she would be fine. Oddly enough, the thought of her on that mountain in silence and solitude was comforting. I admired her pluck. That was the spirit that built this country, and it was encouraging to know it still existed. This fearless young lady with metal in her nose and steel in her back was America's future.

I rose from bed, padded across the floor and opened the window. I wanted to feel how cold it was, although I knew it had to be at least ten-degrees colder up on the South Sister.

“You’re worried for her, aren't you?" my wife asked. "Up there alone in the cold with that mountain lion."

I paused for a bit, closed the window and then padded hurriedly back to my warm bed.

“Actually,” I said, "I’m more worried for the mountain lion."