"I checked my watch and grimaced. It was past midnight, and I still had miles to go. More than once, I seriously contemplated laying down on the side of the trail and sleeping there for the night …"
This is my story of a night-hike to Pearsoll Peak, the highest point in Oregon’s Kalmiopsis Wilderness:
In May of this year, I had planned to meet our volunteers for the tail end of their annual Memorial Day trip across the 180,000-acre Kalmiopsis Wilderness Area. Fellow staff member Trevor Meyer invited me to join him at Pearsoll Peak the night before, so we could photograph and film the crew as they hiked out. I hastily packed my camera equipment and some overnight gear and hit the road. As I drove, I ticked through a mental checklist. I’m a forgetful person, but I typically leave behind the small things, the nonessentials like my backup water filter, my pillow, extra socks, or glasses case.
Packed and ready to go.
But this time, as I ran through the list, I realized I’d forgotten something crucial: the memory cards for my camera. Sure, my backpack would be lighter, but I certainly wouldn’t be able to film. Without memory cards to record with, my camera would function as no more than a paperweight. I immediately pulled over and called Trevor. I would need to turn around, I told him. I would meet him at the fire lookout on Pearsoll, but not until late that night.
My planned route to Pearsoll Peak.
Having already driven an hour from our clubhouse in Gold Hill, I knew that this detour would set me back. By the time everything was said and done and I’d made my trip back and forth, I arrived at the Onion Camp Trailhead at 10:39pm. I sighed, knowing I’d be starting and ending my seven-mile hike in the dark.
A trail marker on the Kalmiopsis Rim Trail.
My backpack was heavy, and I was tired, so I put my head down and started trudging my way along. “This is going to be one heck of a grind,” I thought. It wasn’t until I took a break and looked up that I realized how strangely wild the landscape of the Kalmiopsis appeared by night. Snags glowed a stark white before my headlamp, standing guard over the trail like twisted marble towers. The sky was brilliant with stars, and, to my amazement, there were shards of rock below me that twinkled under the moonlight.
Burned trees still standing along the trail.
But the scenery, no matter how beautiful, could not keep me awake. I checked my watch and grimaced. It was past midnight, and I still had miles to go. More than once, I seriously contemplated laying down on the side of the trail and sleeping there for the night. But each time I lifted my head, I saw Pearsoll on the horizon, beckoning me, taunting me. It would be a defeat to give up now.
Pearsoll Peak: so close, but so far away...
I trudged on, panting as I rounded the switchbacks to the top. By the time I reached the old fire lookout, it was three in the morning. I dropped my backpack with a thud, and stood admiring the wide expanse below. But before I had the chance to snap a photo, I heard someone call out in the dark. It was Trevor, his voice slow and groggy.
The fire lookout in the early morning light.
Finally, our plans came to fruition, and we were here at Pearsoll together. After sleeping for two hours, we woke up at five and were greeted with a stunning sunrise. In the daylight, I could see the red color of the rocks, the glistening water of a pond below, and a deep snow bank that still remained on the side of the mountain.
Sunrise from the top of Pearsoll Peak.
It is the adventures like these that remind me how Wilderness always has something up its sleeve. Whether that be a sudden rainstorm, a thundering herd of elk, or an unexpectedly clear summer night, there’s always something ready to catch us off guard. It never gets old; it never loses its luster.
And that is why trails are so important. Trails are the only way (except slow and difficult cross-country travel) to experience these public lands. And they are slowly but surely fading away.
If you want to contribute to the maintenance of these routes, to allow future generations to experience them as we do today – in all their unexpectedness – give us a hand by becoming a member. Annual membership dues of $45 or more are our most sustainable source of revenue, and every dollar goes back to stewarding the backwoods trails. Visit our donation page or contact us directly at info@siskiyoumountainclub.org to get involved.