That Dream of Yours? Make it Happen.

Photo by Tom Woodgerd on Unsplash

“100 miles. 10 days. Three Countries. And A Lot of Cheese.”

That's the headline I’d cut out of The New York Times when I still had the news delivered to my front door rather than my inbox. The article describes strenuous but pleasant days hiking around Mt. Blanc, soaking in panoramic views, savoring rustic Italian, Swiss, and French cuisine, and sleeping in charming mountain huts. Sounds dreamy, doesn’t it?

I’ve had a goal of hiking around Mt. Blanc for nearly ten years. With a hat tip to

JULIA HUBBEL

and her “let's adventure attitude,” this is the year I finally head out on my audacious adventure. 

What’s your dream?

Hiking the Camino? Working at a dog rescue in Montana? Traveling to Antarctica? Maybe it’s time to embark on making it a reality – and find that the journey really is the destination – getting ready brings a sense of fulfillment worthy of the dream itself.

Mt. Blanc is a popular trek, but don’t let that fool you. It’s tough. Count on logging ten-mile days with elevation gains of as much as 5,200 feet. I’ve been lifting weights, running stairs at a nearby park once a week, and hiking the local trails with friends. But, there was one hike I knew I had to do to see if I was ready.

At just under 5,000 feet tall, Mt. Defiance is the highest peak in the Columbia Gorge. Mountaineers prepare for scaling Mt. Hood on Mt. Defiance. And, although I hoped their training wouldn’t include having to find me, Search and Rescue teams practice on its steep slopes. Mt. Defiance would be where I’d find out if I had what it took to hike 100 miles in 10 days. 

My Dear Husband dropped me off at the trailhead at 8 am promising to return at 4 pm. At first, I move easily along the trail, surrounded by mossy oak trees and waterfalls cascading from steep basalt cliffs that rise hundreds of feet from the river. And then the climb upwards begins. Pushing my hiking poles into the soft earth, I propel my body up the steep incline. I walk through a forest of ghost trees whose gray limbs stretch toward the sky in a visceral cry for wounds suffered in the 2017 Eagle Creek Fire. Further up the mountain, I pass charcoal skeletons, their hollowed-out trunks monuments to 50,000 acres of wilderness destroyed in that fire. 

There are signs of rebirth in the understory of vine maples, purple fireweed, and the golden wildflowers optimistically named “Oregon Sunshine.” A few Douglas Fir seedlings – no taller than eight inches – courageously stake their claim in a forest determined to recreate itself.

For three hours I hike straight up, covering only four miles, but gaining a heart-pounding 4,000 feet in elevation. And then I see them. A zipline’s distance across the Gorge they stand, Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams, and squeezing herself between the two, Mt. Rainier. They are the majestic beauties who quiet any room they enter. I divide Oregonians into two groups: those called to the mountains and those who feel the ocean’s pull. As I look at the three mountain peaks framed against a pale blue sky, I know who I am. I am brought to my knees in gratitude – and the need for rest.

Rested and restored, I push on for the final uphill mile to the summit and am rewarded with a view. Are you ready for this? I had just climbed five thousand feet in five miles to reach a hulking silver cell tower with a base of ugly mesh fencing and menacing “no trespassing signs.”

Photo by Dušan veverkolog on Unsplash

But, I turn in the opposite direction. What do you think I saw then my friend? A stunning, in-your-face vision of Mt. Hood. Mother Nature had thoughtfully placed some flat-topped boulders for me to climb on (yes, one more climb) for my viewing pleasure. I munch my crackers and cheese, staring at the brown palette that defines The Dalles and just a few miles but an ecosystem away, the green farmland that forms the base of Mt. Hood. It is a million-dollar view. 

Heading down the trail, the hiking poles that pulled me up the mountain now hold me back so I don’t fall. I cross a narrow ridge of scree, using the poles to carefully balance on the unstable slope while also hoping their tips don’t get stuck between the rocks and trip me up. It’s a delicate balance requiring my full attention. 

Suddenly, I can no longer focus on where I’m placing my feet. My stomach is stealing the show with diva-level nausea. Was it the elevation? The lunch that maybe hadn’t gone down right? I don’t know. What I do know is that there’s an urgency to the situation, and unless I deal with it, I will suffer what marathoners call “the runs.” 

I am a gal who is not afraid to drop her drawers in the woods. It’s an image that may have the more delicate among you hanging up your hiking boots. But my current situation requires much more than simply peeing in the woods.

The shits. Dear god. What would you do? 

That’s what I do, too.

Any hope of greeting My Dear Husband at trailhead like a bad-ass, victorious Reese Witherspoon reaching the Bridge of the Gods at the end of the movie Wild is gone. 

It’s a moment when I wonder whether it’s time to pursue less audacious adventures. In another moment though, two Bald Eagles swoop down from the sky and circle directly over my head. Two Spirit Guides saying, “Keep going. You got this.” Perhaps. But, please let there be bathrooms along the trail of Mt. Blanc, and if you know differently, don’t tell me.

I am not yet ready to hang these puppies up.