McKenzie River Trail, Cascades

heat+hiking=tired dogs

Just 45 minutes in the car and we’re in the ferny glades under the big doug firs by the gorgeous rush of the river. Unfortunately it was no cooler up here than in the valley. L.’s green shirt grew a speckled wet patch along his spine and I had to fold my tank top up over the swell of my ridiculous belly. Jones was so eager to get to the first water stop that he launched himself off the footbridge when we still had 10 feet left to cross. My dogs are barking, L. said at the end of our three-hour tour, but he wasn’t referring to our two weary guys, who drank the rest of the water and sacked out for the ride home. Jones hardly showed interest in L.’s post-hike corn dog.

Cat poop consumed: no (human poop yes. I know, gross.)

 

McKenzie River Trail, Cascades

If I were a Romantic poet I might wax rhapsodic about lemony dogwoods among the stately plump doug firs skirted round with ferns and Oregon grape. About the rill trickling down a mossy bank into stone cups worn smooth with old time. About the froth and roar of the mighty McKenzie that bordered our path. Or perhaps the thrill set astir in one’s breast from the aromatic spice of these very woods. And all of that would be true; yea and verily. But also Jones paused to graze in the salad bar of fresh grass, and Ramona couldn’t seem to get out of the way when mountain bikers skidded past. I sang campfire songs. L. wondered why we didn’t bring lunch.