Slushies On Sugar Hill

The snow was piña colada Slurpee. That’s what happens in June after a night when it doesn’t freeze in the high desert. My dad Ken, brother Nate, and I were just across the Oregon/California border, hiking Sugar Hill in Modoc County. My shoes were getting a refill every step.

Part of the Warner Mountain range that runs north-south through the sage-brush, juniper-tree outback of southcentral Oregon and northeastern California, Sugar Hill peaks at 7,267 feet and is crowned by the Sugar Hill Lookout tower. We’d decided to head to the sweet spot instead of our original destination, 8,456-foot Crane Mountain, because the roads were open higher in to the north-facing slope. We wanted a backcountry adventure, but didn’t feel like hiking in for miles through un-plowed roads still heaped with snow after this winter’s extra helping of mashed potatoes.

The Home Place

My wife Rose, daughter Nollie, and I were at the home ranch west of Lakeview, Oregon to visit my family, help with the annual cattle branding, go fishing, ride horses, and see if Wrangler’s were still as uncomfortable to wear as I’d always thought growing up. They were.

I’d tossed my skis and boots in on a whim. Nate turned 12 in March and there’s something of a coming-of-age tradition--a Norwegian pseudo-bar mitzvah if you will (or won’t)--in my family. My dad took both I and my brother Eli on a hike-in ski adventure to Crane Mountain when we turned 12 (13 and 9 years ago, respectively). With the mountains still covered in God’s frozen tears I figured even in June there was still a chance to make it happen this year for Nate.

We branded Wednesday: Nate roping; me tackling the roped calves; my other brother Coren, 10, vaccinating; my dad applying the branding iron; grandpa Bill castrating; Rose tagging the ears; and mom Audrae carrying Nollie around in a backpack. Thursday was for fishing: no bites, but a few beers. Friday was the day to ski.

It’s Friday, Friday, Friday

The sun was still climbing above the hills along the Drews Valley gap when we got up. Baked oatmeal loaded with blueberries, and some over-spiced, fried Rocky Mountain Oysters from the branding for breakfast. Then Nate, dad and I hopped into the early-'90s Suburban and headed the hour or so east on Highway 140 and south on Highway 395. Just outside of wide-spot-in-the-road Davis Creek, CA we turned toward the mountains onto a gravel county road. Off that onto an old logging road sparkling with crushed obsidian that wound below the slope through dense sugar pines.

Part of the road was washed out from spring runoff, but nothing the 454 engine and 4-wheel drive couldn’t handle. It was the pine seedlings growing in the road a little farther on that stopped us. Triumph of nature over man and all that.

Shorts and light jacket weather. Partly cloudy. Threw on a pack filled with boots, water, and skis strapped on and it didn’t take long to get downright hot. Sweat dripped off my forehead down my face. Should have wore a hat. Damp cotton undershirt. Why had I forgot to pack a dri-fit tee? It felt good though. The turns are always sweeter when there’s no lift to take. It’s like an iced beer after a scorching day.

The skyline peeked out between the branches over the last steep section. There was the abandoned lookout tower. No locked gate on the stairs though. In these parts if you feel like taking a risk, you’re responsible for the consequences. We climbed up and through the flecked-paint plywood trapdoor. Emerged out onto the warped, dry-rotted walkway that wrapped around the single room.

People pay good money for “distressed” paint jobs that look like this stilted shack. Sub-zero winters, dry, hot summers, and cut government budgets will do the job for free.

You don’t need to see earth from space to feel like a speck in the universe. Just take in the view from up here. Mt. Shasta off in the distance and the snow-capped Warner range dividing the horizon for a couple hundred miles.

We ate some PowerBars sitting on the foundation pads anchoring the lookout’s steel legs into the rocky scrub-grass covered mountain top. Changed our wet socks from the tennis-shoe hike. Boots clicked into bindings.

Across the top of the ridge line, the snow was sticky like melted taffy. If it had been a few degrees colder the night before, it would have been classic spring corn. Oh well. Past some elk tracks, or maybe just a Goliath mule deer. Should have paid more attention in that big-game tracking class I never took.

A couple hop turns, dropped between two pines, hooked an edge in the Elmer’s glue and almost ate it. There was a short clearing. A few nice slush-spray turns. Into the Manzanita brush islands between thin peninsulas of snow surrounded by oceans of dirt. Leaned back and bunny-hopped some Manzanitas. A little short. Good thing the leaves and thin red-ocher branches kept my bases off the rocks underneath. Out onto one more patch of snow. That was it. The last few turns until next winter.

Nate and dad were right behind me. Nate’s an Odegaard man now. Skis back onto the packs. Boots off. Shoes on. Flautas, enchiladas, frijoles, and arroz at El Aguila Real in Lakeview on the way back to the ranch. That night, Cadillac margaritas in the dining room as we looked out at the ten-thousand acres of cattle country on the ranch. The long, horizontal rays turned the meadow grass gold as the sun set. Cash another check in the memory bank.

If you happen to be at the Sugar Hill Lookout, keep your eyes open for my cell phone.

--Jens