Tumalo Mountain
While most of the Cascade Range is defined by solitary volcanos towering over the landscape, unchallenged by any nearby neighbors, the skyline in Central Oregon is rather crowded. Here, five great peaks thrust their snowy summits into the sky: Broken Top, Mt. Bachelor, and the Three Sisters. This grand concentration of alpine scenery is made richer by the surrounding lower peaks, including a shield volcano just northeast of Bachelor. Deeply eroded on its north slope by Pleistocene glaciers, the rounded and windswept summit provides an unparalleled view of the high peaks that sit just a few miles away. Fresh snow and clear skies are a magical combination on Tumalo Mountain.
It’s 4:50 am. Scorpius is high in the clear night sky as I strap on my snowshoes and adjust my headlamp. For months I have daydreamed of the hike I’m about to begin. I’ve missed the best chances earlier in the winter, when fresh snow was followed by a cloud-free morning. Those conditions have replicated themselves once more in late March, and with the season running out on me, I have to take this opportunity. Into the hemlocks I go, bound for sunrise on the summit of Tumalo Mountain.
In summer, this hike is moderately strenuous but simple enough. A trail curves up the south side of the mountain, making a few switchbacks along the way. Here, on the last day of March, the trail is buried beneath feet of snow. The powder isn’t deep, but I still sink enough that making fresh tracks all the way up the 1,500 vertical feet ahead of me seems a poor way to spend energy. No need to try to stick to the track on my GPS. Instead, I follow a snowboarder’s line in reverse, climbing ever upward on slightly firmer snow as the stars dim above me and dawn approaches.
The mountain hemlocks give way to whitebark pine as the summit comes into view. The treeline environment is far windier, but the promise of sunrise easily outweighs any discomfort. I make my own switchbacks now with this crusty snow providing more support than the powder below. For the last hour, I’ve been looking southwest to Bachelor whenever I take a break, contemplating the view as the slopes grow steadily brighter. Now, just below the summit, I catch a fleeting glimpse of South Sister. Excited, my pace increases, soon delivering me to the view I’ve longed for.
This morning, the winter vista from Tumalo Mountain approaches perfection. Cascade splendor abounds with Bachelor standing to the southwest and Thielsen looming far to the south. But the real display is seen to the northwest, for here stand South Sister, Middle Sister, and Broken Top, a wall of white framed by the approaching dawn. My heart races as the landscape illuminates. I can never take a photo that properly depicts this rhapsody in snow, but I try nonetheless. White peaks turn pink and purple as the sun crests the horizon. The frosted subalpine forest below gradually brightens with the sky above, and the snow on which I stand joins in the morning celebration with a beautiful interplay between light and shadow built by wind and colored by dawn. No hue lasts long in one spot as the Earth’s spin constantly pulls light over the landscape. Now the morning makes direct contact with the woods far below. The alpenglow fades into daylight, and I marvel at the glory I just witnessed.
I’ve studied these peaks from many angles while living in their rainshadow. They’re visible from Bend, from the High Desert, from the lakes and trails in the forest, and from airplanes overhead. Every view is a boost to my spirit, a happy reminder that wilderness and adventure are so close by, but these mountains are far more than just a scenic wonder on the horizon. The water I drink is pulled down from the sky by these peaks, cached in snow and glaciers, filtered by volcanic geology, and continuously released downslope to the place where the pines meet the junipers. The sunny climate of the region is a creation of the Cascades, a boundary that clouds often fail to cross as the winds push them east. Even my job is predicated on these summits and the landscape they’ve built, drawing me and countless others to explore, to play, and to learn at their feet. All this is wrapped up in the wonder I feel now, standing before them as a new day dawns in the mountains.
I linger a bit longer at the summit but eventually begin my descent. I make a fresh trail all the way down, discovering some views to return to in the future as I go. The whitebark pines fade back into lodgepole pine and mountain hemlock. Tracks in the snow tell me I’m not alone on this mountain: there are at least a few foxes and mice nearby. As I near the trailhead, one thought crowds out all others: when can I do this again?
Soon, I hope.
