The massive ridge lines of Mt. Jefferson plummet downward
through timberline and across miles of the high country, carved by
rushing snow melt. On the skyline shoulders of the mountain is a
strange world of torn clouds and shadows floating over the trails
that climb from the wildflower meadows of Jefferson Park. In
twilight moments, past and present merge into a haunting presence

of a timeless netherworld. Seeking an answer to the rightful
destiny of humankind, I journeyed to the highlands.

On a fall day, I drove toward the Jefferson Wilderness through
whirling showers of vine maple leaves kicked up by the wind. The
Whitewater Trail switch-backed past the Sentinel Hills, continuing
up an arm of Mt. Jefferson through an arching tunnel of old-growth
forest. I traversed a winding tread that slowly rose above the
horizon, twisting through cove-like rock gardens. The trees were
bent by winter's relentless snow-pack and sculpted into sweeping
arcs by the wind. Moving through a lichen-mottled maze cast in
dappled sunlight, my impressions assumed a new character of
dimensions intertwined. My surroundings bore the imprint of the
past with patterns etched in stone like petroglyphs to be
deciphered in a dream. The thin air moved in erratic gusts that
moaned through the evergreens like the breath of an old warrior. I
could feel the old ones march alongside me in a cadence with my
heartbeat, pounding like a distant drum. Their thoughts became my
own, of happy hunting grounds and the names of loved ones that
echoed through the canyons. The rustic sign for the Pacific Crest
Trail appeared, interrupting my reverie, and I hiked northward to
gain the hanging valley of Jefferson Park.

To my left unrolled an inviting mat of heather extending to
the rocky shoreline of Scout Lake. To my right, Mt. Jefferson's
peak disappeared into the clouds, transforming the power of the
heavens into thundering whitewater that surged downward to feed
the forested hillsides. A climbing trail emerged from the foot of
the mountain, and I ascended a series of park-like terraces into a
cold windy space where only eagles flew. I stood above the clouds
at timberline, a chill wind ripping across my body, in a boulder-
strewn realm of long shadows tinted with the rose of alpenglow.
Jefferson's majestic crags towered overhead in muted white against
midnight blue. Serenity filled me as a veil of darkness fell into
the valleys, and there in the blissful folds of nothingness, I
walked the ridge lines like the nomads of the past, with a new
understanding of our place in nature. This was the complete
context of reality as few understood it, living in harmony with
the earth, moving as lightly as a phantom. I tucked this
feeling away for safekeeping, knowing that ancient wisdom and our
modern concept of environmentalism were equivalent knowledge
separated only by a thin veneer of culture.

I retraced my steps, with eyes grown accustomed to the dusky
light, to the plateau of Jefferson Park. Deer slowly moved through
the meadows as I headed towards a campsite at Scout Lake. Looking
back toward the silhouette of Mt. Jefferson, I could see the
Jefferson Park Glacier in pale light beaming down from the
mischievous smile of the person on the moon.

Learn more about this author, J. D. Adams.
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