Bushwhacking at Catherine Creek

Wildflowers near The Dalles, Oregon. Photo by Lexi Stickel.

by Pat Watne, John Holderness, and Pat Malone

Thursday was a nice day, considering it was still winter, so our hiking group decided to check out Catherine Creek, an area on the Washington side of the Gorge known for its spring wildflowers. There have been three of us, two men and me, continuing to hike during this last year of the pandemic, ages 70, 76, and 80. I am the oldest. As retirees, we need anchor activity so we can tell what day of the week it is. Thursday hikes are a mainstay, not to be missed.

Catherine Creek is a commitment for us because it is an hour and a half of driving, each way. But we don’t mind because it allows us to spend more time chatting, an activity almost as important as the hiking. In fact, sharing our packed lunches, whether in the car or at a scenic spot on the trail, is one of our most delightful times of the day. Since we hike all winter, regardless of the weather, we have at times threatened to remain in the car, talk, eat, and drive home. But we haven’t resorted to that yet. Our warm winter has helped us get out each week.

We decided to take a new, to us, trail at Catherine Creek, more to the east and then north up the gentle slope, the views expanding as we walked. Trees on these broad slopes are sparsely scattered, some prospering where shallow hollows funnel water to their roots, some struggling, some dead. The fallen dead trees are like giant skeletons, their blackened branches arching like ribs, their thick bark flaking off. The terrain is a combination of lava/basalt rock and meadow. Wildflowers showed their lovely purple petals. In large numbers they were beautiful, especially accented by even tinier bright yellow flowers.

Our pace was not fast, which initially challenged some of us, as we like to push ourselves. But we have found by slowing down we can admire the flowers and take photos, giving us even more time to chat. Crossing a foot bridge, we noticed how full Catherine Creek was, with more water than we have seen.

The day was glorious. The sky was clear and a deep blue, a blue we don’t often see in Portland. Pine trees and leafless oak trees added to the beauty of the place. We climbed up a ridge and walked above the arch, a destination for some folks on the trail below. As noon arrived, we picked a spot in an oak grove, sitting on a downed log to eat. I sat, swinging my feet in the air. I couldn’t touch the ground from my perch. The men frequently forget my legs are not as long as theirs. I can’t remember the conversation, but it was either politics, movies, or books. We share the same world view so I always return with good recommendations for watching and reading to get me through the next week.

We continued hiking, across talus, over rocks, and through downed oak leaves from last season. At some point, we discussed the fact that we were hiking uphill, away from the trailhead. We talked about turning around and retracing our steps, or heading downhill, off trail, to cross the creek and hook up with a jeep road we knew was on the other side and an easy walk to the car. I remember abdicating my vote to whatever the men wanted to do. I was just happy to be out walking and didn’t much care where.

Dispersing ourselves to not make a path, we headed down a steep hill, slipping and stumbling among the soft soil and jumbled rocks. Old oak leaves covered the ankle-twisting holes and rocks. My hiking sticks saved me along the way, the men arresting by clinging to trees large and small. As we approached the creek, I suggested it would be scenic to walk along the creek until we found a place to