– Andrew Wyeth
The weather was becoming increasingly colder as I hatched out a plan to escape the doldrums of Southern Oregon. My trip home for the holidays had become stagnate - Christmas had come and gone and I found myself growing restless, waiting around for New Years Eve. The plan was to get out of town. Even if just for a night, I needed some adventure. I made some calls and the trip was hastily planned. There would be snowmobiles, fire and no cell phone reception. We would eat, drink and live like men.
The Suburban picked us up around noon. The snowmobiles were secured to a trailer in tow. Before heading south, we needed to pick up a few necessities: chips, chili and booze (for warmth). It was 30 degrees on the valley floor as we merged onto the freeway. As we traveled southbound, the mountain, snow flurries and excitement grew. Starting our ascent up the mountain, I made note of the temperature, 23 degrees. By the time we had reached the ski lodge, the temperature was down to 19 degrees.
We parked the suburban in the backlot of the lodge. Surrounded by skiers and snowboarders with puzzled faces, we dismounted our snowmobiles. No one knew that we had a US Forest Service permit to use snowmobiles to access the cabin - at this time of year, there are no groomed paths or roads to cabin and the five feet of snow at the top of the mountain made the cabin inaccessible by vehicle. We locked the suburban, flipped up the windshield wipers and began cutting our way through the winter landscape.
After traveling two miles up a recreational cross country ski route, we reached the junction - from here, we would have to forge our own path. We attempted to cut through the snow, but with two men on each snowmobile, we sunk in the waist deep powder. After having to dig the snowmobiles out of the powder several times, we decided to park them on the side of the path and pick them up in the morning. We were roughly a mile from the cabin and we were going to hike the rest of the way in. In my wisdom, I decided to pack my gear in a military duffle bag instead of a backpack - poor planning is always more apparent when snow is involved.
We took turns taking the lead and cutting our path. My hip flexors burned as I floundered through the snow. Although prepared, no one planned for this leg of the journey. Waist deep snow and an incline has a way of humbling any man who deems himself in shape.
In total, we hiked for an hour and a half. We took breaks intermittently - sometimes out of necessity and sometimes to reflect on the scenery. Exhausted, hungry and cold, we reached the cabin by sundown. A mile on that winter mountain felt like two or three.
Snow covered the front door of the cabin, forcing us to shovel out an entrance. The temperature when we entered the cabin was 14 degrees. We started up the generator and made a fire. We thawed for an hour before doing anything. We didn't speak - just sat, tired but triumphant.
Built in 1972, the Dressler cabin is located on the south side of Mt. Ashland and sits at an elevation of approximately 6,000 feet. What has always been a staple of Southern Oregon summers, the cabin has played host to some of my best 20 something memories.
After the fire warmed up the house and our joints began working properly again, it was time to eat and drink. I made old fashions and we sat by the fire for hours exchanging stories and life experiences. Hiking a mountain in December makes any whiskey taste better. Before long, it was time to hang up the stetson and climb into bed.
We woke up to bright blue skies and sunshine. We loaded up the Chemex with fresh grounds before riding down the mountain and returning to civilization.
