Salmon River Trail: Hiking to Live

“Mommy, can we live here!” exclaimed my delighted children the first time I took them along the aqua-shored trail of the Salmon River. I had just completed a graduate class focused on the history of indigenous people’s relationship to this river. I couldn’t wait to share my new favorite place with my young family. They skipped along the lush, moss-dripping trail, pausing to scramble over nurse logs to get closer to the crystal blue river. The river’s shore holds the most ancient cedar tree in the Mount Hood National Forest. Another old-growth tree comes complete with a natural, hobbit-sized doorway for children to enter with glee. Watching Mike, Griffin, and GraySea come alight with joy as we shared this new sacred space, I felt Spirit’s presence in deep and powerful ways. I had no idea how important this space would become after Griffin died unexpectedly.

As Griffin and GraySea grew, I would take them individually to hike along our sacred river. The magic of moving through the wilderness created an open space for my teenagers to let go of their current stressors. In that sacred space, they felt safe to share the content of their hearts with me. During one such journey, on a hot August day, GraySea and I reached a section of the river where it creates a natural, deep aquamarine pool. Wiping off my dripping brow, I suggested we jump in and swim in our underwear. Wide-eyed with surprise, my teenager giggled and agreed. Immersed in our sacred river, any worries of the moment were wiped from our human forms and carried off with the current.

My last hike with Griffin was along the Salmon River. He was a young man, just out of college. My children had grown to realize that hiking with Mom was a gift they could give me. His life was full, but he was willing to take time to drive to the river and share his stories while hiking along its shores. I treasure my photos from that day: Griffin being his usual silly self on the riverbanks to poignant contemplation while his tall, thin frame trekked down the ribboned path. I remember he borrowed Mike’s hiking shoes and ended up with some blisters.

Since Griffin died, I’ve hiked thousands of miles to cope with grief. I think about his sore feet that day and how my knowledge about hiking has increased tremendously. I wish I could go back and suggest solutions I now know. Even more so, I wish I could share the many alpine vistas I’ve seen since losing him. Somehow, that spiritual connection I felt from day one on the Salmon River followed me as I began to explore vast wilderness after Griffin was gone. As I’m trekking up a mountain, my heart cries out to him, “Are you there?” Instantly, I feel and hear Griffin assuring me that he is with me, hiking alongside me.

My Quaker heritage taught me the healing power of creative meditation and movement. Hiking with Griffin’s spirit has kept me alive. My imaginative brain had no trouble asking for and seeking signs of him on the trail. I had no fear. The worst thing in the world had already happened. My healthy, new college graduate son suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead while running on the track. An undetected heart defect took his life. The winds blew with unprecedented strength the following days, trying to hold onto his young, vibrant spirit. When the shock in my body allowed me to leave the house, I sought solace on the trail. Climbing a mountain to force breathing, something that had eluded me since his sudden death.

It wasn’t long before I went back to my sacred Salmon River. Mike, GraySea, and I were reeling with grief. Knowing we couldn’t face any holiday traditions, we took refuge in a Swedish hut nestled not far from the Salmon River. Thanksgiving that year was spent retracing the familiar shores of the now brightly foliaged river trail. Time marched on, and I marked his death day monthly on the tenth. My life was forever changed. The trail was the only place my body and mind were able to fully embrace life. I continued to seek Griffin as my miles and distances increased. Maybe if I climbed higher, I would be closer to him.

I discovered that the Salmon River trail continued way beyond any distance I had done before. Hiking longer and higher along and above its shores, into the wilderness area, I found a lake and an old fire lookout. One evening, as I was camping alone under the fire lookout, a young man arrived. I assured him he could stay in the tower, and I was comfortable below in my tent. We shared a fire and stories as often happens on the trail. I had found increasing comfort in sharing my story of Griffin and why I hike. It created connections and openings for others to share as well.

Years later, I was section hiking a famously scenic portion of the Washington Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). Upon reaching a high point along the Knife’s Edge, I pulled out some sweet, dried apples to share in celebration with whoever was there. I briefly met a tall, thin young man who was thru-hiking the entire PCT. His smile grew wide with surprise as I poured the apples into his hands. We both exclaimed over the spectacular view of multiple volcano peaks. I continued hiking this challenging section at my slower pace with a young woman I met from Austria with the trail name “Ratatouille.” The young man took off with the speed and endurance of a young thru-hiker. I figured I wouldn’t see him again.

As I left camp the next morning, I said goodbye to my Austrian friend and stepped onto the trail. Moments later, the tall young man appeared coming up the path. We greeted each other and began to chat while trekking along in the early morning light. I told him I was grateful for the company but understood if he needed to hike at his faster pace. He assured me he was also grateful for the conversation and wanted to continue along together for a while. It was reminiscent of chatting with Griffin on the Salmon River trail.

Tall, thin Sequoia (his trail name) shared his life, his recent experiences teaching at a boarding school on the East Coast, traveling around the country in a van to all the National Parks, and currently trekking the PCT. While hiking with Sequoia, I shared stories of Griffin and how his sudden, traumatic death had made hiking essential to my being alive. I accepted the comforts and connections I found on the trail as beautiful gifts from my son. Sequoia’s kind and generous heart made a lasting impression on me. We paused to say goodbyes before he moved ahead. We both had a plan of getting off trail at the next pass, but chances of connecting again were slim. I spent the next hours of hiking wishing I had taken a picture with Sequoia to remember our time on the trail.

Hitchhiking to the first resupply store off this remote section, I was thrilled to find Sequoia lingering outside with other hungry thru-hikers. We were able to take that photo that I now treasure. We said goodbye again after I thanked him for the wonderful time connecting on the trail.

Nearly two years later, I found myself back on the Salmon River trail. It was a momentous day for me. After nine years of weekly hikes, year-round, I had been off trail for almost eight weeks due to a hip replacement. It was a crushing experience to be forced out of my weekly connection to healing and Griffin. The autumn day was dark with storm and soaking rain. I was in heaven, on my familiar trail, the Salmon River. Thrilled that my body was able to hike again, I literally and figuratively soaked in every moment. I called out to Griffin, which I often did, and told him I would be grateful for a sign that he was with me. Moments later, a shaft of sunlight streamed down in front of me on the previously darkened trail. I thanked Griffin and cheerfully headed out.

Just miles from my car, the rain picked up with intensity. My raingear was cinched tight around my dripping face, my head down as I carefully trekked across the slippery rocks. As a tall, red-coated figure headed toward me, we both called out a hiker “hello” as we quickly passed one another. A few steps later, I found myself spinning around toward the passing hiker. He was also turning around at the same moment with a surprised look. In utter disbelief, I called out, “Sequoia!!”

“I saw your eyes, and knew I recognized you!” he said.

It was a reunion punctuated by crashing thunder and flashes of lightning. Sequoia had never been on the Salmon River trail. The chances of him hiking that crazy, stormy day the same time as I seemed impossible. The chances of him even being in the state seemed unlikely. I wasn’t going to let this moment slip away. I told Sequoia the significance of my hike that day. He shared his latest adventures as well. We exchanged info so we could now follow each other’s hikes. I grabbed a surprised hiker and begged him to take our photo with my rain-soaked phone. As the thunder crashed once again, we headed out on our separate directions. My smile couldn’t have been wider, yet as I strode down along my familiar river, my face was no longer just wet from the storm. Tears of joy coated my cheeks. I exclaimed out loud to Griffin, “Message received, my dear boy. Message received. Thank you for this most beautiful and amazing sign of your presence with me on the trail”.

The Salmon River will forever be a sacred space for me. It has an ancient history of being a sacred space to many indigenous peoples that lived among its shores. As I pass the aqua-shored campsite my children claimed as home, I can almost hear their laughter. When I trek down the moss-laden path, I feel Griffin is somehow just ahead, out of sight. Spirit’s presence is strong along its shores.

Erica Huber is a member of West Hills Friends Meeting. When she isn’t hiking in the wilderness, she is a grade school art teacher and artist. Erica lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband Michael Huber.