The moment of truth comes about 10 minutes and a third of a mile into the first crossing of the Columbia River, which is .9 miles wide where I like to swim, between Hood River, OR and White Salmon, WA. After plunging in and crawling across the placid bay just east of the old steel bridge spanning the river, the current announces itself. You’re just swimming along, then you’re bodily tugged sideways and you’re in it.
Small waves pitch up from all directions, roiled by the current. You’re fine. Relax. Breathe. Pull. The bridge that was hundreds of yards away when you started now looms nearly overhead, its immense stone pylons drawing closer. All good, there’s plenty of space between each one, you and the current choose a way through. The bridge glides over you, your downstream momentum clearly outmatching your forward progress.
You’re a gnat caught on the retracting tongue of the Pacific Ocean. This is what you came for. The water is fine, the morning is glorious, and you pull hard.
Here comes one of the large ‘Tidewater’ industrial barges, chugging upriver in the direction you’re going. This is why you swim near the bridge: the barges only pass under its center span, so there’s no confusion about their heading. You enjoy the novelty of swimming towards the barge since you know it will pass well in front of you.
The river is dredged under the middle span, further funneling the current, which now owns you outright, you can feel it in your limbs. You swim north like a bastard, reclaiming yourself. The river’s hold eventually relents, releases, the waves subside, and White Salmon, WA looms large.
As you approach, a long freight train blasts past on the tracks that, once you scramble up to them, are your pathway back upriver, to the east, back under the bridge, about 1.5 miles to a smattering of tiny islands that mark the best launching point for the return swim to Oregon, since you can use them to ‘hide’ from the current for the first few hundred yards.
Once past them, the Columbia’s current seems even stronger on the way back, presumably from the river’s slight bend around Hood River. But since you just crossed, you’re warmed up and know what’s coming. It’s interesting how familiarity is both so pacifying to humans, and so empowering. The sun is out. The river is calm. You feel even stronger than last time, and you pull hard.
So I swam the river and climbed the mountain to ask if I could pass, and the mountain said, not yet.
I’d hoped to take the Mt Hood Picnic to another level. I’m proud to have done the green circle version (swim back and forth across the Columbia River, then bike up to Hood, climb and ski it, ride back to Hood). The blue square version (double river swims before and after the human powered Hood, in a go) still eludes me. The black diamond Hoodnic (Double river swims before & after a climb and ski descent of Hood’s imposing NE face) is probably a pipe dream, a prospect for a future Uber picnicker.
in the interest of speed, Noah Waldron and I went too light this time. I appreciated the skimpy load on the bike and approach, but we paid for it. Nearing the top of Hood near sunset, with clouds boiling through the shadowy upper ice towers and our undershod feet going numb, we turned tail. It was the sane call but it stung.
It’s totally doable in this manner, but we needed either better weather or bigger boots, and maybe two ice tools each, and more clothes. I went without skis this time in the interest of weight, but Hood is a ski hill, all year. As a skier it was galling to walk down so much nicely pitched snow.
At least I’m now a few twists closer to solving this particular rubic’s cube, with all its temporal, physical, and meteorological challenges. I hate spending time and resources for a big try, then falling short, but picnicking is a process. And I was delighted to feel better than ever on the swim, bike, and galavant up to 10K feet thanks to consistent training and a better handle on how to prep my engine for big days.
My next attempt on the Hoodnic will be smarter, more careful, but also more daring, as the complexities of the timing demand it. Maybe I will try again this year, or maybe next. The conditions have to line up perfectly and it might be too late for 2022. Also, there are too many other picnics and adventures to have closer to home. This is it, picnicking season!
Where will you go for your next moveable feast?
