Stranded on a Mountain | An Epic But Not So Epic Story of Very Bad Feelings

by Chase Parnell — December 27, 2019

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Believe it or not, I’m a pretty cautious person in the mountains. I’d say I have a fairly low tolerance for fear. I really dislike anxious feelings, probably because of my personal history dealing with generalized anxiety. And so, when I’m scrambling or traversing something with exposure and those feelings of fear and anxiety emerge, I just want them to stop. I like to push myself aerobically and see beautiful things, but I’m not too interested in pressing up against experiences that trigger those emotions.

This attitude and disposition has led me to, for example, favor out-and-backs over loops because I’m always fairly confident I can navigate my way back once I’ve seen the trail once. It’s caused me to avoid certain routes with scrambling sections because, you know, I don’t like that feeling of nausea that comes with a lot of open air beneath you. It usually takes a bit of peer pressure for me to put my literal life at risk on some exposed piece of rock. I have a friend that lives near the Wallowa Mountains of Northeastern Oregon. He has a knack for taking me on “super chill” runs and often qualms my fears by saying, “you’ll be fine”. And of course I do go on to survive, but the outings weren’t chill and I wasn’t fine. That said, despite his lies, I continue to visit him and I’ll never forget those experiences in the mountains, so take from that what you will.

So there, that’s my disclaimer that I’m a fairly risk-averse person. So when reading this story, you are not free to chalk it up as, oh that’s just Chase being crazy. I was not being crazy on this run. What happened was somewhat my own doing but it was also sort of like a freak accident. It was preventable, but I would never have thought when heading out on this run that it would turn out to be one of the worst running experiences of my life. I feel the need to also disclaim that this is not some epic story so don’t get your hopes up. There were no nights spent in a crevasse, I didn’t have to gnaw through my arm to escape a fallen boulder, I didn’t get snow blindness or experience God. This story is fairly average Joe, but it’s something that could happen to anyone, and that’s why I’m sharing it. 

The Objective

The day’s objective was the Middle Sister, a 10,000 foot volcano that looms above the western skyline of Central Oregon. As its name depicts, it’s the middle of three peaks of fairly similar size and shape in the Cascade Mountain Range. From what I’d read online, it was supposed to essentially be a walk-up, so no biggie to do it solo. Two things: (1) any solo adventure into the mountains heightens the risk, and (2) if you’re a runner, do not believe anything you read on mountaineering websites because they dramatically understate the sketch-factor, again, from your average trail/ultra runner’s perspective.

I drove the 45 minutes from Bend, Oregon to Pole Creek Trailhead, which is probably the most common starting point for Middle and North Sister ascents. I threw on my running vest with two 16oz soft water bottles and if my memory serves me, five gels. This shouldn’t take me more than four hours or so and I always prefer to go as light as possible. Light and fast, as the cool kids say. 

It’s late June and this day is already warm enough to warrant shorts and a tee-shirt, so I don’t bother to bring any layers. The route starts with a couple mile climb through recently burned lodgepole pine forest up to the Green Lakes trail, which I would take south for a couple more miles, where I’d then need to make sure to take the spur trail on the right, which ultimately dead-ends up at Camp Lake, a beautiful alpine lake nestled between South and Middle Sister.

I don’t feel the need to reference a map because I’ve been up to Camp Lake before. A few years back I ran there with Rod Bien and Born to Run’s Billy Barnett. I recalled Rod pointing out where you gain the ridge from Camp Lake and take it up to the summit. All good. 

Because the route to Camp Lake was chartered territory and I’d been there before, I prepared myself for a fairly mindless approach. It was the bit from Camp Lake to the Middle Sister summit that I was a bit on edge about. Discrediting an engaged mind on the approach ended up being the biggest mistake of the day.

Auditory Distraction

I’m addicted to podcasts. When I know I have something good in the queue, it really helps me to get out the door. On this day, I figured I’d listen to a podcast on the approach to Camp Lake. At that point, I’d turn it off and engage all the senses for the off-trail section to the summit. Alert, alert! Are warning bells going off? I was heading into the wilderness. I’d only been on this trail once before. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed the “mindless approach” quite so quickly?

But there I was, all was going well. I hit the Green Lakes trail, check, I come up on the spur trail to Camp Lake, check. I’m blissfully in my flow, totally engaged in the podcast but also enjoying my run in the woods — having my cake and eating it too. 

Well here comes the problem. This run took place on June 30th. In the Oregon Cascades, there is typically still a good amount of snow in the high country. I’d anticipated this but a mild winter made me think it’d be fine. So I wasn’t surprised when small patches of snow start to form around the trail. They were only here and there in shady spots. But you know the drill, the higher I got the bigger the patches grew. Eventually, I started to hit large swathes of snow and the trail would disappear entirely. Not a huge deal, more of a nuisance. I’d tromp on top of the snow field for a time, then find the trail on the far side and proceed on. Eventually, the snowy sections became bigger and bigger, but I seemed to be finding the trail easy enough so it didn’t really cross my mind that I would have any issue on the return trip. To compound the problem that I’m now alluding to, it was cold enough overnight that the snow was still firm, and hence, I was not making any visible tracks in the snow. 

Meanwhile I was engrossed in Ultra Runner Podcast’s interview with Bob Shebest after his disappointing finish at Western States days earlier. So there I am, crossing these large fields of snow, listening to Bob’s play by play about how he suffered through the final miles on nothing but Jolly Ranchers.

Eventually I hit Camp Lake and all appears well. It’s beautiful, I notice a tent on the far side of the lake, and as planned, I turn off the pod. I look for the best line to approach the ridge that Rod had pointed out a few years earlier. On the steeper sloped gradient, there isn’t much snow so it’s pretty straight forward. I take my line up to the ridge and begin an endless rock-hop towards the summit. Unfortunately, I hit a chute of snow within 50 meters of the summit that, had it been a few weeks later, would likely have been dirt and rock and easily crossable. But on this day it was full of snow and I couldn’t figure out how to cross it, so I bailed on the summit. I’d reached the end of my comfort level and turned around because, again, I was alone and didn’t want to die. Drama, right?

View of South Sister from Turn-Around Point.

The Rock Hop.

I boulder-hop my way back down and return to the lake a bit sad that I didn’t make the summit but still stoked on the entirety of the outing. 

I take in one final view of the pristine lake and surrounding peaks. A panorama of gorgeous volcanic slopes, building in form and stature, up, up, up towards the three summits. Beautiful. Satisfying. Worth it. I queue back up the URP pod, find the terminus of the trail I arrived on, and head out.  

The first five or so snow crossings went fine. Again, I’d hop up on the slab of snow and simply continue the line on which I felt the trail was heading, then, when I hit dry ground again, the trail was roughly where I thought it’d be, or I’d find it momentarily after a quick scan of the surrounding landscape.

The Foible of Following the Herd

I’m carrying along when a pair of female backpackers materialize on the snow patch I was crossing. I was shocked to see humans after an entire day of solitude. I slow my pace and say hello. One says, “Hey, just so you know, the trail peters out up there. It must pick up over here but I’m not sure…” My brow furrowed but I thank them and run on in the direction I was already heading. I recall turning around and watching them hike off on a course that I thought couldn’t possibly be right. 

Shortly thereafter, I come around a bit of a corner, the trees were slightly denser here, and a wall of snow arose on my left. The landscape was naturally funneling me down a gulley so I assumed the trail would be following this same natural course. The snow once again gave way to dry ground and as I had prior, I begin my search for the trail. 

Spoiler alert: I. CANNOT. FIND. THE. TRAIL. I try to recall this specific geographic feature from the approach but its not looking familiar. It dawns on me then that maybe I shouldn’t have been totally zoned out and listening to a podcast! Okay, okay, let’s put our problem solver hat on. I return to where the trail disappeared under the snow, the last point at which I was certain I was on the right track. I proceed on to the place where the backpackers took their errant tangent, and push further and arrive at the exact same place. The wall on the left, the thicker tree cover, the snow disappears, and there is no semblance of a trail anywhere. I continued on in case the trail was just fainter here. Wishful thinking. I’m taken further down a gulley that ultimately hits snow again and there’s no trail in site beyond the snow.

Well, maybe those backpackers did know what they were doing. Worth investigating. Again, wishful thinking. I follow their faint tracks, reach the end of the snow field, and there’s nothing. No trail. Their tracks disappeared on the dry ground and again I’m left stunned by my predicament. Strava confirms my madness. Back and forth, back and forth. Where do I go? 

Enter panic. I begin to contemplate the chain of events that seemed imminent. It’s roughly noon, I have no cell service, and my poor wife Nikki is expecting me early afternoon. When I don’t come home, she’ll begin to worry, she’ll begin to panic, and at some point she’ll have to decide to call Search and Rescue. What a nightmare. 

I know that the Green Lakes Trail I mentioned earlier circles the Three Sisters so it has to be somewhere lower on the forested slope. I could try to point myself due west and say farewell to the trail. But that would mean miles and miles of bushwhacking. And what if there was a snow patch that conveniently covered the Green Lakes trail when I crossed it? If I missed it, I’d have to continue on towards a maze of forest service roads, but I would have no idea which direction to take them even if I found one.

Things Were Looking Grim

So there I was, stuck, scared, and with minimal provisions. I was out of water and had one gel left that I was saving in case I got REALLY hungry. I had no layers and while it was still a nice bluebird day, it always gets cold at night at this elevation. The clock was ticking. 

I’m not proud of this moment, but it was at this point that I began to call out for help, “Hello! Hell-oooooo?!?!” I was both completely embarrassed but also certifiably terrified at this point. I could not decide what to do and I thought maybe someone would be in ear shot. The only response was the silence of the mountains.

Think Chase, think! I needed to make a decision. I couldn’t keep wandering around looking for the trail. I figured I had two chances of getting out of this predicament short of full-scale disaster. First, there was still a chance there would be other day hikers coming that could help me out. It was still early enough in the day that that was a real possibility. But again, it was shoulder season and there very well might be no one else coming.

My only other source of hope was the tent I remembered seeing on the far side of the lake. Maybe I’d go see if anyone was there and beg them to escort me out of there. Still humiliating but not so bad as a full on Search and Rescue operation. So I bite the bullet and go all the way back to the lake. I skirt around its icy banks and slowly approach the tent.

“Hello? Hell-oooo?” No response. I walk up to the tent and pull open the flap, there’s nobody sleeping inside. Mother of God, I’m screwed!

Now what? I take a moment to refill my bottles. I have the sense to walk to the eastern edge of the lake where there was at least a little movement in the water. I dip my bottles, observe all the floaties I’d be drinking, but immediately dismiss any thought of giardia. Who cares?

A Not So Epic Conclusion

What I decided to do and what ultimately led to my rescue, was to position myself on the side of the lake where the trail ended, so that I could intercept any subsequent day hikers approaching the lake, but still maintain a vantage point where I could also see if someone returned to the tent on the far side of the lake. I figured that my worst case scenario was that it gets dark, and I go hop in that tent and apologize profusely when its owners returned. But then again, there was no sleeping bag in the tent. How cold would it be at night? Probably close to freezing. So I’d have shelter but no warmth. Would I be better off bushwhacking and at least still be moving? I’d always heard stories though that it’s always better to just stay put. You know, two guys get their truck stuck in the snow on a remote mountain pass–its always the one who wanders off to find help that dies. 

So there I am, sitting on the rock I selected, desperately panning back and forth between the direction where day hikers might arrive and the tent. 

But thank my lucky stars, none of my doomsday scenarios came to fruition. After a mere 90 minutes, my savior arrived. 

A dog.  

When that dog bounded into my sightline, I jumped off of that rock like a firecracker just exploded under my ass. It stops and stares at me, but then turns tail and sprints back from the direction it came. NOOOOOO!!! I went all Usain Bolt and sprinted after that dog like my life depended on it. Because what if its owners were on a different route? What if they were bypassing the lake?! What if I couldn’t find them?

“HELLLLOOOOOOO!!!!!” 

The dog was quickly out of sight and I’m sprinting like a mad man towards the direction I last saw it. Not again. Not again. I round a turn and see the dog with its owners. 

Sweet Mary and Joseph, there is a God. 

There they were, a couple of very normal looking 30-somethings out for a stroll with their dog. Get this, despite my predicament, my pride still kicked in. How do I admit that I need their help?

I engage in some small talk and stall a bit but then decide to just spill it, “So, hey, this is going to sound weird, but would you mind if I followed you out of here?”

“Follow us out?” 

“Yeah, yeah, actually, I’ve been having some trouble finding the trail up there a ways.” I divert my gaze downward and take my lashings. 

“Sure, sure, we’re just headed for the lake so if you don’t mind waiting a bit.”

“Great, yeah, I’ll wait here and join you on your way out. Take your time,” I said.

I let them go on ahead, slightly panicked to even let them out of my sight. But they returned after about 20 minutes time and I latched onto them like white on rice. 

We get to talking. They’re from Portland, he’s in marketing, she’s a fitness person, and they do a bit of hiking. I’m about to be led out of the wilderness by a guy in cargo shorts and gel in his hair. New low, folks. New low. 

“So yeah, it’s the craziest thing,” I said, “right up here, the trail just disappears into nothing.” 

My palms are sweating as the scene appears. We walk up on the snow and continue on as the terrain starts to funnel us down the gulley that I already went down like 10 times. I go silent, not wanting them to second guess themselves. Let them focus!

The guy stops, ponders, glances up to the left to the aforementioned wall of snow. He puts his hand to his mouth, taps his lip, and says, “Ah hah, yes, here we go.” He then proceeds to angle up towards the wall. As we get a little closer a sunken band in the snow materializes. The trail. I literally want to punch myself in the face. 

I have no idea why I automatically dismissed that route and didn’t even consider it. Like seriously, why would I not have explored it? Visually, it did seem like an impenetrable wall from  my prior vantage points, but had I taken just a handful of steps in that direction I would have seen the subtle outline of a trail under the snow. As we got closer, the “wall” turned out to be less steep than it had appeared. We were able to angle our way up it and once we breached the top, sure enough, it was the right way. In looking again at the Strava image, the trail does indeed take an odd turn, adjusting its trajectory in a more northerly direction. That combined with the terrain coaxing me to go down the gulley, my error was dumb but not totally absurd. 

Watch died so I didn’t capture making correct turn with saviors.

From there we start to drop elevation and there was very little snow left to cover the trail. Nikki was likely starting to get worried so I thank my companions profusely and scuttle on down that trail. And just so you know, I didn’t see any other day hikers on my return trip.

A List to Consider

I still shudder looking back on this experience and often think about what could have happened had that couple not arrived or if that tent wasn’t set up on the far side of the lake. And who knows what happened to the backpackers. They did indeed wander off in the wrong direction, but they were equipped with the overnight gear so I’m sure they found their way eventually. 

To boil this down, here are the lessons I learned that I will now urge you all to consider when heading out into the mountains or wilderness.

1. Leave the headphones at home. Even if it’s a route you’ve done before. There can be unforeseen variables, such as snow, that throw your preconceived notions to the wind.
2. Pack for the worst case scenario. Bring everything you might need to spend a night out in the elements (i.e. layers, headlamp, sufficient food/water, compass).  
3. Consider taking a spot tracker, satellite phone, or other emergency device. Had I downloaded the route onto my phone, I would have made quick work of my navigational errors. 
4. Beware of herd mentality. In my case, I didn’t follow the backpackers’ route too far, but they definitely contributed to the madness and made me second guess everything. 
5. Consider ALL your options. If lost, turned around, or the route escapes you, consider ALL options, even ones that appear to be vertical snow walls. Physically investigate because it might just be the vantage point that’s throwing you off.
6. Bushwhacking should be your last resort. I’m glad I tried to exhaust all other options before deciding to say, screw it, let’s walk into the unknown. However, had I spent a night in that tent, I’m certain I would have tried to head due east upon first light. 
7. Tell someone where you’re going. Again, had my circumstances been only slightly different, I could have very well ended up very very lost. The fact that I’d told Nikki where I was going was huge. Had she been forced to call Search and Rescue, she could have told them I was doing Middle Sister from Pole Creek Trailhead and they likely would have arrived at Camp Lake sometime that evening. 
8. When possible, bring a friend. I’m sure I would’ve avoided all this had I brought along a buddy. Two sets of eyes and the calm that comes with the simple presence of another is far more effective when navigating obstacles. 

I hope this narrative illuminates how relatively small errors can compound and lead you to a place that is not good times. I am happy to share my embarrassing mistakes if they can serve as a reminder to take the precautionary measures that might just help you avoid situations like these and get you home to your loved ones safely.

Respect the great outdoors and err on the side of caution. Over-pack and over-prepare, because if/when things turn sideways, you’ll be grateful you did.

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