The View From Eagle Cap

By Simon Johnson

Taking a few friends and not enough socks, I backpacked into the Wallowas over a late August weekend, hoping to connect with the outdoors and to better understand the importance of these local mountains. 

Designated as a wilderness area in 1940, the Eagle Cap Wilderness contains nearly the entire Wallowa range. It remains a staple retreat among locals, outdoors enthusiasts, and well-informed hikers. Crosshatched trails flow through the range, making nearly any trailhead reachable from any other.

Up the Lostine River, Two Pan trailhead is especially popular. The trail my group chose follows the East Fork Lostine, a river that pounds noisily over waterfalls and down cascades before mellowing into a quaint meadow brook. The trail reflects this with steep switchbacks that peter out into an easy stroll through a smooth alpine valley. Eagle Cap is always in view. The mountain grows as you walk towards it, but there is the feeling that its expression never changes.   

We reach the trail’s end in Lakes Basin. That evening it rains on us and then it hails and rains again. There are no fires allowed in the Lakes Basin, and we are cold and wet but we are most of all glad to be in the mountains. Trends in outdoor gear invoke the philosophy of highlighters and neon signs, and even in the mist our tents seem to glow through the trees. Lakes Basin is a common choice for the overnight backpacker. There are campsites around every bend and most are filled. There is always space, but it can be hard to find. Camps must be kept away from the water, but there is no compromise of beauty. The basin sits in the shadow of Eagle Cap, clouds envelop the peak and mist dips down to the edge of Mirror Lake. Dark water laps at reeds and sand on the shore. Everything is still after the rain. 

 The next morning we hike Eagle Cap, waking before the sun breaks over the eastern ridges and watching as our breaths curl in the humid morning air. There are no clouds yet today and the moon is still overhead. The summit trail lopes over hills, gulleys, and ridges. There are switchbacks upon switchbacks, false summits, and perilous exposures. It is not a long hike, but the elevation gain is notable. We follow a lone bighorn sheep up the relatively mellow west slope of the peak during the last half mile to the summit. We cannot decide if it is an omen or a spirit or something less meaningful. 

There is no wind at the summit and it feels rare and special to have the place so calm. An electric-looking stormfront is rolling in from the west, but it’s far off. Three people summited before us. Two of them are off smoking over the ledge and the third is eating some sort of electrolyte jelly. The surroundings are epic, the landscape’s scale reverberates with an overwhelming sense of inspiration. The sun has risen fully, and to the east we can see the Matterhorn glowing silver and behind it the bronze of Sacajawea Peak. Below to the west, the Minam River headwaters have carved out canyonlands and bladed ridges. Lakes glisten between the trees on all sides. A clap of thunder echoes somewhere. But looking out to the west beyond the storm clouds you can see the plains and you can imagine where Baker is and maybe even La Grande. And from this peak, you think that it is possible that you will never have to leave. That this is the entire world and you never have to go away. 

Simon Johnson is an English major at EOU. His writing is inspired by time spent in nature, especially the mountains near La Grande.