I suppose my hike began one fine day in May (a month renowned for being doubly merry) when I took the calendar from the wall and carefully marked a pencil line that ran from July 18 to July 31. Beneath this line I wrote “Backpack?” Then I rested from my labors.

As decisive moments go this was a remarkably placid beginning. I did not suddenly pound a fist into my open palm, or leap dripping and naked from the bathtub and run into the street shouting “Eureka!” – thereby badly upsetting the neighbors and delighting the neighbors’ dogs. At the time, I did not even know where I would spend these two weeks in July. I only knew I would spend them hiking in some wild, remote and mountainous place.

I had plenty of choices. Both Oregon (where I live) and Washington (Oregon’s neighboring state) have a wealth of hiking trails in wild places, including places where I could wander for upwards of a hundred miles with scarcely a glimpse of civilization – even in the rather innocuous form of a paved road. (Graveled roads, I should say, are quite another matter altogether.) All that was lacking now was a decision on where I should go. Of course, I would also need to decide what to take with me and how to get there and back. However, I had plenty of time to enjoy the process of preparation.

I think I should have no trouble persuading you that anticipation of pleasure is a pleasure in itself. We have all experienced this at some time or other. What may prove more difficult, gentle reader, is persuading you that there is any pleasure to be had in strapping a heavy bag to one’s back and walking up and down the sides of mountains, spawning blisters and slapping at bugs all the while, with no better end in sight than a reconstituted meal, a wretched bed on the ground and another day of doing the same thing all over again – but in dirtier clothes. For most of us this would be a punishment, not a vacation.

I am not sure I can successfully explain why this pastime appeals to me, but it does and it has ever since the first time I tried it when I was sixteen years old. At that age I’d already spent much time camping and almost as much time hiking. My parents were public school teachers with four children to raise, little money to spend and a summer vacation every year.

Camping must have seemed the perfect solution to them. It was an activity that could be done on a shoestring, Oregon is filled with campgrounds near to natural beauty spots, and whole days could be spent hiking about the woods at no greater expense than the cost of cheese sandwiches for all. Consequently, our family photo albums are filled with pictures of our family tramping on trails, crouched under plastic tarps in the rain and posing in front of trees, rocks or waterfalls.

As a child I took these things to be normal. I was accustomed to the wood smoke, the sketchy hygiene, the dust and sometimes mud that come with camping in Oregon in the summer months. I was nonplussed at finding fir needles in my breakfast cereal or combing them out of my hair. I knew how to scavenge firewood and prime a pump. As my reward, I was very much at home in the forests of the Pacific Northwest, in spite of my being a city kid. So, when my chance came to try my hand at backpacking, I jumped at it. It seemed likely to be loads of fun.

[...]

Concerning the name of the Wallowa Mountains, Lewis A. MacArthur states in his uniquely useful reference work, Oregon Geographic Names (Sixth Edition, Oregon Historical Society Press):

“Wallowa is a Nez Perce Indian word used to describe a structure of stakes set in a triangle, used to support a network of sticks called lacallas, for catching fish. These traps were put in the Wallowa River below the outlet of Wallowa Lake.”

Mr. MacArthur goes on to explain that, although Wallowa Lake and the Wallowa River have long claimed the Wallowa moniker for their own, the Wallowa Mountains sported a variety of names, such as Eagle Mountains and some others, during the late 1800s. The present name of Wallowa became permanently attached to them in the early 1900s. I heartily endorse this decision. Wallowa is a graceful and distinctive name, even if it does refer to wet sticks.

By the bye, it would be best to get the pronunciation issue out of the way before we go any further. The word Wallowas rhymes (somewhat badly) with allow us and does not rhyme (even badly) with below us – a common mistake that I do not wish my readers to fall into.

[...]