An Ode to Mt. Pisgah

I’m a big believer that everyone needs to have their own Mt. Pisgah in their life. Each place you call home requires a sanctuary you can take refuge in that is both your escape and grounding spot. Many people- Native Indians, Taoists, Christians, Yogis, meditators, Buddhists, the cashier at the outdoor store, etc.- speak of groundedness in a higher power, oftentimes within oneself. I, too, believe this, and also believe that it can take form into a place one may call home.

I call Mt. Pisgah home, as do many other living things. I do not, of course, live there. But I visit this home of mine that is shared with fellow hikers, runners, and backyard adventurers, all of whom share an identity as visitor to this space we all call ours but is not ours to claim. The home I speak of is not defined by the place I live, but by the place I routinely inhabit to find that home within myself.

I always had the belief that home is wherever you make it (physically). However, I’ve discovered that, no matter what, the body you inhabit is the true home you’ve been given. That no matter where you are, you are in your body which is home. I still believe this, to a point. Yet, part of my belief expanded at Mt. Pisgah.

I never wanted to root down, never felt truly “called” to a place, believing that a vagabond spirit was placed in me. That is until I moved out west. The principle of the importance of home can be applied to Oregon as a whole, but the more sizable- and routinely attainable- version, lies in the trails of Mt. Pisgah.

Power lines on the main trail at sunset

The first time I hiked up the hillside, I had only been living in Eugene for a month or so. I went with two friends, both of whom are from Michigan. It was a hot, sunny day on the dusty main trial. I agreed to go to this place having no idea how to even spell the name (I typed mount piscka into Maps). I struggled. Big time. I watched families pass as I veered off to the side to catch my breath. I was out of shape and unprepared for the elevation differences between the flat land of mid-Michigan and the Willamette Valley hills that I so desperately wanted to call home.

The summer before I moved out, I ran harder than I had in my entire life in preparation for the activities I wanted to do when I moved out west. I got my heart rate low, did the stair climber at the local Planet Fitness, ran fast then ran long. I was determined to be able to hike the mountains I had only ever dreamed of. When I got to Eugene, OR, I was severely humbled. It felt as if I hadn’t trained at all! Even the smallest hill in town- Skinner's Butte- was an uphill battle… literally. I felt defeated. A whole summer of intentional work, and I was ill-equipped for even the mildest terrain. But, I was bound and determined to become a “real hiker” and conquer the roadblocks of elevation gain.

Though it pains me to admit, Mt. Pisgah didn’t seem like anything special on that first hike. The trail was wide and crowded, following massive telephone lines up the side of the glorified hill. The face of the hillside I trudged up was shades of brown, nothing like the tall pines of the Northwest I pictured. Don’t get me wrong, it was still beautiful, but I was less focused on the breathtaking views due to my breath being taken by the steep elevation. By the time I got to the top, I was in desperate need of rehydration and a long break. I took the same route to the bottom and then drove off, uninspired to return to the pay-by-plate parking lot. Who wants to pay for a hike when there are so many free ones around, was my thought process. How wrong I was.

A little aside about paying for parks… park payments, especially to local sites, help improve the park for those who visit and enjoy its offerings. Now past my ignorance, I gladly give my money to each park I go to as it is a thank you to the park and the many hands that make it possible to attend.

Going up

I’ll share some facts before getting into my own personal relationship with Mt. Pisgah. The summit itself is a mere 1,531 feet tall, the crux of 17 miles worth of trails, split into six sections: North Bottomlands, Spring Box, South Bottomlands, Buckbrush Creek, Meadowlark, and the Arboretum. The Mount Pisgah Arboretum portion was established in 1973 and dwells inside the Howard Buford Recreation Area, which is part of the Lane County Parks system. It does so because the nonprofit that runs it leases the land. The arboretum portion consists of 209 acres in the greater 2,363 acres of the recreation area’s diverse ecology. The land and that around it was home to the Kalapuya people, now part of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde and the Confederated Tribes of the Siletz Indians. The land was home to Natives, as was all of the land I and so many others trek through. This place exists on occupied land. I speak of this land as more of a metaphorical home, acknowledging that it was once the actual home of those who were forced out of it.

I went months without returning to the park. In those months, I ran bark paths through Eugene and hiked the trails that border the city. I ventured out past Lane County lines, west to the coast, and east to the Cascades. I had “Sabbath Saturdays” with my friend Cailyn, where we would pick a trail every Saturday and go hike, near or far. It was grand and glorious.

Cailyn enjoying our rainy hike!

One day, she suggested we hike closer to home at Mt. Pisgah. I agreed, not thinking much of it other than the memory of not doing so hot the last time I was there. I drove to a different entrance this time, by her directions, and saw her stretching next to her car, chowing on some nuts she pulled out of her backpack. I pulled into a spot that looked toward the north face of Pisgah. I hadn’t seen the mountain from this angle. It was more lush than I remembered, with clusters of trees interspersed with meadows, leading up to a forest.

We started our hike on this new trail which led into the woods, resurfacing into a field, then back into dense pines on the far side of the mountain. We hiked for hours and hours as Cailyn showed me her favorite parts of the area. The summit quickly became a less important factor compared to the nature she showed me while traversing the mountainside. At the summit, the same summit I had reached months before, I had a new appreciation, a deeper appreciation, of the place I so obviously took for granted upon my first visit.

Overview of the Cascades at the top

I came back to the park later that week, then again the next. My visits became so frequent that I had to order a Lane County Parks pass and matched the year-long pass cost to day use fees in the first month and a half. I had my favorite trails, then found new ones. I connected each trail, sometimes running in circles to explore a split-off I saw earlier in my hike. I started running the trails, acclimating myself to its ground of soft soils, rocky terrains, and meadow trails. I would hike to the top with my journal and sit, writing, drawing, listening. When I took classes at LCC, I would hike and listen to lectures, repeating vein and artery names to myself as I panted up and down the south side of the hill. I would finish audiobooks and play music. I would take friends there to show them my love for the area. But mostly, I would hike by myself, in the quiet that was filled with bird songs and wind rustling branches, making the sweet pines whistle. I would process. I would feel. I would be.

I hiked that mountain so many times, and yet, there was always something new to explore and investigate. The changing of the seasons brought new life and repurposed others. Each day presented a different perspective, sun placement cast varying shadows that exposed thoughts and observations that could only be experienced at that exact moment. Sometimes, I would lose track of time and would rely on the moon to brighten the trails. I would marvel at the peaks when the summit exposed the Cascade ridge lines. I would get caught in clouds and try to outrun the rain that surrounded, then poured onto, my unprepared, jacket-less body. I would cry there. I would go there to celebrate the small things. And the big things. And the celebrations that had no right to be celebrations but were anyway for the sake of being alive and able to hike that glorious place.

Moving out west was overwhelming, sometimes too big to handle and comprehend. It wasn’t the bigness of the area or mountains. It was being so far away from the place I grew up and taking the chance to land in a place I had only been to once before, for just a few days. When that bigness- the longing for the familiar- became all-consuming, I would take refuge on the land’s trails, feeling so small in comparison, feeling welcomed by the solitude and sanctuary. Nurtured by time, trees, wildlife, the surrounding peaks, and mountainscapes. And I would be at peace knowing that even though it was hard sometimes, I am where I belong. Mt. Pisgah became my haven, my sanctuary, my home.

I thank you God for this most amazing day, which is every day at Pisgah

I have since moved north, away from Eugene. I hike Pisgah less, now. But even so, I will always consider the place a haven. The curvature of her hills can be seen from the I-5, the interstate that cuts through the westernmost states of the country. I pass Pisgah whenever I drive south. Each time, my heart flutters, knowing a piece of it belongs to those trails. This is my ode to Mt. Pisgah. A thank you to those who created and upkeep the trails. An honor to those who lived there not so long ago. And a plea for those who read this to find a space that makes you feel humbled and whole. To find your own Mt. Pisgah, and to leave a bit of yourself there to always return to when you go back home.

A sweaty Tiff loving life at the top of Mt. Pisgah