Yesterday we climbed Dog Mountain.
I know now why it's called Dog Mountain: after we climbed it we were dog tired.
I wasn't as tired as Aaron, but that's only because I didn't carry our 25-pound baby on my back all the way up, or our lunch for that matter. The seven and a half miles took us six hours, which shows how slowly we were going. Especially up.
It was steep, it was strenuous, but the view from the top was worth it. The river cut its way through the valley, between the mountains, carpeted in fir and pine. To the west the forest only grew more dense. To the east, the mountains began to look like mangy dogs, changing to blond mounds in the distance. Mt. Hood's tip peeked at us from the south; Mt St. Helens, snow covered, crouched to the north.
And we stood at the summit of Dog Mountain, the wind slapping our exposed faces and whipping the wild flowers. It felt like the peak of the world.