On the trail: Relishing the proximity of the Mount Emily Recreation Area

Jun. 25—If you live in La Grande, I'm jealous.

And if you live in a northern neighborhood, say around Greenwood Elementary or Riverside Park, I'm really jealous.

The source of my geographic envy is Mount Emily.

Not the mountain itself, although it does make an iconic backdrop not only for the city but for the Grande Ronde Valley.

I'm referring here rather to the Mount Emily Recreation Area — MERA.

This network of trails — 45 miles each of nonmotorized and motorized routes wending among the ponderosa pines and wildflower meadows on the mountain's southeast shoulder — would be a treasure no matter its location.

But its proximity to La Grande lends MERA a level of accessibility that seems almost unfairly generous to people whose addresses aren't so accommodating.

Mine, for instance.

I don't mean to imply that Baker City, where I live, is some urban wasteland.

Quite the opposite, of course.

Baker City is nearly as close to the Elkhorn Mountains as La Grande is to Mount Emily. And the Elkhorns, which top out at 9,106 on the sedimentary summit of Rock Creek Butte, are notably more imposing than Mount Emily's 6,063-foot apex.

The view of the Wallowa Mountains from Baker City is expansive, too, compared with La Grande's vista of that range, which takes in just a few prominent summits including Mule Peak and China Cap.

Yet even though I can see the triangular tip of Elkhorn Peak, second-tallest in the range, from my living room — and better than a dozen of the Wallowas' eminences from my driveway — there's nothing like MERA nearby.

I had hiked at MERA a couple times before, but the last time was probably at least five years ago.

I got reacquainted with the area this month because my daughter, Olivia, was playing summer volleyball at La Grande High School on a few evenings.

While Olivia was spiking and bumping on June 20, the day before the solstice, my wife, Lisa, and I took our son, Max, up to MERA to see what the soggy spring had done for this year's crop of lupine and paintbrush and camas.

(Quite a lot, it turned out, as all the foliage was lush and healthy. So, unfortunately, were the mosquitoes, although the insect population at MERA was modest compared with the veritable swarms that infest places in the Wallowas and Elkhorns during the unpleasant period soon after the snow has melted.)

I knew, of course, that MERA was no great journey.

But it wasn't until I saw the pizza delivery car that I realized just how near the place is — almost literally in some backyards, as the saying goes.

We followed the car up Owsley Canyon Road for a mile or so. As I watched the delivery driver start down a lengthy driveway bearing an undoubtedly delectable cargo, it struck me that MERA is close enough to town that probably you could even cajole Domino's into bringing a large pepperoni right to the trailhead parking lot, which was little more than a mile farther.

I've often daydreamed, while hiking in the woods, about how fine it would be to take a rest on a stump or log and munch a savory slice, grease pooled in the pepperoni and molten cheese dripping from the crust. But these episodes, which I suspect plague most hikers at some point, inevitably end with salivation rather than salvation. A handful of trail mix satisfies the body, but the brain, after such episodes, reacts with disdain to peanuts and dried fruit.

I scarcely had time to ponder the pizza delivery scenario before we got to the parking lot. I suspect that if I lived around Riverside Park I could make the trip in about as much time as it takes to drive from my house to the grocery store. Which in Baker City, with its tidy dimensions, is not long at all.

We applied bug spray for the first time in many blissfully insect-deficient months, and started hiking on the Red Apple trail.

The bugs, happily, weren't numerous enough — or voracious enough, anyway — to constitute even a minor annoyance. Although when we paused for more than 10 seconds or so I noticed that every mosquito in the vicinity veered over to have a look at the rich sources of carbon dioxide that had suddenly appeared, although they were strangely apathetic. Perhaps they were satiated and sluggish after assaulting previous hikers or mountain bikers.

It was the sort of evening that it seems to me is exclusive to June.

We started hiking around 7 o'clock. I donned a fleece jacket but this was for protection against mosquitoes rather than insulation. The temperature, according to the thermometer in our car, was 65. If mild can be defined precisely, I think 65 degrees would do nicely.

The air had the fresh clean quality that disappears along about the middle of July, when the heat and the dust — and more so in recent years the wildfire smoke — make outdoor endeavors sweaty and sometimes unpleasantly congestive.

Patches of lupine perfumed the air.

There was little wind, and the occasional breezes seemed perfectly timed to cool our brows during an uphill stretch or when the trail found a patch of waning but still potent sunlight. It was as if MERA had sent along an aid with a portable fan to ensure we were never even slightly too warm.

We sampled just a small section of MERA, having limited time and being on foot besides.

(Our own feet, that is. We saw plenty of evidence that equestrians had enjoyed portions of our route as well.)

We had so much fun, though, that we returned two nights later, on June 22.

This time we hiked farther north, on the MERA Loop and a few other sections of trail.

It was noticeably warmer — the hottest day in more than 9 months, in fact, in Baker City — but the basalt ramparts of Mount Emily block the sun pretty early, and we were in shade almost the whole way.

We swatted at a few more mosquitoes than we did two evenings earlier.

And we had to rush the last mile or so to get back to LHS to pick up Olivia.

But otherwise it was again an altogether enjoyable visit — the sort of hike I usually have to wait until the weekends for.

Unlike our previous visit, when we saw only one person on the trails, we came across about a dozen mountain bike riders, all of them courteous and appreciative when we stepped aside as they grinded up a series of switchbacks above the Upper Igo trailhead.

We also passed a pair of hikers, each of whom was accompanied by a friendly dog.

MERA, which is managed by the Union County Parks Department and has an advisory committee, is renowned for its mountain bike trails and its network of paths for ATVs.

I've never pedaled at the place but I'm sure I would have fun — albeit not the same variety of high-flying fun that a couple of riders were indulging in as they navigated a downhill section of trail amply endowed with jumps and smoothly banked corners.

MERA is no wilderness, to be sure.

But it's a pretty fair approximation, with its patches of forest and its meadows and its occasional streams, the latter lined with thick vegetation and spanned in places by simple but quaint wooden bridges.

As we walked along on the two evenings it occurred to me, now and again, about how close we actually were to the bustling city, and the busy freeway, yet we could neither see nor hear the commotion. They might as well have been a hundred miles away instead of a handful.

I was also consumed, as it were, with the nagging reality that a hot pizza was mere minutes away.

Jayson Jacoby is the editor of the Baker City Herald.