It's a rare thing to go into the depths of hell and return uplifted, but if you enter Hells Canyon, the deepest gorge in North America, with respect and an open mind, that's what you'll experience.

I've never been one to climb mountains just to say I've been there. For me, mountains are powerful metaphors, so I always approach them with forethought and intent.

What is it about water that lifts the human spirit?

The story has been told many times.

Standing atop Hobart Bluff, I'm reminded of the four sacred mountains of the Navajo — Mount Taylor, the San Francisco Peaks, Mount Hesperus and Blanca Peak — marking the traditional boundaries of the tribe's territory in the Southwest.

From the bluffs, filled with grasses, Douglas irises and seashore lupines, the horizon stretches to a panorama of headlands, sand, offshore rocks and ocean. The clouds have broken for a moment, revealing streaks of blue behind thinning puffs of gray. Along the beach, a few dots move slowly across the sand — people braving the uncertain weather to take in the bracing sea air, the calls of shorebirds and the steady roar of the breakers.

I stand in a cluster of wildflowers — shooting stars, scarlet fritillaries and larkspurs — their violets, reds and purples dappling the gray-tan ground in a forest of Oregon white oaks. It is mid-spring, the air is cool, and I am walking with a bounce in my step at last.

I am out of breath from the climb, a cold breeze whipping across my face.

There is no perfect hiking guide. I've looked long and hard, and have yet to find one that isn't flawed in some way. But there are some good ones for Southern Oregon, all of them like old friends to me. When I moved here 20 years ago, they were my first hiking companions, and they have proven to be a likable and easygoing bunch, full of practical advice.

I'm walking in a shrouded world, the air like light-gray smoke, every branch laced with ice, as if nature has prepared herself for her wedding day by dressing the world in white. All perception is reduced to wintry silence in a small patch of visibility. Enclosed in this ghostly reality, the blurred sun finally begins to form — its first glitters of brightness reflecting off the icy branches, an opening at last into a fuller world.