I can’t quite see it from my house, but as an east sider I lay eyes on Forest Park nearly every day, the green backdrop to the city. I’ve never been a regular visitor, though, a bit intimidated by the tiny, always overflowing parking lots I pass along Germantown Road. Who needs parking stress when you’re looking for a peaceful hike?

Luckily, there are ways to sneak into its network of trails without coming by car: The Lower Macleay Trail starts a short walk from the Montgomery Park stop on TriMet’s 15 or 77 bus, and the Washington Park MAX station and the 20 bus on West Burnside provide access to the Wildwood Trail. One of the most dramatic entries is to start with a walk over the St. Johns Bridge. So on one of those February days with a May-like forecast, I hop on TriMet’s 16 just before dawn and head for a prehike breakfast on the peninsula.

I’m the only one in hiking boots on the 16, though everyone’s in sturdy, sensible footwear. Most of the dozen or so riders who get on with me downtown are headed to work along NW Front Avenue. They may lose their go-to morning commute after August if TriMet goes ahead with planned cuts to eliminate the 16 and replace only part of its route by extending the 15 from Northwest. Everything is gray as we rumble between the train tracks and industrial buildings, and then the bus lifts out of the fog on the Kittridge overpass and I catch a glimpse of a brilliant sunrise behind Mount Hood. By the time we reach the even-higher St. Johns Bridge, I have my phone out to snap pictures through the bus window.

At about 7:15, I’m the first customer of the day at the long-standing neighborhood breakfast haunt John Street Café, though the corner space soon welcomes other solo diners, men reading the paper or doing the crossword over coffee and an omelet. The specials list on the whiteboard might be longer than the actual menu, and I weigh a blueberry-strawberry-filbert pancake, bagel and lox, migas scramble, and goat cheese omelet before settling on a hearty eggs Benedict. (Maybe I had Bridgerton on the brain? I need to go back for that pancake.) Since I’m planning to trek all the way back into town, I swing by the Sparrow Bakery to grab a cookie and a roast beef sandwich to go, too. Sparrow’s prewrapped panini are the perfect shape to slide into my backpack.

Crossing over the St. Johns Bridge on foot, I’m tempted to abandon my planned hike and just keep doing bridge circuits. Toward town, the view is a gleaming sunrise, while everything downriver is still encased in fog below the bridge, giving way a Bob Ross–approved quilt of happy little clouds above. The St. Johns side feels like a completely different world than the Forest Park side, as if the span between is a portal straight out of a Philip Pullman or Diana Wynne Jones fantasy novel. I wonder how anyone can live within walking distance and not do a loop here every day. Or maybe I’ve just lucked out with a particularly stunning morning.

I finally pull myself away from the bridge. At the sign that tells cars to turn right to get to Forest Park, I turn left and find the stairs that lead up to the Ridge Trail. As I climb toward the spine of the park, the bridge is still the center of attention, along with a reach-out-and-touch-it Mount St. Helens and the little top of Mount Rainier peeking out in the distance. Soon, though, the view of the bridge is replaced by the park’s lush interior. The Ridge Trail is the steepest part of my hike, and I soon peel off my sweatshirt and swap my warm knit hat for a baseball cap. Things level off just over a half mile in when I reach Leif Erikson Drive. I could keep going up and get to the Wildwood Trail, but that one zigs and zags so much that it would be close to a 20-mile trek into town. Leif Erikson offers a straighter shot, about 8.5 miles from the Ridge Trail junction to the trailhead at the end of NW Thurman Street.

Once called Hillside Drive and renamed in 1933 at the request of the local Sons of Norway lodge “in honor of this distinguished Norseman and discoverer of America,” Leif Erikson Drive predates Forest Park. It was supposed to provide automobile access to residential developments, but after the road itself proved such a beast to build and maintain the plan was abandoned. Before this extension of NW Thurman Street was closed to cars, the state motor association noted in The Oregonian that it was for “motorists who are not afraid of rough mountain roads and dangerous heights.” For a pedestrian, the car-friendly width makes it feel like one of the safest trails around, even with the steep drop-offs. The not-so-dangerous heights mean peekaboo views through the trees of the Fremont Bridge, Mount Hood, and North Portland landmarks like the steeple of Roosevelt High and the bump of Chiles Center. The hiking boots that were handy coming up the Ridge Trail feel like overkill on the former road, though the packed-rock surface would have done a number on my thin-soled sneakers.

It’s a good 30 minutes before I see another human. A few cyclists are out for a trail ride on this February Thursday, but mostly I have the place to myself, at least until I get close to Thurman Street. Should I break into the song about Leif Erikson from the ’80s kids’ show Encyclopedia (the outro “He was a Norse explorer! He was a Norse explorer!” has lived in my head for almost 40 years), my chief audience would be the white bollards that mark every quarter mile.

I pass turnoffs to trails I’ve never heard of but now want to come back and check out: Cleator, Koenig, Wiregate. Just when I feel ready for a cookie break, I come to a picnic table. There’s another one a couple of miles later, when I decide it’s time to crack into my sandwich. The screenshot of a trail map I have on my phone (service gets spotty in Forest Park, so don’t rely on anything requiring a clear signal when it comes to navigation) tells me there are toilets in the last mile, but in February I’m a bit scared they’ll be locked. To my great relief, the porta-potties are in operation.  

I reach mile marker zero, at the top of NW Thurman, about four hours after I entered the park at the Ridge Trail steps. I’m greeted by multiple signs with messages from the City of Portland, various neighbor coalitions, and the crime dog himself—McGruff!—warning hikers not to leave anything visible in their cars because prowlers are sure to break the windows to grab whatever’s sitting on the backseat. (McGruff, a bit of a boomer, mentions checkbooks, specifically.) One more thing I didn’t need to worry about by hitching a ride on the bus.

From the trailhead, Jerry’s Tavern is a mile’s walk, mostly downhill. Near Jerry’s I know I’ll be able to catch a 15 back into town, but along Thurman I see TriMet stops for the 26, a route I’ve never heard of. It seems to exist only to take some kids to Lincoln High School in the morning and back again in the afternoon—just one run a day in each direction. Only later do I realize I walked right past Ursula K. Le Guin’s longtime home. Around the corner on Vaughn, someone has left an Ikea Poäng chair in the street with a free sign on it. I’m not going to carry it home, obviously, but it makes for a pleasant post-hike rest for a few minutes.

The walk to the tavern kisses the edge of Lower Macleay Park, where I could head back into the trees and eventually meet up with the Wildwood Trail. But my tired feet are ready to rest on the rung of a bar stool while I cool off with a Hamm’s—or two, if I get sucked into watching Olympic curling and hockey on the bar TV with Jerry’s afternoon regulars. My designated driver stops every half hour just around the corner.