A stump sports a spiky hairdo along the Ninemile Ridge Trail in the North Fork Umatilla Wilderness.

Preparing for a Wednesday hike up the west end of Ninemile Ridge Trail, I look in the mirror and see red.

Wonder, my fabric artist wife, has provided a 4-inch-wide red cloth to tie around my bucket hat. I also wear a red T-shirt. She is concerned about hunters. I am concerned about looking crazier than normal.

I drive 45 miles from Milton-Freewater to the trailhead, taking the Cayuse Bridge shortcut from Adams and heading up the Umatilla River Road.

It’s a chilly 43 degrees as I hit the trail. After following Buck Creek briefly, the trail heads straight uphill. (Look for the sign the Blues Crew, volunteers who maintain many trails in the Blue Mountains, recently installed at the trail junction.)

With temperatures expected to reach the high 70s, and 2,000 feet of elevation climb ahead, I’ll roast soon enough.

Since this is part of the North Fork Umatilla Wilderness, not the Pacific Crest Trail or the Eagle Caps, I should have the trail all to myself.

The climb is a doozy. Straight up through fern-decorated forest, then traversing golden meadows, draws, lush forest and more meadows.

Finally I reach the ridge. I break for lunch. It’s a visual feast. Admiring the jaw-dropping panorama, I feel good about being 67 and able to climb like an old mountain goat.

After drinking enough water to slosh, and taking a few minutes to soak in the scenery, I begin to descend. Within a quarter-mile, I am pouring sweat. My knees wobbly, my face as red as the sash around my hat, I run into two hikers. They are kind enough not to fall on the ground laughing at my Rajneeshee-like get-up.

These hikers are old enough to remember the cult takeover of Antelope in the 1980s. Regular hikers in the Blues, they look as fresh as teenagers. He tells me he has hiked every mile of North Fork Umatilla Wilderness trails this summer, a voyage of discovery that involves much bushwhacking and cliff clinging. He is 72.

We chat for several minutes and say our goodbyes. Humbled, motivated, impressed, I continue down the ridge, hearing the North Fork of the Umatilla River orchestra playing in the deep canyon.

Walking over a pine cone carpet, I emerge on a golden hillside. A long sidehill traverse ensues. The trail is brutish. It’s 6 inches wide, fit for young mountain goats only, and slanted precariously. Occasionally, I kick a rock — for trail improvement — over the cliff toward Buck Creek far below.

I look up to watch a hawk riding an updraft. When I look down, I nearly step on a rubber boa that has claimed the middle of the trail. Enlivened, I leap over the snake.

Soon, I enter a secluded draw with pine needle carpeting. Some brush is prematurely dressed in fall finery. Most color, however, is waiting for the first big fall freeze.

I emerge from deep woods to a hanging meadow studded with basalt cliffs. Wind rises, clouds build, harbingers of a forecasted storm.

I pick up the pace, looking back now and then to make sure the other hikers aren’t gaining on me. They are nowhere in sight.

Back in a brushy draw studded with elegant ponderosa pines, a grouse explodes from cover. As if the snake wasn’t enough stress on the ticker.

Heart racing, tranquility interrupted, I enter meadows. The trail turns sharply downward. Crickets serenade as I pass through elderberry thickets, berries past their prime.

Finally, the modest quartet of Buck Creek serenades. The trailhead is near.

Back in the forest, the trail descends rapidly, as if its builders wanted to reach the trailhead quickly. Downhill sliding, using a ski pole for balance, I barely avoid a crash-and-burn spectacle.

When younger, confronted with this slope, I would have practiced slalom skiing skills. At 67, I feel lucky to stay upright.

I reach the car, proud that I haven’t been passed by a 72-year-old.

As always, leave only footprints and take only pictures. Whether in town or on the trail, try to leave your surroundings better than you found them.