#trailreport

Dreams are funny things, and, in many ways, are the fuel of ambition. What starts as a simple notion, a far off impossible idea, can gradually resolve into something more concrete. Ultimately leading one to push past their limits, and strive for that impossible goal. 

Of course, our definitions of the impossible change as we grow. There was a time when I thought it impossible that I would ever be published. There was a time when I never thought I’d travel much, or see much of the United states. Yesterday’s dreams are often, tomorrow's achievements, but it’s not always that clean.  Everyone’s life is littered with broken and discarded goals and dreams, often filling the darker corners of our minds with moody regrets of what might have been. 

Gradually, as time passes those shadows can get longer, producing tendrils that drag down our daily lives, miring us in a fog of what could have been. 

Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, is one of my dreams. Spanning 2680 miles, it’s a five month thru hiking marathon, that takes you from the searing depths of the Mojave, to soaring peaks like Mt Whitney. It’s an immense technical and fitness challenge that will see roughly 60% of those that attempt it ultimately leave the trail disappointed. 

Ah there it is, on the horizon! If you look very hard and perhaps squint, you will begin to see the point of this rambling introduction. 

In short, I’m going for it. With a target start date of April 3rd 2020, my plans are to be in Campo, California, just a few feet from the Mexican border as I begin a slow and deliberate trek north, that will most likely not conclude until late September or early October. 

Just under 10 months out now, my hiking, planning, training, and even the writing of this blog, has all fallen under that particular focus. I am going to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. Gear is being bought, miles are being run, exercises are being done, but there is more to it than that. In order to be ready, I need to make certain that I have the skills and experience necessary to get me to Canada, and to do that, I have to overnight. 

Backpacking is a technical step up from day hiking, and, in a way, taking it to its logical conclusion. If you can overnight, you can cover more miles, take on more difficult treks, and visit a wider variety of places. 

The PCT is the ultimate overnight, and so, a section of it near my home, seemed as good a place as any to kick off my first full, backpacking experience. 

As Maya would say, “Let’s get this bread!”

Starting off from Bridge of the Gods, the first section of my hike took me over the Columbia River Gorge, suspended almost 200 feet in the air, with nothing but grated metal below me. It felt like I was walking across the sky, save that I had to share the space with vehicles zipping by after the toll bridge, leaving me only a few inches of room, with nowhere to go but down if something went wrong.  

With my heart rate pumping from sheer anxiety, I made my way carefully north, dashing across Washington 14, before I saw a welcome sign that I had been looking forward to seeing for 10 years….

Up and into the woods I went, finding the trail to be extremely quiet. It’s still too early in the season for those thru hiking from the south to be passing through, and with how overgrown parts of it were with brush and bramble, I soon had the sense that I might be one of the few people on that portion. 

Spoiler alert… I wasn’t. 

Solitude while hiking, is one of the things I strive for. Being alone in nature grants me time to think and plan. Oftentimes, I’ll spend hours listening to the birds sing, as the rhythmic beat of my foot falls provide a strange sharp counterpoint to their song, causing the world to blur into a type of symphony of movement and sound.

The goal for this hike was not to reach any particular point, but to see how far I could go, with the current gear I have. At forty pounds fully loaded, it’s still far too much for any kind of thru hike, but it’s not bad for training. With the straps of my old kelty digging into my shoulders, I continued to climb up the gorge, determined to go for fifteen miles, before setting down for the night. 

At four miles in, after rounding a bend, Gillete Lake came into view, and with it, came my first check in. Letting the husband know I was alive, and had plenty of energy. Pack or no, I pressed on, deeper into the woods. As I steadily climbed in elevation, my legs began to burn, and my back began to hurt, but at the moment, I didn’t care. 

I was on the trail. The one place I had wanted to be for years, and I wasn’t about to let pack weight stop me.  The trail kept heading up, until I came to my first bridge, taking me over a cataracting stream swollen with melt water from the upper Cascades, charging back down the slope, heading for Gillette Lake. 

My world was serene and beautiful, full of verdant forest, high above the Columbia, and fully out of its humidity. In short, there seemed no better way to spend a Saturday at that particular moment. That conviction. worked like a fuel, pushing me further on up steepening grades and switchbacks. 

However, at five and a half miles, it began to become clear that something was wrong. A knife like pain was growing louder and louder in my left scapula, sending shockwaves of pain up through my neck, and down my left arm.  Far from a normal exertion type pain, this, I knew, could be serious if I didn’t address it, but I was only seven miles in, of a planned fifteen. 

This was not what I had come to do, even though I had started this hike with no particular destination.  My destination was my mileage, and I was far from that yet. 

Still, as I approached 6 and a half miles, it grew only worse, and I knew I was coming to a fateful choice. If I pushed, I could injure myself, taking myself out for the rest of the hiking season, and potentially put myself at risk for my stubbornness. The other option though, seemed just as unpalatable. 

Turn back, head for Gillette Lake and camp there, giving me time to rest, and recover. 

The choice was obvious, if not disappointing, I turned around, feeling humbled, and began my journey back. 

At first, I was full of recrimination, but as I walked along, gaining miles now in the other direction, trying to ignore the growing pain in my shoulder, I realized that the choice I made, had been an important one to my success. 

My dream wasn’t dead. One moment turning around, accepting my limitations in both gear, and ability, was not me leaving the PCT behind. Rather, by acknowledging and accepting my current limits, and listening to my body, I was better ensuring that I would make it to April 3rd, ready and prepared to take on the challenge of the trail. 

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. 

Returning to Gillete lake, I ended up finding a nice quiet campsite near water, and set up for my overnight. As soon as I dropped my pack and set up camp, the pain quickly went away, only reinforcing the idea I had made the right choice. 

With camp established I settled down. With no miles to pursue, hours before sunset, with nothing but the quiet of the woods around me I found myself facing an unexpected challenge. 

What was I going to do now? 

Sleep would not come for hours yet. Hell, dinner would not come for hours yet. My tent was set up, my gear was organized and packed away; the day had zipped by in a perfect, managed efficiency. Now here I was, listening to the same birdsong, surrounded by the same nature, but in the quiet, with no motion to carry me forward, I wondered what I could do to occupy the time. 

Luckily, in that 40lbs of pack weight, I decided to include my kindle, along with a few audiobooks on my phone. Laying out in my tent staring up at the ceiling, letting my shoulder recover, I got caught up with Anaszi Boys by Neil Gaiman, wandering his well crafted universe.  

These days happen. In all of my research and reading boredom is something thru hikers often face. After a while, hiking is just something you do. You wake up, break camp, and get on the trail. Even the most amazing experience becomes routine with enough repetition, and being able to manage that boredom is a key to completion just as much as your fitness and preparation is. 

My next surprise came with dinner. The day had grown muggy and warm while the insects chirped cheerily and loudly from their bushes. Before my hike I had selected a chipotle soup that seemed a perfect meal after a day of hard work, but sitting there, sweating in the humidity, I instead elected to have a probar and some nuts. 

This hike was meant to be dress rehearsal, and an overall test, so I prepped like it was time for the big show. As the sun set, and the frogs began to sing, I began to appreciate the idea that I had left myself with options having packed extra food just in case. 

Where I didn’t have options though, was my sleeping bag. It proved to be a sticky, swampy, sweaty experience as I curled up for the night. The warnings in the reviews came back to bite me that it didn’t breathe well. In high humidity, and eighty degree temperatures I might as well have been in a sauna, waking up every few hours from the experience. 

You can’t win all the time I guess… 

Finally, the morning came, and while I didn’t make my full fifteen miles, and had a somewhat miserable sleep, I still felt like a success. Here I was, on the Pacific Crest Trail, doing my first overnight, and the choices I had made, ensured that it wasn’t a one off, but the first of many. 

I was learning what to do, what not to do, and what to change, which matters more than mileage ever will. 

Having one of the most amazing oatmeal breakfasts of my life… (thank you Mountain House!) I then broke camp, and set out, back to Bridge of the Gods, already looking forward to my next adventure. 

Dreams push us to exceed our limitations, but by accepting where you are today, you can go where you only dreamed of tomorrow. 

The Olympic National Forest is a parkland full of many wonders, including the Hoh Rain forest, one of the largest temperate rain forests in the US. 

Stretching out over the Washington Peninsula, bordering the Puget Sound on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on another, it is emblematic of what people think of when they envision the Pacific Northwest. Long stretches of thick and verdant green canopy dominate the views, broken up by rivers and the towering Olympic Mountains. 

The location itself seems almost unreal, something you might find in a fantasy book, or a sci-fi epic detailing a strange and distant world consisting only of plant life, but it’s easily accessible, and just a few hours from my front door, yet I had never been. 

When planning a hike there’s a lot of cost-benefit analysis and time management that comes into play. This is mainly because hiking is often (but not always) a remote activity, on top of being a time sink. On average, a fourteen mile hike for me takes about five hours if there's not too much elevation, and up to seven if there’s heavy gains and lots of climbing.

However, I could always overnight. 

Returning home from my failed hike on Sunday, I almost went for it immediately. Wynoochee Lake sits at the edge of the Olympic National Forest, but still appeared like a spectacular hike from the reviews I could see. People reported elements of the trail as being overgrown, with multiple tree falls, but I had heard all of that before. 

State and National Parks are often the first places to feel budget cuts and financial restraints which often means reduced maintenance and upkeep. Still, as long as the trails are regularly hiked, they tend to stay passable, so long as you’re comfortable with pushing through some brush. 

At 14.9 miles through peaceful lush woods, a bit of brush dodging seemed a small price to pay, so I quickly found a campsite, and took the time to prepare, making certain to give myself the room I needed to not face it frantically.

Initially, everything seemed to be going my way, after a short email exchange the camp director agreed to hold a site for me, the local Sportsman Warehouse was full up on my favorite flavor of pro bar, and everything seemed well. 

When Thursday morning rolled around, I woke up on time, left on schedule, and headed north towards Olympia looking forward to a good long hike. 

Everything had been planned for, I had extra food and water, and even a camp chair, and a few other comforts of home since I was camping beside my truck. This was going to be a day filled with adventure, followed by a nice dinner and a quiet night in a peaceful campsite.

Resolving to set up camp first, I arrived at Satsop Center to find it a wonderful site, complete with showers, ample tent sites, and a friendly husband and wife pair that ran the place. She told me to pick any open spot, and report back for payment, though the fee was a flat twenty dollars. 

So far so good. 

Forty five minutes later, and I was standing again on their doorstep, eagerly looking forward to my day at Wynoochee Lake. The trail, again clocking in at 14.9 miles, was also listed as a National Scenic Trail, a special moniker assigned by the park service for hikes that are especially beautiful. 

As I turned to leave, she called out, “I hope you have fun, but the lake is mighty low, unusual for this time of year.” 

The Olympic Peninsula, including the Hoh Rainforest a few hours to the north of where I was, is currently undergoing a drought, but looking around, it would be hard to tell. 

Rivers still flow, and the forest is still thick and green. A heavy humidity permeated the air, and the sky on my arrival was grey and overcast, but as I set up camp, and headed for the lake, the weather began to clear, until the sun peeked through the dense canopy overhead, while birds sang and bees buzzed. 

It was getting to be near 1100 hours, and I needed to get on the trail.

Starting out, moving quickly over an asphalt footpath, I headed for the dam, knowing that as soon as I got to the other side of the lake I would be far from the tourists, and the man-made madness that dominated the parking area.  

The trail, suddenly disappeared. Checking my Maps and GPS, it told me I was on the right course, but I couldn’t see anything, save for a small opening in the brush to my left. 

Checking out the small gap in the wall of green,  I found my trail, or what was left of it. What was there, was  heavily washed out. Regardless, I didn’t want to turn back. Even though it would involve a bit of scrambling, it seemed to be passable.

Moving carefully, I descended down to the first segment of what appeared to be a stable platform, only for it to crumble beneath me, causing me to slide a half foot before I was able to dig in my poles and come to a stop with my heart now beating a fearful cadence half out of my chest. I was now overlooking a staggered drop of at least thirty feet. From my new vantage point, it was easy to see that the trail was gone, there was no way forward, and I wasn’t even a half mile in. 

Moving slowly, and thankful my gear had just prevented me from stumbling into a dangerous situation. I pushed back from the edge of disaster, and turned back to look for any other sign of the trail, some missed detour, or a route I had missed. Ultimately I headed up an abandoned forest service road, only for my GPS to tell me I was out of route. 

There was nothing left to do, but turn back. 

Still, the day wasn’t over yet. Wynoochee Lake Trail is a loop, and so, I began to backtrack, following the markers, only to be dumped out on the beach, losing the trail again in a sea of rocks, and clumps of grasses. Here though, there was no danger in pressing forward, and so, using my GPS as a guide, I pressed on until I encountered a boat ramp and another dead end. 

At this point, my excitement was quickly dying only to be replaced by a deep frustration. It just didn't feel like it was my week, dear reader. This was my second hike in a row that was going wrong. 

Three miles in, losing time, and my way, I was now looking out past the boat dock on the lake wondering what to do next.

With nowhere to go but up the ramp, I sullenly turned, wondering if I should head back to the truck, break camp and go home. Then I found the trail head. 

My hope soared. There it was, snaking off into the woods, the Wynoochee River Trail. Somehow, even though I was following the markers, I had ended up diverted onto a side path that ran the lake. Feeling encouraged, I moved forward, determined to get as many miles into the wood as I could, before turning back and heading for the truck. 

In that moment, as the campground area disappeared behind me, the day didn’t feel all that lost. Soon, I was swallowed up by forest, and the traffic dwindled until, suddenly I found myself alone, in the quiet. Towering old growth douglas firs towered majestically up into the sky, framed at their roots by frond heavy ferns. 

This was what I had come to see. The forest thickened as I moved forward, as fallen branches, and whole trees obscured my path forward, causing me to scramble under or climb over them to continue. 

If anything, this trail was proving to be an entirely new type of physical challenge. 

Eventually, after crossing a dry river bed, I came to the grave of two old growth firs. Their massive trunks had fallen across the trail and caused the ground around them to collapse under their weight. With a bit of work, I  could climb over them, but I didn’t know about the stability on the other side, and I had already pushed my luck earlier that day. 

This was where my hike ended. As much as I wanted to press forward, it was time to stop, in the interests of safety and sanity. I had spent the day lost, confused, only to be rewarded by the barest snippets of a hike, my final distance just a little over five miles, including retracing my steps back to the truck. 

In many ways, the Wynoochee Lake Trail was a washout, and, one could argue, a failure, but as I hiked back to my campsite to break it down early and head home, it still felt like a victory, even if it was a strange one. 

Growing up in the deserts of West Texas gave me a special appreciation for the ocean, and temperatures below 115 degrees.  Our summers got so hot, I became convinced that heat was one of our chief exports to hell. No matter where you are, it seemed like  it was always hotter somewhere in Texas. 

However, being on the beach does not make you immune from the sun. I learned that living in Southern California, but at least the breeze coming off the Pacific is cool, and makes the days bearable. 

Even down in Corpus Christi, Tx  near the Gulf of Mexico, eight hours from where I grew up, the air was so thick with humidity you could cut slices of it out of the air, and save it for later. Which made it a dubious respite at best and a “living in the worlds largest dryer vent simulator” at worst. 

Does it sound like I’m complaining? Maybe I’m just venting. I’ve apparently built up some steam about this topic. 

Ok, there’s our terrible pun allotment for this blog post… Moving on.

To summarize, the ocean has always held a type of special allure to me. 

For one, any large expanse of sparkling blue water was a rarity in my life, and for two, the sight of the Atlantic was associated in my mind with a one time summer trip to Disney World when I was six, and visiting my Mom’s side of the family in the North East. We’d go to the “Shore” (bonus points for you if that tells you the state) and spend a few days enjoying the colder waters, enjoying our respite from the desert sun. 

Yet my entire life, up until I was 26, I had never ventured further west than Albuquerque. The Pacific was a mystery to me. The first time I saw it, was from the dirty window of an eighteen wheeler, hauling freight while in driver training. Far off down the street was a horizon of shimmering blue, during a spring-like November day in Los Angeles. 

The traffic had been hell, the parking worse (my vehicle was 70ft long, tip to tip) but suddenly, all of my problems lifted. 

There it was, off in the horizon, the big blue water of the west. Fabled in song and story. 

The Pacific Ocean. 

It is a treasured memory, and has stuck with me, even though I ended up living in Southern California with my then fiance, and now husband. Ironically, in many ways, the Ocean is a desert in its own right. Nothing truly lives only on the surface amongst its waves.  In fact, most  life there is out of sight, far below the water line. Yet the climate, and it’s beauty is so radically different from anything I had ever really known, outside of a few moments from my youth. 

And, amidst the wonder, the grind of daily life, and all those memories, I somehow had yet to visit the Pacific Ocean here in my home state of Washington. 

In short, I decided it was high time to fix that. 

The North Head Discovery trail is a there-and-back hike rated as moderate difficulty. Its challenge arises mainly from its mileage, and the slight increase in elevation at its end. My hiking app gave me maps which combine it with the Cape Disappointment Lighthouse trail, giving it an elevation challenge. 

I set out from the parking lot of a resort that donates parking space for trail goers. The trail itself was wide and paved, nothing like what I was accustomed to. A discovery trail is different from your normal hiking trail, in that it focuses on historical and/or scientific curiosities in the area.  It’s not just an adventure, it’s a field trip, and for a history buff, this made it especially appealing. You see, Lewis and Clark were there, in 1805. Strewn along the straight, southern path are tiny diversions leading to monuments, and statues, detailing their journeys, and pages from their journals describing events they encountered on the very ground you are walking upon connecting you to their time. 

There are gateway arches over the entrance to each parking lot you cross that in proud, bold numbers, proclaiming 1805 showing the  pride the community takes in their current history. 

The focus is mainly upon the expedition itself, and the local flora and fauna, but there is one placard detailing a limited history of the Chinook, the indigenous people that called that area home before they were ultimately, and unfairly displaced off their land by America’s dream of manifest destiny. 

In this, I found the trail especially lacking. To know more of this people, and their history, while venturing on the shorelines where they once lived, thrived, and built their society would have served as a fitting counterpoint to the Lewis and Clark Expedition which ultimately functioned as a herald of the end to their way of life.  

Overall, this feeling of imbalance greatly stuck with me as I veered south after my first quarter mile. I was now easily able to hear the roar of the waves, smell the ocean, and feel the cool breeze but I still could not see it. An endless sea of dune grass instead, like the world’s largest shag carpet, stretched out before me as I moved along the easy, wide path, wondering when I would get my chance. 

At half a mile in, I couldn’t take it anymore, and diverted down a side trail, heading sharply west. Breaking over the sand dune, and there it was in all of its majesty

I stood there, and took it all in. Here I was, well over 1500 miles from where I had first seen it, and yet, this was the same patch of big blue water. The enormity of it boggled my mind, and caused me to take a deep breath, if only to recenter myself, as I pondered the vastness of the machinery of the Earth. 

Still, I was not there to stare, not there to have a day playing upon the beach. I was there to hike a trail, and make miles. Taking one last look, I turned back towards my task, and got to work, stopping at a convenient bench to knock the sand out of my shoes. 

Soon, the ocean disappeared behind the dunes, and I was back amongst the grassy expanse, cooled by the breeze and all the while being baked by the sun; heading south at a constant, rhythmic pace. 

It got meditative. There wasn’t much to do, and there wasn’t much to see besides occasional informational placards and monuments, which sometimes broke me out of my forward moving stupor, and other times, failed to arouse my interest. The first hour passed, and then, about half way through my second, I came to an inescapable realization. 

I was bored. 

In the hiking community, watching videos, I’ve heard the term “type two fun.” Type Two fun is something that is fun after the fact. You look back on the memory of its accomplishment fondly, even though at the time you were, uncomfortable, overworked, bored, or any number of mildly to severely unpleasant feelings. 

As I plodded along it seemed to me that, save for a few moments, this hike was going to be full of the type two fun, and I found myself disheartened. Stopping in my tracks just over four miles in I looked back the way I came as questions danced through my mind. 

Should I go home? Give up? Call it an early day? Did I really want to complete this trail, or was I content with saying I tried, and it wasn’t for me? 

The decision grew heavier, as I looked forward towards my goals. When I hike the PCT in 2020, I know there will be times when I’m bored, and when I just don’t want to hike. I might be sore, or just fed up, and as I pondered, it became apparent to me that giving up, was a habit, as was perseverance. If I quit today because I was bored, or uninterested, it was going to be that much easier to quit next time… when the workout got hard, or the trail challenging, or when the sentence wouldn’t come for my novel. 

That simply wouldn’t do, so, turning back towards the south, I dug in, kicked on my audio book, and enjoyed the scenery I did have, putting away my expectations. 

I’ll be honest, there were times when the trail seemed to drag by with all the rapidity of a snail on ketamine but I set a goal for myself to clear as quickly as I could to work on my pacing. 

With a goal in mind, and a good audiobook pouring from my headset, another hour passed, as a small mountain came into view, and suddenly, there was a full beach to my right with the ocean pounding against the waves. 

Here before me was a profound type of liminal space. Not just ocean and shore, but ocean, shore and forest all meeting in one collision of juxtaposed beauty. Breaking out of the dune grass, there was an entirely new vista before me now, as the trail tilted up, carrying me forward, and providing me with some elevation challenge, until I crossed one parking lot, then another, and came upon an old lighthouse perched at its top, with a sweeping view of the Pacific before me. 

Fear makes things bigger in your mind than they are. This is especially true in my case taking that I have an anxiety condition. 

For me, there is very little chill, and every issue, even a perceived issue can become a massive crisis in my head in an instant.  This is one of the reasons I hike. Conquering miles and rough terrain, helps turn down the volume on all the static surging around and empowers me in my day to day. 

At least, that’s how it normally goes… 

Loowit Falls, at first, absolutely terrified me.  As said in previous blogs, research is the key to a good hike. Before I set out on a trail, I check reports, check what the forest service (State or National depending) has to say. I read reviews on All Trails… and consult guidebooks if I have them. 

Knowledge can make the difference between a great hike, and an utter disaster, so it helps to do your homework beforehand. 

Cliches seem to be multiplying today, so let’s move on, shall we? 

Selecting this hike, I knew it to be a challenge. It’s rated as hard, clocks in at a whopping 14 miles, and is a there-and-back-again hike. Any time spent going downhill in the beginning, means uphill at the end, and vice versa. As you can see from the altitude graph, this was going to make the end especially tough, but as I was reading, it wasn’t the physical challenge stressing me out, but the trail reports warning me of ledges with severe drops, gravelly sandy trails, and grueling up-hills that did. 

Still, I’d been feeling strong the last month, making miles, and conquering hikes. Long hikes are my thing (more to come on  that later) so a 14 miler seemed a logical next step.  

With my chest tingling with excitement and a touch of fear, I told my team… “I’m gonna do it.” Or as Maya would say… YEET. 

So now it was time for the research to really begin. I began looking at the topo maps, and followed the trail on google earth. I made my plans, talked to my husband, and began to get the logistics worked out.  

Saturday, 0430, I was up and getting ready for my biggest hike to date, and all the while I was doing final gear checks, looking at maps, all that fun stuff, my nervousness beginning to build.  

Then the husband woke up, around 630 as he often does before a hike, just to spend some time with me and said, in fearful tones.  

“Bun, I’m worried about this one.” 

I just smiled and said. “Me too, but I have fallbacks in place, and if it’s something I don’t think I can do, I’ll turn around and reassess.” 

Then, he rose, hugged me, and began pricing life insurance policies.

I shit you not… this happened. I’m about to leave on a massive, monster hike, INreach SOS beacon charged, maps printed out, checklist double checked, and I’m looking forward to a nice encouraging talk with my husband, and he leaves to check on life insurance policies. 

It’s moments like this that keep a marriage together, I tell you. 

Full of confidence, I set out on highway 504 towards Mt. St Helens, the Spirit Lake Highway, only to run into a very unusual type of traffic in Toutle Washington. 

Come to find out, there was a bike rally scheduled for the day of my hike, and there were hundreds of them on the side of the road, making their way to Johnston Ridge, the very same place I was going.

Now, I can almost hear you reading this, and shrugging, no big deal right? Well for most people that would be true, but for me, well… driving is something that makes me feel anxious, my mind likes to mess with me, and so for many years I didn’t. It’s only been recently after a lot of work and dedication that I’ve felt safe getting back behind the wheel again and now I had to deal with bikers everywhere, some of whom were so bold as to occupy the car lane, and refuse to yield. 

On top of this, the weather turned foggy as I entered what is colloquially known as Big Foot Country, so as the long and windy road took me towards the parking lot, I was feeling more, and more stressed. 

The day was beginning to feel cursed, my confidence was getting shakier by the moment, and I hadn’t even set out upon the trail yet.   

Finally arriving at Johnston Ridge, the trail head, almost 4000 feet in elevation, the fog was even thicker. I couldn’t see more than 10 feet in front of me at any given time. Still, that was enough to sight the trail, and there were others there, getting ready for their own adventures. It was a motley mix of hikers, tourists and those waiting for the bikers to arrive as they picked their way up the road, but hey, at least there were porta-potties.  

 After taking a few centering breaths, and strapping on my gear,  I set off, hiking towards Boundary Trail, which would eventually take me to Loowit Falls. 

This entire section of Mt. St Helens is filled with history, making this trail an even bigger draw for me than others. Boundary Trail #1, was founded way back in the first decade of the US Forest Service. In 1911, Park Rangers rode horses from ridge to ridge, patrolling what was then the border of two national parks, Ranier and Columbia. 

Loowit Falls on the other hand, is of the newer type of history. After months of erupting back in 1980, one morning a 5.1 earthquake struck the already battered region, and an entire wall of Mt. St. Helen’s crater collapsed, and turned into a hellacious landslide, ultimately opping a peak before crashing into the valley below, inundating Spirit Lake.

Loowit Falls was one of the many new features that arose out of the cataclysm shaping the region, up on the mountain itself, directly in the path of the former landslide.  

First though, I had to get there, and the hike starts off easily enough. There’s an observation loop that lets out to the Boundary Trail, that’s made more for tourists than hikers, so the first little bit is paved. Soon though, it gives way to gravelly dirt before angling down zig zagging and switchbacking, but I’ve seen all that before. Been there done that.  

 And there’s another cliche… 

After about a mile and a half in, still wondering if I should really attempt to go for the falls, socked in by fog I came across a sign showing the trails in the area along with this picture… 

Nervously, I set out from there, heading towards my decision point. I could have gone left, or right. Left had an easier hike, that went up to a peak, ending at around 10 miles covered, with less elevation gain, but to my right, shrouded in fog and mystery, was the hike I came to conquer. 

This was the real moment of truth. All I had was my research that said it could be challenging. Some reported the height could be intimidating, others said it was merely tough. 

What should I do?

Taking a (figurative) leap of faith, I decided to for it, comforting myself with the idea that it was ok to turn back if things got to intense, and began to descend down the trail, and the mountain, making decent time. The pillowy shroud of fog continued to lay across the trail granting me no wider vista than 5 or 10 feet, but the path was wide, and  while I did get closer to edges I still had plenty of room.

Eventually things leveled out and I could tell I was in a valley as the fog slowly began to lift, and I’m thinking is that it? Really? 

From my perspective there had been nothing to be truly afraid of. The descent wasn’t especially challenging and I had felt safe the entire time.  Unlike the husband searching for life insurance, this buoyed my confidence, even though I had eleven miles still to go. With a bounce (hop?) in my step I set out, the fog continuing to lift, revealing more of the stark landscape around me. Black and red lava rocks dotted landscapes that were in some places sandy, other places akin to moonscape, sparkling with volcanic glass and in others, covered with thick shrub like trees, or coated in wildflowers of amazing colors. Chipmunks ran to and fro, eating flowers and wondering if I was going to feed them, while birds flew overhead. 

Then it happened. Suddenly the clouds broke and there was a literal mountain in front of me, emerging out of the fog like some giant from the dusty tomes of mythologies. Mt. St. Helens lay before me in all its majestic glory, and off in the distance, a light glinted off a fast moving waterfall surrounded by volcanic sand. 

That was my half way point, where I would turn around and come back, Loowit Falls. 

I stood there for a moment and took it all in. The vista before me left me awestruck by the power of nature. Then, taking a deep breath, I dug in my trekking poles and began to hike.

And hike…. 

Then hike some more… 

As I went traffic fell away to a few familiar faces, I’d pass them, then they’d pass me as we took alternating breaks, until finally around 2pm, I rounded a switchback, and heard for the first time the roar of a waterfall. 

There it was, right in front of me, the moment I had been waiting for. Loowit Falls, in all its splendor, flowed relentless down the mountain as the wind howled off the glaciers above, chilling the air to what felt like the mid to upper 40’s. 

Buttoning down my outer layer, I made my way to a flat spot, laid my pack out and had lunch, reveling in my victory only for my open pack to flop over and spill out on the ground, voiding its contents. I went from resting to scrambling as I dove for my glasses and meds, hoping they wouldn’t fall off the edge.

In some ways, it reminded me of the day so far, there was a sensation of “emotional breathing” to the experience, stress followed by periods of ease, akin to the contraction and relaxation of breathing. Up and down, in and out, oh shit to okay…

And this was the halfway point, soon I’d have to go back the way I came, picking my way back up the mountain I had descended to get back to the trailhead. The only difference being, was that now I knew the trail, I knew what to expect, so I hoisted my pack, tightened down my straps, took some water, and got back on the trail. 

My speed increased, as the air warmed and I left the slopes of St. Helens, making good time across the dramatically stark volcanic plains. Gradually, I began to feel  more accomplished than I had in a while and, by the time I had hit ten miles I was riding high. With four miles left to go I charged forward, eager for the challenge. 

Then I started to climb. All of the descent from the morning, had to be repeated, this time going up. This is where it got grueling, as if the trail was attempting to punish me for every step I made down upon it just a few hours before, but there was nothing else to do but push through it, keep pace, and enjoy the view as I ascended, granting me new perspective now that the fog was gone. 

There were places where it was quite steep, and the drops quite far, the morning’s fog had hid all that from me, but there was room, there was space, it was something to respect, but it wasn’t anything to fear.  

 All of that worry, all of that concern, and if I had let it stop me, I wouldn’t have been there. 

Humbled by that revelation, sore from the elevation I was having to make, and humbled by a day full of experiences, I pushed myself up the trail. Soon there was the last arcing climb, until I set my feet on the pavement of the observation trail yet again, and just beyond was the parking lot. 

Setting my gear in the well of the passenger seat, I popped an electrolyte tab into my water and watched it fizz as I nibbled a Clif bar, feeling like the master of my own little universe, resting from the exertion of the day. Once I had some time to recharge, I put the key in the ignition, put the car into drive, and had a major anxiety attack.  

The problem with anxiety attacks it that you know, rationally, everything is fine. The problem is your brain isn’t listening to reason. I worked through my coping skills, and tried to get myself centered, but nothing was working. I was exhausted from the hike, and the worries of the day, and it was all crashing in on me at once, amassing as a parade of my biggest fears, and inner demons within my mind. 

I made it about three miles before I had to pull over. I stopped in at  the Coldwater boat dock, the location of last week's hike, and took a few more deep breaths, walked around the car, and tried to get my  mind right. Finally I messaged my husband letting him know what was going on. 

Messages travel slower by satellite than text, and so I had some time to sit. I looked out on the parking lot, at the strange bathrooms that looked like forgotten temples, and it reminded me that I had hiked twelve miles last week, and today, I had hiked fourteen…  

That caused my brain to stop and pause for a moment, like rays of sunshine penetrating the gloom.

I had excelled through challenges, walked along ridges, and managed my water.  I was capable, I was competent, and I was ok.

In the face of this revelation, the anxiety began to let go, and a lightbulb went off in my head. I had a weapon now against it, a reminder, that I was stronger than I thought, and as the messages came back from my husband and other supportive folks, the anxiety withered away.

Cliches, I feel, are annoying because they are a reminder of simple, near universal truths. No matter how clever, or accurate the wisdom they hold may be, just hearing them reminds me of something I should have never forgotten, and thus, I cringe.  

All of this is, of course, natural. None of us are perfect, we all make mistakes, get ahead of ourselves, mislay our car keys, all of that; thus life is full of cliches to remind us that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Shit, there’s another one.

Saturday, that very cliche presented itself and slapped me in the face.

Now, I should have been prepared for it. I woke up, eager, excited and early, ready to take on Black Hole Falls. My hiking checklist was beside my pack and trekking poles, the husband woke up early, and my directions were all loaded in. We even left almost on time.

All of this proved to be ominous portent of the day ahead.

With breakfast done and everything in the car, we left about 930am. Waggs was looking forward to an exciting day in Vancouver, Washington and I was eagerly awaiting my trip to Black Hole Falls. The site is billed as one of the best hidden waterfalls in the Pacific Northwest, perched on the edge of the Gifford Pinchot forest. It had all the makings of a wonderful day.

Heading out towards Amboy, Washington, we followed our directions dutifully. Eventually the two lane highway gave way to a simple paved forest service road that had certainly seen better days. As always in the Pacific Northwest, there were other campers and hikers camped beside conspicuous openings in the forest, portending trail and adventures just beyond.

This is where I start getting excited. The idea of other people on fun adventures reminds me that I’ll soon be on my own as well.  

“Keep left at the fork.” Sounded over the speaker, drawing both of our attentions, because the road that awaited us was a steep and graveled dirt road taking us up into the mountains. This was not unexpected. Before I go to any trail, I take a look at things via satellite and try to get the lay of the land. The trail head I was looking for showed to be set off a similar road, and so, all seemed groovy.

Up we went, gaining elevation as the road began to switchback aggressively and an unsettling feeling began to arise that the GPS was leading us on a boondoggle.

Finally, after almost half an hour on gravel roads, covering almost ten miles, it announced we had arrived, there were just a few problems…

No pull out, no trail head, no indication whatsoever of where the trail should be.

Son of a bitch.  

Undaunted, I fell back to my InReach navigator, knowing I had synced the maps from my computer the night before. While not designed for vehicle navigation, it should have been able to tell me if I was close, or off in the great beyond relative to the trail location.

That was when the second big surprise of the day hit me. Though I had synced it on my computer, I later found out that only works for software updates, it requires being synced through my phone to push the routes back to the device.

Deep in the pit of my stomach a worried feeling blossomed as  I looked up and down the road, it finally coming into clear focus that we were lost, over half an hour from town, one hour out from signal, and no idea where the trail was.

All of my Saturday plans were firmly obliterated at that point.  Some careful backtracking followed, as we made our way back to the main road, and off for a day of fun in Portland.

It was actually a pretty good time, save that I didn’t feel I had earned my post hike eat out treat. After all, I hadn’t hiked anywhere.

At the end of the day though, a Bulgogi Bowl from Veggie Grill is a Bulgogi Bowl from Veggie Grill, and as I sat there, talking with my husband I resolved that this weekend would not be shot for Wandering Hops. While he browsed a bookstore, I hung out outside, using my all trails map and then hit upon The Coldwater Lake Loop.

The Coldwater Lake Loop is best described as a franken-trail, a mix of the south coldwater trail and the lake trail, with the last section incorporating elements of the main forest service road to take you back to the trail head. All told, it’s about 11.5 miles, and rated as a Hard/Difficult hike.

This time, dear reader, I wasn’t about to be caught unaware. I synced and resynced my maps, verified in full that the route was on the device, checked permits, passes and hours, as well as my directions.

0630 Sunday rolled around, and as Maya likes to say, it was time to “get this bread.”

This was my first difficult rated hike since the Hamilton Loop of last year, and as I drove, alone along Highway 504 (letting the husband sleep) I was filled with a degree of trepidation. My chosen route had me going counter clockwise from South Coldwater, which gains a half mile in elevation over the first two or so miles, and then you have to go right back down again.

The challenge though, is part of the fun, you never know what you can do until you do it, after all.

The Coldwater Lake Loop proved amazing from its first moments. For one, Mount St Helens loomed large just behind me. Back in 1980, the region I was hiking was at the very heart of the blast zone, dramatically reshaping the landscape in a moment, wiping away thousands of years of patient erosion and gentle world building. What surprised me was that there was still evidence of the volcanic cataclysm everywhere I looked, from petrified, stony trees to soil mixed with ash.  

For two, the caterpillars were out by the thousands, massing on the trail, trees and plants in numbers I had never seen before. They made their migrations back and forth, largely oblivious to my movements as I attempted to side step as many as I could. All the while I took in sweeping vistas full of dramatic mountain ranges and colorful wildflowers, until about a mile and a half in, I found some curious bits of metal sculpture.

Back when the volcano blew, the area I was hiking in was being logged. Still buried bulldozers, twisted by the titanic forces of Mother Nature in a full on rage still dotted the trail in two locations, accompanied by an observation tower that was shaped into loops and bends. All of this was found in the first two miles after a punishing round of ever upward arching trail, until it dumped me out on a wide and sandy plain,  grey white from volcanic ash, and full of scrubby, stubborn plants and flowers clinging to life.

From there, I continued to go up, and up, and… well… up.  There were moments when I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as my legs burned from exertion. For my day hikes, I normally move with about 15lbs on my back. It’s good training for backpacking, and besides, I’m not carrying weights. Things like flashlights, extra water, and power bricks can come in useful if anything goes wrong, so up I went, lugging my necessary gear, until I found myself just inches from a ledge, with a heavy drop to my left, and a steep incline to my right as I traced my way up a mountain.

Finally summiting a little over three and a half miles into my trek, a cool breeze began to blow off Coldwater Lake, which was quite refreshing after the hike I had just completed. Originally I had planned to eat lunch there, but I was feeling peppy. Deciding to press on to the halfway point, I began my descent, entering a thick and verdant forest, with the canopy so thick above me, it blocked out much of the sun.

The transition was as quick as what you might see in a movie script. Suddenly, the world goes from open, to close in, the air cools and becomes humid, sticking to your skin, and the heavy scents of earth percolates all around as the world falls to hushed silence, broken only here and there by the chirping of a bird or the rustling of a fern.

It’s peaceful, but also leaves you with a feeling of anticipation. The size and completeness of the silence makes it feel like the world has found a pause, but there’s an expectation at its edge. At any moment it feels like the world around you may lurch forward again, bursting out upon the stage in an unexpected way.

Does that sound like foreshadowing?

As the descent began to level out a roar began to build progressively, until soon, it was deafening. Still, the thick canopy of forest surrounding me offered nothing in terms of view, but I was certain I was coming to a rapids crossing or a waterfall.

Turns out I was right on both accounts; emerging from the wood a sturdy looking bridge revealed itself, spanning the gap over a raging torrent of river and a stair step waterfall, working its way back up into the mountain. The entire scene was breathtaking, and marked about a mile past the halfway mark for the day. It was a perfect time to stop for lunch.

After a few minutes rest and a Probar, my energy surged back, and I hit the trail again. This is where it began to feel long. Especially in the moments where I began to climb. Now, initially, upon my setting out, it was my belief that all the climbing would be done in the beginning, giving me a nice and level trail beside a lake shore to complete my day upon.

No such luck. Examining my map more closely, I noticed the topographic detail that my trail route vacillated on this second stint a few hundred feet at a time in elevation. This was by no means the same level of challenge as I had started my day with, but it still proved daunting as the hours rolled on. However, the scenery was beautiful, alternating between verdant forests and vast meadows filled with both butterflies and wildflowers, until the sound of people enjoying Father’s Day began to carry on the wind.

That could mean only one thing. I was nearing the boat docks, which marked my return to the highway and trailhead. Roughly 1.5 miles later, and the day was done.

After 11 miles, the sudden stop of forward motion felt strange. My brain had dialed into the idea of me moving forward at a constant steady pace, and as I unloaded my gear into the wagon, I felt a bit  lost.

Glorious air conditioning awaited me. Sitting there with the engine idling, preparing to leave after finishing my post trail snack, I began to reflect upon the last few days and  realized there was a type of lesson in all of it for me.

To put it in one word, I’d have to call it persistence. I could have quit when my hike was thwarted by bad directions and haywire planning for Black Hole Falls, but I didn’t. I fell back, reassessed and found something that would work.

Still, it wasn’t that easy. Finding the trail is one thing, but hiking it is another entirely. I covered almost 12 miles, up mountains, along ledges, and across bridges. There were times when I was tired, there were times when I even got bored, but the one thing I didn’t do was stop. My perseverance rewarded me with a day full of beautiful memories and moments that I feel I will carry for a long time.

Persistence pays, dear reader. One last cliche to finish the day.

Now this was more like it! Starting the day near the crack of noon (About 11:15am) after a 1.5 hour drive through the beautiful Columbia River Gorge, I arrived at the Beacon Rock State Park, awash in old memories and new expectations.

Last year, long before the re-release of the website, I completed my first pacific north west trail in this park, the Hamilton Mountain Loop. It is a heavily trafficked and grueling uphill climb that proved worth the effort;  rewarding those that persevere with stunning views of the Columbia River Gorge.

Arriving at the Equestrian trail, memories flashed through my mind of barely being able to move for a week after my last Beacon Rock experience, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. Hardy Ridge was advertised in my research as a low trafficked, somewhat overgrown, and moderately challenging trail.

A “moderate hike” is an interesting term, normally they are rated easy, moderate, or hard. However, these terms are not well defined thus leaving one to be surprised. When I hiked Hamilton last year, I remember it being listed as a challenging, moderate hike. This year, it is rated as a difficult hike, go figure.

You have to have faith, dear reader, until proven otherwise. This works well in life, as well as the trail at least, until it doesn't.

Taking off from the trailhead, which had the feature of not-potable water. (though this did not stop some intrepid, thirsty souls from availing themselves to it) I took off on a nice, broad trail with the forest canopy above me shielding me from the noonday sun.

So far so good.

The trail pitched gently up for the first mile and a half or so, where I came to a decision. I could head for Hamilton Mountain (an alternative to the hike I did last year) or go left or right for the Hardy Ridge Loop.

Ultimately, I turned left. Looking at my map, it seemed there were more serious elevation gains in that direction.  Getting the hard work done early, while I was still fresh seemed the logical option.

It was at this point I began to feel a surge of confidence. The trail continued to veer vaguely up. There was not a mountain biker in sight, and the only evidence I saw of horses were their tracks (along with other things I don’t care to mention) indicating their occasional presence on the trail. Overall traffic was light, with only a few other hikers milling about, and all seemed quite wonderful with the world.

To be honest I was patting myself on the back for finding such a great, moderately challenging hike, as I watched garter snakes zip off the trail to hide, and butterflies fly from flower to flower.

It all began so well, the makings of a beautiful day.

Then… about another half a mile or so down I saw a sign, “Foot Traffic Only” and just past was my trail, with a serious incline, taking me up to the hardest part of the day...

In retrospect the sign should have read… “Welcome to hell.”

For the next mile and a half to two miles it was a constant uphill climb, of zig zagging switch backs, and ever increasing steep inclines, until it got to extremes where I was basically climbing to get up ledges set into the trail.

During this time I was enveloped by a thick,cool, humid forest bursting with life.  The Columbia River below me has a type of marine layer effect that diminished by degrees as I climbed until suddenly the air began to clear and the forest opened up to reveal the full majesty of the Columbia River Gorge.

The challenge is part of the experience. While it was tough physical work to scramble up those switchbacks, and pull myself up the trail ultimately the reward was stunning beauty, and a sense of accomplishment that lasted for hours as I surveyed the world stretching out to the horizons around me.

And I was still just getting started!

All of this switchbacking, climbing, scrambling craziness takes you to another junction point. You can continue up on a hike along the ridge of the gorge, or bypass it entirely to head towards the “lower loop” on your way back to the Equestrian Trailhead.

I did not come to bypass anything, in fact, I had my GPS set to track and trace so that I would not miss a mile and, while challenging, so far this hike had been completely worth it.

So… that meant, it was time to go up some more.

This is where the hike started throwing curveballs at me. At points, the width of the trail was far less than six inches wide, making it difficult to use my trekking poles. Parts of the trail here grew very rocky, and a bit treacherous causing me to slip and slide a few times.  (When you are close to a 1500-2000 foot drop, this definitely gets your attention.) All the while the forest was thinning, giving way to a grassy and viney morass that was encroaching in on the trail at every opportunity.

Finally, I reach the stony ridge and am trekking upon it, with vistas that stretch for miles. The wind is blowing cool fresh air up from the Columbia, and I am reminded again why I do this, why I come out to hike, as I pass some of my fellows from the morning who have stopped at this edge or that to take selfies, eat lunch or both.

This was one of the highlights of my day, finally reaching the end of the trail spur with no option but to turn back or to take up base jumping.

Having left my parachute at home… I decided to stop for lunch, the flies began to buzz about my head, until I felt like I was reenacting a scene from the Ten Commandments. Still, nothing could destroy my joy at what I had accomplished thus far. Hardy Ridge, while a real beast in places, had been a very enjoyable hike, and I was only half way done!

It was all (mostly) downhill from here. (In a good way.)

Now some people despise going downhill far more than they hate going uphill. I am of a different philosophy. Downhill for me is the long slow cooldown of a hike. My speed generally increases, and I find I have more time to enjoy the scenery because I’m less worried about my heart beating out of my chest and filing for separation.  

Retracing my steps, coming back to where I was earlier before taking the ridge hike, the same pattern of switchbacks, rockiness, and patches of deep forest awaited me on the lower Hardy Ridge, but, as said, going down makes this MUCH easier for me.

Navigating it deftly, the day kind of melted into the plodding rhythm of my steps, and an overall enjoyment of the scenery around me until I finally broke out, back on to the equestrian portion of the trail.

From here there was little more to do but proceed back to the trail head, and play some Mahjong on my phone until my long suffering husband arrived to take me home.

Welcome, dear reader, to Wandering Hops. Hiking is one of my major passions in life.  In spring, after a long hard week spent over a keyboard, I turn my attention towards the mountains and hills of my home, and begin planning adventures.

While I was out this time, an idea dawned, why not do write ups of my adventures on the trail and post them on the website?

And thus, a new blogging segment is born. ^_^

I do hope you will enjoy reading. Comments are welcome and encouraged.

-Rebecca Mickley -----

The day began bright and early at 11 AM. Now, I had planned, to be out on the trail by 9:00,  however, no good plan survives first contact with reality. I did everything right; talked with my husband, Waggs, who graciously got up early on a Saturday to drop me off, set out my clothes and gear so I could move quickly, set my alarms, prepacked what I could and still, somehow, I lost two hours getting to the trail.

I suppose these things happen.

Even running late though, there was  plenty of hours left in the day, extra food in the pack just in case, a liter of water, and hope springing eternal that it was going to be a good hike.

Spoiler alert… It wasn’t a good day for hiking.

It was an awesome day for hiking.

The Tarbell Trail is a twenty-four mile loop that starts way down in Battle Ground, Washington, which is a little ambitious for a day hike. However, if you start on Thrillium, which intersects with Tarbell, you can then follow it back to your origin point for a nice sevenish mile loop.

The views, are absolutely stunning, cell coverage is virtually non-existent, and the overall hiker traffic low.

There was just one problem.

I am not a mountain biker nor do I know much about mountain biking. You wouldn’t think this would matter much in hiking, but please… read on.

When one goes hiking. There is always research and paperwork involved before the hike. You need to know conditions, trail closures, all that fun stuff. There’s a lot of mental legwork that can go into it.

Now, you can just pull out your favorite app, pick a trail, and shout yeet (a word Maya is in love with) but that’s generally sub optimal. Trail conditions change, sometimes they close, and if you end up on one of those, you can end up meeting a displeased forest ranger.

Displeasing forest rangers is something I like to avoid, along with ending up in dangerous conditions, so, I prefer to do my research.

Somehow though, even after all of my checking, I started my day on the Thrillium trail.

The hike itself, was gorgeous, challenging, and a ton of fun. The wildflowers are currently in full bloom here in Washington, everything is verdant and green. Bumble bees are everywhere, clumsily making their way through the smorgasboard of flowers before them… in short, it’s a fine time to venture outdoors, but on Thrillium at least, there were a ton of mountain bikers.

Now, to the uninitiated this may not seem like much of a problem, or potentially dangerous, however, when you are hiking up a mountain, and a biker is coming down that very same mountain at about 20 mph, and there is only a foot and a half of trail width… well…one of us had to get out of the way, and trail rules along with my survival instincts said it was going to be me.

So, for much of my morning, it went something like this.

“Gee, that's a beautiful vista. That’s Mt. St. Helens way off in the distance.” - Me.

Off in the distance, wheels can be heard, tearing down the trail at breakneck speeds, suddenly they appear, coming round the bend, I dive left.

Holy Shit…

And who said hiking isn’t exciting?

That being said, even with the challenges, it was a lovely hike, even though I had to make a slight alteration to course because part of the Tarbell Trail was down for maintenance.  

Diverting down what I think is an abandoned Forest Service road (yay for GPS), I encountered some friendly mountain bikers, and found a spot where the entire valley was visible below me, with Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Adams dominating the horizon to the North. Conveniently there were two flat rocks there, near the edge, which seemed the perfect place to have lunch.

After that, the day settled down. I made my miles, picked up Tarbell, and began my descent down the mountain. As I got closer to completing my loop, the roar of water began to become more and more pronounced, until finally, I came across a rickety old bridge, with rapids churning beneath it.

It was an excellent last stop for the day before I made my way to the trailhead and waited for my long suffering husband to fetch me and bring me home.