From snow to no

Location: Commonwealth Basin, Little Si

Distance: 9 miles

Commonwealth Basin, which is north of Snoqualmie Pass, follows a section of the Pacific Crest Trail and had far more powder that I had anticipated. The bathroom at the head of the trail was nearly engulfed and no amount of pulling or shoveling was going to open the door.

It was a snowy day and temperatures hovered about 30, which is just about perfect conditions for me. The storm obscured most of my views of Red Mountain and other nearby peaks so I lost myself in the snow-capped trees, some of which looked like ice cream cones. After snaking along a creek for about two miles, we entered a break in the trees and found ourselves staring up an obvious avalanche zone. Although there was evidence of point and release avalanche activity, I convinced my hiking buddy to cross (with a wide distance between us) and keep going another mile or so until we lost the trail. With great disappointment at so quickly giving up on a backcountry trail I’d had earmarked for weeks, but knowing that the avalanche danger that day would complicate our ascent, we turned back.

We decided to cap the afternoon with a quick run up Little Si. It was a bit odd to go from snowfall to no snow and strong winds (especially since I was still dressed in snow gear), but it was a pleasant climb up the mountain with some decent views of the surrounding valleys. All in all, a strong day.

Bling in the backcountry

The downfall of my quick transformation from a So Cal girl to a snow-addicted Washington woman is that I don’t have all the gear (read: winter-worthy vehicle) to get me to the trailheads I’d most like to tackle. So on the days when the white stuff is really coming down and I’m going it alone, I have to choose areas with plowed roads for my outings.

Since Mount Rainier National Park has never failed me, I drove up to Paradise with the intent to pick up whatever random path I could find. There were at least two feet of fresh powder and all signage was hidden so I circled the buried lodge and began trekking down a hill.

It wound around a valley full of trees and crossed a hidden bridge, which is where all snowshoe prints and ski tracks disappeared. The snow was falling and the avalanche warning was at its highest for the day but I just couldn’t resist the beckoning of the snow-capped peaks and white glistening hills… I’m reminded every time I’m shoeing alone in the backcountry amid rolling, unblemished hills of an Incubus lyric that references the ocean but could just as easily be applied to the snow: “The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket.” There is more glittery bling in the backcountry than in a jewelry store.

As I trudged through the knee-deep snow for two miles or so, a deep blue sky replaced the all-white scenery and the mountain started to show itself. I kept on for another two miles but had to turn around long before I was ready because I hit a sketchy avalanche slope that just wasn’t safe to cross. On the way back, I lost my footing while gazing in awe at the warm light and mist shrouding the mountains and tumbled into the snow. Shouldn't have been a problem - except there was so much powder that my pole went straight down and was no help at all in lifting me to my feet. Can't say I was sorry for the extra few moments to sit and wonder in my solitary wonderland.

Stopping by snowy woods

I explored the Carbon River when I first arrived in the summer but was curious to see what it would look like covered in snow. The trail is actually a road that was closed years back after floods washed it out. Now, it makes for a mostly flat, easy 11-mile roundtrip hike along the river and ending at a campground. With an achy body and not much energy, I decided to let distance overthrow my need for a challenge, at least for the day.

Snowshoes weren’t necessary for the first 1.5 miles so I left them attached to my pack and kept myself occupied by trying to match my boot prints to the ranger’s who had started out before me. It was a brisk, cold, clear day and rays of sunshine streamed through the tree branches. Gigantic trees blocked the road and I found myself crawling over and under them, occasionally slipping on the damp bark and bending myself into limbo-worthy positions as I tried to get myself and my pack beneath the felled trees without dipping into the pools of melting snow below.

There was less than two feet of snow but it added vivid color against the robin’s egg blue of the sky and muddy brown of the river rushing alongside me. A mini alder forest brought to mind Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”

When I was almost five miles in, thunder boomed above me and the heavens opened. A heavy fog rolled in, obscuring my views, and rain soaked me for the next 10 minutes. Then just as quickly as it came, the storm left and was replaced by blue skies.

Foiled by Mother Nature and the stupidity of man

This was a painful climb. No, it wasn’t the 3,200-foot elevation gain we were going to make up Mount Ellinor. Nor was it the two hour drive at the crack of dawn to reach the mountain with glorious views of the Hood Canal, Olympic wilderness and Lake Cushman. This was the pain of defeat.

Our group had every piece of winter equipment you could think of in preparation for the 7-mile climb. We jammed crampons, ice axes, shovels, extra clothing, compasses and gobs of chocolate and granola into our packs. But we were doomed before we started. The hardly-used road that leads to Mount Ellinor had several feet of snow covering it. The car we were in did not have much clearance. And although we gunned it and made it roughly two miles up the road out of sheer determination, it wasn’t long before the engine started smoking and we had to pull to the side. It was then that the shovels were appreciated. They got a lot of use removing snow from beneath the car and building a little runway that we could push the car onto and angle it downhill for our inevitable departure.

Now three miles and nearly two hours behind schedule, there was little chance of summiting Mount Ellinor. But we decided to start walking and see where the day led us. It took us over a road compacted with snow and past glimpses of Lake Cushman below. We shoed past mini waterfalls covered with icicles and finally arrived at a wooden sign announcing the trail. With deep sighs and checks of our watches, we started up the steep mountain face.

I saw thousands and thousands of trees weighted down by the fresh snow. I saw mounds of snow piled up along our uphill path. And I saw a bit of mercy when we decided to return to the car after a mere five miles (10 miles roundtrip) because one person was tired, one was paranoid about avalanches and I could barely feel my fingers.

Calm and clear to Reflection

If every day was like today, I’d be spoiled. The conditions were ideal, allowing for unbelievable views while hiking out to Reflection and Louise lakes. The 7-mile jaunt starts behind Narada Falls in Mount Rainier National Park, winding up a small hill before dumping out on a forest road that shuts down in the winter so snowshoers and cross-country skiers can have their fun.

After a mile of marveling at the breathtaking views that have been obscured by snowstorms every other time I’ve taken this trail, I came across a fox hole. I cautiously peered inside but the tunnel went pretty deep into the snow and there was no sign of black beady eyes staring back at me.

We made it to Reflection Lake (1.5 miles in) with great ease and spent a few moments tossing almonds and granola for the aggressive gray jays that dive-bombed us from the trees. Then we kept trekking, around the lake to the second lake before turning uphill and climbing between the trees. The hope was to find a peak of some kind but daylight was ticking by so we ate a quick lunch and carefully made our way back down.

Looking for slightly different scenery, we took an alternate route back and gave Mazama Ridge a try. More forest, a few slogs uphill, a quick downhill slide and we were back where we started. Except this time, there were foxes! A very mellow brown fox and a more skittish black fox were creeping around the base of the hill above the falls.

Snow, after hours

The idea of camping in the snow had never occurred to me. Lugging a pack heavier than I am while trudging up steep hills, digging a pit for the tent, collecting moss and dry branches for a fire, hunkering down while wild winds blow the top of the tent every which way - all of this was foreign to me.

Since I was a newbie, we settled on spending the weekend in Silver Basin, which is a few short miles above the ski runs at Crystal Mountain. I had no qualms about shoving extra items into my bulging pack as we stood in the parking. Of course I needed fleece pants, two bags of Dove chocolate, hand soap and lotion… But as soon as that bag was strapped onto my back, my entire body pitched backward and I nearly toppled over. I stubbornly readjusted and started hoofing it up the ski run, careful to avoid the speeding snowboarders as they came around corners.

I can now say from an entirely new perspective, ski runs are steep. Even bunny slopes are a challenge if you’re heading up instead of down. The snow was icy and my boots didn’t have much traction, causing me to repeatedly slip and silently pray that my overloaded pack wouldn’t knock me over. On one of our several stops heading uphill, I gulped from my water bottle before handing it to a friend to shove back in one of my side pockets. I let it go before his fingers grasped it and the bottle dropped and started sliding. My reflexes had me lunging forward. Thankfully, he snatched the back of my bag and pulled me upright before I tumbled down the slope after the bottle.

We eventually made it up the ski slopes, and after another mile or so, ended up in Silver Basin. It’s a wide valley with Three Way Peak looming above and a mostly covered creek following the path. We set up camp in a stand of trees to keep us hidden from passersby, though there weren’t many since a storm was forecast to hit that night. Several feet of powder fell that evening and the winds (we later learned) were gusting more than 70 mph, but I had cabin fever so I went for the most magical walk of my life. There was something about being completely alone in the wilderness, snow swirling all around me, with only the moonlight to guide my steps as I headed up the middle of the valley toward a hill I was dying to glissade down.

Hiking took a backseat this weekend while I learned how to build a snow cave, shovel a campsite and start fires au natural. But the experience was more fulfilling than most of the sights I’ve discovered so far.

A hidden gem

This was a short jaunt up a gentle slope to June Lake, a shallow pool located on the southern flank of Mount St. Helen. The trail was full of dirty, compacted snow and led our group through the woods for about two miles before popping out onto a lava flow. It was difficult to truly appreciate the lava flow since several feet of snow covered the ground but there were plenty of lava rocks dotting the broad field. Within minutes (and a Snickers bar later), we arrived at the lake, which was nestled against a stand of trees with a little waterfall barely visible through the mist.
St. Helen was obscured by the weather - as were the rest of the views - but finding this little gem made the day worth it.