Placid beach

State parks in Washington provide little opportunity for serious hiking or climbing, but they’re just right for leisurely strolls. I was on the Key Peninsula for a story and had some time to kill while waiting for a woman to return to her Lakebay home (futilely, as it turned out) so I moseyed down to Joemma Beach, which was within a block of the waterfront house.

It was a rare sunny day and the water was cool and calm, disturbed only by an occasional ripple from a pair of brown geese paddling by. The 122-acre marine park features big, eroding hillsides, a thin swath of both pebble and sand shoreline and hazy views of peaks in the distance. Standing on the pier – where many apparently come for crabbing – was an awfully pleasant way to pass the time.

The flatness of Mud Mountain

Distance: 7 miles or so

Looking for a short, close-to-home hike I could squeeze in before I work drew me to the Mud Mountain Dam River Trail in Enumclaw. There were no magnificent sights and the brown river could only be seen at a distance, but there wasn’t much climbing and I could relax into my surroundings.

The path started near a recreation area (doubt that was around when the Army Corp of Engineers built the dam in the 1940s) and swooped into a thicket of trees, providing occasional glimpses of the river if I hopped over the safety fences to peer over the eroding ridges. The first mile and a half stayed flat and took me through some muddy marshes where beautiful yellow flowers were blooming in the shallow pools. And though the views hardly compared to some of my other adventures, I was excited to get a peek of a cascading waterfall on the other side of the river.

By mile 2, the trail began crossing abandoned logging roads and eventually led to a meadow. Apparently storm damage has washed away the rest of the trail, which is all the same since I wouldn’t have had time to finish all 11 miles before clocking in at the newsroom. Instead of turning around and heading back the way I came, I detoured down random logging roads in search of a view that would leave me with the “summit” feeling of the hike.

Satisfied after climbing a muddy ridge to gaze out on an amber-colored valley dotted with felled trees, I followed the road back to the trail and reclaimed the river as my companion. Even such a simple outing beats being behind a desk!

Whiteout danger on the mountain

I’ve had my sights set on Camp Muir since summiting Mt. Rainier landed on my “to-do” list last summer. Friends warned me that it was an all-day trip into a world of ice and rock (halfway up Rainier) but I was eager to test my altitude aptitude and see how well my body handled climbing to 10,000 feet. I emerged from this expedition a little shaken with a slight fear of the mountain, great confidence in my physical abilities and a reminder that preparedness is often the line between adventure and disaster.

We started out beneath a clear, blue sky and immediately started sweating as we headed uphill from Paradise. Temperatures hovered in the mid-70s and glacier glasses were necessary to protect our eyes from the blinding brightness reflecting off the snow. The trail stretched up the flank of Rainier and after nearly two miles, we reached Panorama Point. Since the avalanche danger was particularly high today, rangers had set out ascenders to help out the few heading up and over the rocky slopes.

The trail quickly fell away and there was only a boot path through the Muir snowfield. It was apparent that routefinding skills would be critical as we climbed along the face of the snowfield for 2.5 miles, still enjoying the warm weather and stunning views. I was elated to shed my beanie, gloves and multiple layers for the day (though the excruciating sunburn on my neck and ears wasn’t worth it in the end).

By the time we’d reached Camp Muir, a large white cloud loomed in the distance from where we’d just come. Within a half hour, snow was falling rapidly and the winds had picked up. By the time we landed back on the snowfield and picked up the few trail markers we’d put out, we were stuck in a whiteout. Seeing more than a few feet in front of us was impossible. The powder had turned to ice and I repeatedly slipped and went crashing down on a knee. An ice axe became my most cherished possession. Our boot path had disappeared and we wandered aimlessly for more than an hour, scouting slopes that we could possibly skirt down and turning back when the ice proved too dangerous.

It was about this time that I developed a newfound respect for the mountain and the technical skills needed to summit. Since night was just around the corner, we retraced our steps until we found campers who could point us in the right direction. As we climbed lower, we left the whiteout behind and were rewarded with a breathtaking sunset. After all we’d just gone through, I thought it the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Full span of weather on Mt. WA

The day started late and full of weather. I already knew we wouldn’t make it to the top of Mount Washington but the idea was to get out and stretch our legs, enjoy the beauty of the Snoqualmie area. We also got the full brunt of winter weather.

The trail starts at Ollalie State Park, after a short trek uphill and a quick walk down the Iron Horse Trail. It started to rain almost the instant our feet hit the muddy path, winding past a lovely waterfall and under a rock formation with a stream of water spilling over.

After about two miles of steep going, the rain turned to hail and the path opened up with some glimpses through the trees of a foggy valley. We made it past a set of switchbacks and veered right at a juncture before the snow began piling up around us. It wasn’t long before we were hopping over holes in the powdery trail that led to the river below.

I was keeping my eyes peeled for what mountaineers call the “owl spot,” which is frequented by night hikers who want to bring a hot beverage and stare out at the stars. In my never-ending quest to turn every outing into a long challenge, we determined that we had passed the spot miles back and should turn around since it was late in the afternoon and we had only our boots to carry us through the snowy forest.

Path of destruction

After 10 months of hiking in Washington several times a week, I failed a trail. It’s fitting that people come to this trail to see destruction since it ruined me. The Kautz Creek Valley has been ravaged over the years by massive mudslides, lahars and floods. A mudflow in 1947 decimated an entire forest. A flood in 2006 washed out a section of the park road and rearranged the trail.

As soon as I started down the muddy path, signs of destruction were visible. Dozens of trees blocked the trail and it was something of an obstacle course to navigate under, over and around branches that sometimes seemed to be reaching out for me. It wove through a forest of silver snags and dumped out at the creek in about a mile. Boulders provided a way across the dirty flow of water though my foot stomped through the snow and into the chilly water as I crossed a fork of the creek I hadn’t even known was beneath me. Mist-covered peaks loomed above the creek, which is clogged with tons of debris from all the flows and floods that have shaped it.

The route was a fairly steady climb from there – I think I gained about 3,100 feet in elevation. I had planned to snowshoe but they stayed strapped to my pack rather than my feet for the whole eight miles that I lasted. Although there was plenty of snow in the forest, the trail itself was so compacted that I could move quicker and easier in just my boots. Trudging uphill the entire time, the trail became less gradual and eventually became a series of steep switchbacks.

It was about here that my frustration became evident. I lost count of the times that my boot would suddenly crash through the crusty snow, thrusting me thigh-high into powder or slush and knocking me off balance. It made me cold, wet and cranky. It made my ankle turn and my knee twinge. It made me wonder what the hell I was doing on this particular trail when I already knew there would be no rewarding views or sense of accomplishment at the end. Yet, I kept on.

Another creek crossing and a few miles later, I found myself staring up Mount Ararat. My trail guide had described this section as a “long uphill trudge” so I thought nothing of climbing the incredibly steep hill. In fact, I had gone a quarter mile before I even paused long enough to realize how much elevation I’d gained and how slippery the snow was becoming. I had to kick my boot deep into the snow with each step so I wouldn’t fall backward. I managed a while longer – snagging my trekking poles from my pack helped – but it was such tough going that I tipped over once before my frightening slide. I could see the summit from where I was at – at least, I could see what looked like a ridgetop and a sliver of gray sky. I urged myself on. But I looked down and lost my footing – and slid on my stomach for several feet before catching a tree branch with my hand and hoisting myself up. I made back the distance and even went 20 feet further but I knew the slog down was going to be harder than it was up so I gave up.

I was even grumpier on the return, barely reacting when my legs sunk into random patches of slush or I slipped on a slope and fell. No, I refused to react so I just plucked a banana from my pack and sat there mulling my decision to leave without reaching the top. I’m still mulling.

Waking up with the forest

I needed my outdoor fix today so I rose at 5 a.m. and drove myself to Charles Lathrop Pack Experimental Forest in Eatonville. The idea of squeezing in seven miles before my work shift had me flying so high that it didn’t dawn on me until I’d parked at the trailhead that it was still pitch black outside and I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me.

Not to be deterred, I headed up Hugo Peak and tried not to wince as I felt my boots slip in the never-ending mud puddles that plagued the narrow path. It was a treat to wake up with the forest. Since I couldn’t see much for the first mile or so, I honed my other senses and listened to a swift breeze rustling the treetops and birds tweeting from nearby bushes. The real treat was hearing the thumb of pheasants in the darkness. Then the first glimmers of light streamed through the trees and I could see that I was surrounded by ferns and widely spaced trees.

The trail steadily climbed, crossing four different forest roads as it wound its way through forest and a wide opening that allowed for a spectacular view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. It was a crisp, clear morning and I managed to stay just ahead of the rain.

It took me about an hour to reach the “summit,” which was two log benches and a wooden box with a notebook to record your name and comment on the hike. I spent a few moments exploring the grass clearing I found myself in before jotting my name, date and the message “There is no better way to wake up than with the forest!” and starting my descent.

Since I had finished the seven miles far before I had anticipated, I opted to poke around the forestry campus, which houses the University of Washington’s Center for Sustainable Forestry on a 4,300-acre plot, before hightailing it to work.

Rainforest Surprise

My first venture into the temperate rainforests on the Olympic Peninsula didn’t exactly go as planned. The thought had been to ford the Queets River and conquer a 10-mile trail through some of the remote wilderness that few are willing to explore, rewarding ourselves with a view of the second largest Fir tree around.

All that changed at roughly 1:30 a.m. when, after a 4-hour drive from Tacoma and seven miles down a darkened road, we encountered a chain looped across the Matheny Creek Road. Since we had been greeted by a white spotted owl and two elk on the way in, we decided to hunker down in the bed of a truck and let the sounds of the rushing water lull us to sleep. As I stood brushing my teeth, hoping against rain, I spotted an entire herd of elk crossing the creek about 35 feet away. It may not have been the start I was hoping for, but Mother Nature had opened her arms.

We started out the next morning across the bridge and down the road until we found some fallen trees and a sign warning of a “Dip.” Just around a bend, the road closure became quite clear. A massive chunk of the road had been washed away and the rest was eroding into the churning waters 50 feet below.

Not easily deterred, we slid down sand banks and picked our way over slippery boulders until we reached Queets River. It was a misty morning but the sun was out and my only complaint came after I tried to leap from an enormous tree and ended knee-deep in some of the nastiest mud I’ve ever seen. Still with no trail in sight, my hiking partner suggested we track an elk that had just disappeared from atop the hill in hopes that it would lead us to the other end of the abandoned road.

While I had my doubts and was preparing to gloat when we stumbled into a bog, we eventually found more elk tracks and it led us directly to a once-gravel road that had already been reclaimed by grass and young trees. We meandered through an alder forest, admiring the moss-laden maples, hemlocks and towering firs, and spent most of the afternoon picking our way down a 7-mile stretch of road.

It was afternoon by the time we reached the Queets River trailhead and fording the river seemed no small feat, so we relaxed in a meadow and had lunch before heading back. Faced again with traversing the cliff, we chose to follow elk tracks around the hillside and bushwhack our way back to civilization.