First Impressions of Mount Rainier National Park

In Seattle, we often ask each other, “Is the mountain out?” If the answer is yes, we know it will be a picture-perfect postcard day. If not, we know we are in store for more gloomy weather.  

Throughout much of the fall and winter, the answer is almost always a resounding, “no.” Then, sort of like clockwork, somewhere in the middle of April, the mountain emerges from her slumber. You will find yourself crossing the West Seattle Bridge, driving south on Interstate 5, or down Rainier Avenue, and you catch sight of Mount Rainier. Standing tall and strong like a lighthouse, it beckons you to come and see.  

On my first trip to Mount Rainier National Park, I wanted to avoid crowded spots like Paradise and Sunrise. There is nothing wrong with choosing to visit these locations. Everyone should at some point, but be warned. They are popular, and parking is a battle won by travelers who are more patient than me.  

Instead, I hoped to find a decent trail with spectacular and awe-inspiring views of the mountain far from the crowds. Writing this more than a decade after my first visit, I find it impossible to remember the name of the trail we hiked. I do remember driving down a forest service road for 20 to 30 minutes, with clouds of dust and rock filling the air behind my car. We drove so far that my friend and I started to think we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.  

When we arrived at an empty parking lot, the worried moments melted away. This was the solitude I needed. From the safety of the parking lot, we traced the zigzags of the trail down to a rushing river. From far above, it looked like a few miles of switchbacks before we could soak our feet in freezing water.  

With packs snapped into place, I locked the car and we walked away. For an hour or so, we hiked downhill. Quickly, we settled into the routine of heading in one direction, turning, switching, and then heading the other direction. For an hour, we repeated this pattern. Then, we finally poked through the trees and stepped out onto a small beach next to the river.  

For another hour, we snacked, played in the water, and relaxed. Sitting there in the moment, I looked upstream. With wide eyes, I soaked up the grand landscape before me and the might of Mount Rainier. Then and there, something changed in me. A seed was planted. I didn’t want to just hike these trails. I wanted to document my experiences. I wanted to share them with the world in hopes of inspiring people to get outside and share in the splendor of nature. Thinking of the possibilities, I smiled at the prospect of this new creative outlet.  

Following no trace rules, we cleaned up our makeshift camp, snapped our packs back into place, and began the arduous journey back up to my car. The return journey took twice as long and required more breaks. Then and there, I learned a valuable lesson about myself. I prefer to begin a journey by hiking up a trail much more than ending that way.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

Captured: Crystal and Sheep Lakes

On a sunny and cloudless day, Mount Rainier makes its presence fully known. After a winter locked away avoiding rain drops, the mountain over my shoulder could no longer be ignored. A hike through its fog covered valleys and around pristine lakes with the promise of grand vistas lured me from the comfort of my apartment.

Be good to each other,

Nathan

Out/Back: Crystal and Sheep Lake via the Pacific Crest Trail, Mount Rainier National Park

At 7:30 AM on a random Saturday in August, I parked my car in the overflow parking lot across the street from the Pacific Crest Trail inside of Mt. Rainier National Park. Fog still covered most of the trail as I slid on my pack, locked my car, and began mentally preparing myself for the journey before me. Based on reports, I knew I would spend the first two hours of my morning gradually climbing toward the gap separating Crystal and Sheep Lake. I also knew to expect an explosion of late summer wildflowers and sweeping vistas once I reached higher elevations.  

I spent two-thirds of this hike on the Pacific Crest Trail. Behind and in front of me were weary hikers. Some were on thru-hikes that began months ago at the southern terminus of the PCT. Others were hopscotching around, sewing together their own adventure. Behind and in front of me were weary hikers, accomplishing a dream that once upon a time was an all-consuming thought in my life. As we hiked on a ridgeline overlooking an expansive valley filled with evergreen trees before turning toward Crystal Lake, jealousy and a little sadness came over me. At some future point, I will heal and get over this magical stretch of trail.  

Near the one-hour mark, I arrived at Crystal Lake to find overnight campers rustling awake and emerging from their nylon homes. Fog was bobbling away from the lake to higher ground. I pulled out my camera, snapped some photos, and experienced that feeling all of us hikers chase; a feeling of being the luckiest person in the world.  

From there, I continued the climb up toward the Sourdough Gap. Here, the elevation steepens. Hikers must earn the prize waiting on the other side. As I climbed, I stopped to rest, but I also stopped to fully appreciate the intoxicating valley and vista stretching before me. Once again, a feeling of sheer luck.  

Standing on the gap, the trail falls into a valley. Right in front of me were three young women. All were hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. They were discussing politics and I could not help but listen to their conversation. My aim was not to judge their political stance, but to taste some conversations that could have been mine had my PCT family had been granted an opportunity to form fully.  

Not long after crossing the gap, the trail diverges. The Pacific Crest Trail stretches into the valley. I headed for another gap before hiking down to Sheep Lake. I silently wished my fellow hikers the best of luck. They did not know it then and they will never discover the truth, but for a moment, I lived through them and their journey.  

I continued to the second gap. Cresting the ridge, I saw my prize. Before me, there was a beautiful lake surrounded by trees and mountains. If there is a grand design to the universe, placing this lake in this valley in this setting almost serves as proof.  

Descending for what seemed like forever, I eventually found myself sitting lakeside. My pack slid off my back, the cool air kissed the sweat that had accumulated, and a chill ran up my spine. I sought refuge in a hoodie and a few snacks to restore my energy.  

As I breathed in this moment, sunshine fully engulfed the valley and burned away any remaining fog. As it did, Mt. Rainier revealed itself to me. At that moment, it felt so close, like I could reach out and grab a snowball from its white peak. Staring at a mountain that hypnotizes so many, I thought, This is why you move here! This is why you put up with nine months of rain, gray clouds, and dreariness that seems without end.  

Snapping photos and drinking the entire scene in, I knew I could not linger. I wanted to stay forever, but the call of responsibilities and the doldrums of life were demanding me home. As I reversed course, everything previously experienced was now awash with sunlight. It felt like an entirely different place. From Sourdough Gap, the reverse hike is all downhill. For the next two hours, I passed countless hikers on a journey of their own. Reaching a parking lot brimming with cars and people, the mass of humanity blew me away. Young and old, male and female, shades of all kinds, had chosen the same spot as me. I wished them well, tossed my pack into the trunk of my car, and drove back toward reality.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

Glacier Basin Trail, Mt. Rainier National Park

Be good to each other, 

-Nathan

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Captured: Mt. Rainier

Be good to each other, 

-Nathan

Captured: Mt. Rainier

Be good to each other, 

-Nathan 

Box at Pinnacle Saddle Inside Mt. Rainier National Park

When Americans look at our National Park system, I hope they are filled with a sense of pride. These national treasures do more than define our landscape. They define who we are as people. At times, capitalism, particularly in the last decade or so, has felt like a run-away freight training exploiting miles and miles of straight downhill track. Our national parks put the brakes on that exploitation and proudly boast, “Not here.” Here, is about saving these vistas, streams, mountains, forests and beaches for a future generation. Here, life should be unspoiled by money and influence. Here, the stress of finances and all it encompasses should be left at the gate.

Pinnacle Saddle, a summit inside of Mt. Rainier National Park, should fill you with pride. By no means is Pinnacle an easy hike. Most of it is a constant rise in elevation and it is particularly brutal on a hot summer day. The futile battle with horse flies the size of house cats was no cake walk either. Yet, once again, the pain, sweat and pointless swatting was the worth the trouble. At the very end of the hike, you turn around to a view that triumphs any words I could muster. In this moment, all those little annoyances fall away and everything is right in the world.

If you have ever swiped through any of my photos, you know I have intense love for wildflowers. I don’t know where this passion originated, but my guess is my mother. She has encyclopedic knowledge for flowers. She can stroll through a garden, greenhouse or passing field and name the flowers as she spots them. With every photo I take, I feel like I am making a connection with her and something she loves. I am also always amazed where wildflowers grow. They have an uncanny ability to thrive in places where you believe nothing should prosper. There is probably a lesson for us all in there somewhere.

I didn’t come on this hike on my own impetus. Due to a busy month with the Seattle International Film Festival and several friends visiting from out of town, I wasn’t able to spend much time with Brandon. Pinnacle Saddle was our opportunity to reconnect. It was an opportunity to share something so very important to me with someone who is successfully winning the competition for surpassing admiration. With each one of these trips, we learn more and more about each other. As we left the park, windows rolled down blaring Alabama Shakes, I felt something different; something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

These are the moments I will remember forever. They are based on experiences not things. Getting to and from Mt. Rainier National Park didn’t cost us a lot of money. It took no more than an investment of our energy and time. It required our presence. By doing so, it delivered presents I will cherish forever. They helped me learn more about myself, those I love and the places I adore; nothing could be more important to me.

Be good to each other,

-Nathan

Captured

Be good to each other,

-Nathan

Box on Mt. Rainier

“Be Quiet. Be Still. Be Alive.” No phrase serves as a better true north or mission statement for every hike I take. On Mt. Rainier, this statement of being feels especially true. It is a reminder for every step taken something is left behind. Some of those things only for a little while; others are more permanent. Left behind in the city is noise and distractions. Here quiet calm engulfs every inch of your humanity reminding you of the moments holding the most purpose. Left behind is the constant movement of everyday life. Sure, hiking is about point A and B, but each endpoint comes with an opportunity to stop and reflect. Here, we are invited to be still and reconnect with ourselves. Left behind is the overcomplicated notion of living. Here, you are invited to be alive. To feel your heart beat, to allow your mind to wander, to have your eyes filled with beauty… this is living. This is what it means to be alive.

Many writers better equipped than I have waxed on longingly about our connection to nature. I enter my verse into the record not as an attempt to poetically draw arms along lines of craftsmanship. Rather, I do this to synthesize my thoughts about something that means so much to me. I also attempt such a task in an effort to discover a common thread. For those of us who hike, camp, long for the woods or the open road, we all share the journey of trying to feel small. We walk down city streets, crowd ourselves into cubicles and struggle down freeways. We are constantly surrounded by people and things. We head for trails, ridges, streams and mountains in an effort to find space; a place on this earth that can momentarily be called ours. For an afternoon, Mt. Rainier belonged to me and a friend. Sure, we crossed paths with others, but never did we feel like ants searching for something better.

As you stare and study Mt. Rainier, a volcano whose dome is crammed with glaciers, one thing is abundantly clear; we are having a tremendous impact on this vista. With the passing of each summer, the temperature ticks a little bit higher for a little bit longer. That holding pattern is causing the melting period to begin earlier in the spring and stretch further into the fall. Winters are shorter which means less accumulation of snow and ice. Glaciers are decreasing in size. Streams are drying up and fires on both sides of the geological line separating east and west are becoming more prevalent and harder to contain. The debate is finished. We are causing this and with each brush of our apathy we rob ourselves of the opportunity to feel small, to be quiet, still or alive.

Despite the changes, there are still lessons to be learned. Those lessons come in many different forms. As my Oklahoma friend and I climbed ever higher, the struggle between flatlands and elevation gains was becoming more and more difficult. With each step, my friend showed her determination. She also showed a need for patience and frequent breaks. While she over-apologized, I happily altered my pace. Today’s lesson was friendship. On this day, I was more than happy to share one of my favorite places in the world with someone whom I love dearly. I was also honored to help coach and guide her there, no matter the pace.

Finally, as any Google search of Mt. Rainier will attest, our trip was filled with vistas beyond belief. Trying my best, I adjusted my camera and my angles all in search for the perfect shot. Ultimately, I failed to do so. The sun was too high. The bears were too far away. There was too much in the way to get the mountain rising above the road. If you hope to make photography your hobby, you have to find comfort in these moments. Sometimes it is the journey not the destination. Sometimes it is the attempt not the product. With each failure, comes the opportunity to learn and try something new. You’ll never learn, if you never try. Which is just another powerful lesson provided by Mt. Rainier.

Be good to each other,

-Natha 

Captured: Mt. Rainier

Thanks for entering my world, 

-Nathan