The
Wonderland Trail is a trail that goes around, at approximately
mid-point, (most of the time) Mount Rainier.
It
is about 93 miles long and traverses glaciers, rivers, crevasses,
wetlands and, of course, stunning alpine views. And it is on
an active
volcano.
Mount
Rainier is about 370 square miles, the source of
five major rivers and has
multiple microclimates.
I’ve
been caught in a major thunderstorm on a cloudless sunny day in the
lowlands.
Encounters
with creatures, forces of nature and one’s own limitations
could leave wounds, memories and mysteries that could easily last a
lifetime.
Among
many other signs of the mountain’s scale, in 1946 a plane with
32 US Marines crashed on the westside of the mountain. The bodies and
most of the plane were never recovered. Click here for details.
There
are those who race through, and seek to “conquer” the
trail in record-setting time.
I
have no interest in rushing through such an experience. I’d far
rather, as John Muir and Henry Thoreau both put it, “saunter”
through a terrain that, though I see it almost every day in the
distance, fascinates me even though it holds little to no regard for
human concerns or values. Or even survival.
To
“saunter”, after all, means to take the journey slowly,
taking the time to notice, appreciate, even cultivate, the unexpected
wonders that one encounters in the wild.
From
a luscious breeze through a grove of ancient coniferous trees, to a
knowing glance from well-camouflaged forest resident, the wilderness
holds surprises, and of course occasional (sometimes
life-threatening) hazards, that one never encounters on, or near, a
suburban sidewalk.
It’s
been years since I’ve been on extended parts of that trail, but
too far back in time I passed through (before adverse, meaning
life-threatening, weather stopped any paltry human attempts to cross
through it) most of the trail at one time.
The
entire trail usually takes about ten days to cross, with several of
those days including elevation gains (and sometimes drops) of 5, even
6 thousand feet.
These
elevation swings, along with the passing of the day, and, of course,
the passing of the season, can bring one into conditions one learns
to (at least to some degree) be prepared for.
Even
at the height of summer, snow and ice are likely to be encountered at
those altitudes. The year-round snow is stunning and beautiful, but a
hot day at those heights (due to melting snow) could cause major
flooding in the valley below – without a drop of local rain.
There
is nothing like an abrupt alpine thunderstorm, many miles from even
the crudest shelter, recently fallen trees covering a trail or a
washed out (or entirely missing) bridge across a raging stream or an
encounter with hungry bears freshly emerging from hibernation, even a
twisted ankle, to remind one of one’s all too fragile
mortality.
I
don’t remember the exact site, but on one of our first days of
attempting the entire trail, we rounded a cliffside path and, came
upon an alpine ravine. But this was no standard alpine gap between
peaks.
We
were at, or just above the tree-line, which is about 8,000 feet above
sea level, so-named because, at least in the Pacific Northwest,
trees, among other things, do not grow above that altitude.
In
other words, from that point, looking up, one only sees largely
barren rock faces exposed to endless wind, and seemingly endless
time.
In
short, seasons, years, even decades or centuries, pass over those
stones with virtually no visible impact, as in the usual sprouting or
bearing of leaves.
Those
few trees or scrub-like vegetation near that line are stunted or
severely twisted by extreme (and constant) wind and unrelenting
fierce weather.
And
every sound, from the scritch of tiny (or not so tiny) mammals to the
sqrack of unearthly looking (and sounding) birds echoed from stony
faces, through the thin alpine air and again from sometimes distant
similar stone cliffsides.
One
realization that leaps out at that altitude is that this mountain,
perhaps every mountain, is in fact a single massive rock – with
its fractured fragments scattered (or in a furious, toxic fumic lava
flow) across the surrounding terrain – for thousands of miles
in every direction.
In
the distance, through stunningly clear in the alpine air, we could
see, across the valley, the other peak, perhaps 6 or 8 miles away.
The
valley itself was a steep drop of several thousand feet.
The
valley, at minimum, was wide and deep enough to entirely swallow a
good-sized city.
The
slightest alpine hiccup could encase a thousand years of hard-won
civilization in seconds.
As
we took in the immensity of bare and open space, rock, wind and the
distant trickle of multiple waterfalls, time itself seemed like the
most obtuse abstraction. In fact, confronted by all these facets of
“reality” - stone and wind, water and mass defined by
space, or perhaps the other way around, human concerns – of
time, tradition or even, to a large degree social propriety –
seemed as irrelevant and absurd as broken child’s toy long
out-grown and discarded.
As
we stared in silent wonder, we noticed a shimmering peripheral
movement toward the valley floor. From our height, the movement could
have still been a thousand or two feet above the valley floor.
We
watched a tiny ink-blot black fleck circle thousands of feet below
us.
As
we observed this dark creature soar in the late morning sun, we
noticed its white head and tail feathers. It was a bald eagle.
Not
everyone gets to see a bald eagle in free flight coasting across the
air currents only it can read, but to look down on an eagle in
flight, is certainly one of nature’s wonders reserved for those
who can both step out, and, even on the edge of a dizzying
cliff-face, take note of a shimmering fleck in the distance.
We
were nowhere near a summit, but this was, by any definition, a
“mountain top” experience.
Mt.
Rainier is an active volcano. Its slightest eruption could mean near
instant death for millions of humans, erasure of many major cities
and loss of entire eco-systems and species.
In
that moment, on that ledge, my life, even human concerns and
accomplishments, seemed to evaporate like mists across a fall
morning.
Cities
suddenly seemed frail and vulnerable, money and status seemed absurd
and arbitrary, and human lust for power (over what?) just seemed
pathetic and embarrassing.
The
only thing that seemed to matter was space and mass, and like that
eagle, and the wind and the rock and every living thing, the sheer
shimmering exuberance of existence.
I
found myself found/lost, embraced, maybe even absorbed into the
being, the now, the forever, the immediate.
I
found myself, with my companions, mechanically taking the next step
and slipping back into that schedule and hiking (if not living) pace
that seemed so important the day before, and perhaps, one day, will
be as important, or at least recognizable, to me again.
Not
too many hours later, we found ourselves on the trail crossing the
bottom of a similar valley. This time we saw a flickering shadow
ahead, alongside and behind us. It was another eagle siting, but
thanks to the blazing sun overhead, its shadow was all we could see.
As
we saw the shadow flit into the distance, we could not help coming to
the conclusion that, if we had been a few sizes smaller, or if that
eagle had been hungry enough, that flickering shadow could have been
the very last thing we would see.
I
lost – and found – something immeasurable that day. I
still can’t say what it was, but every once in a while, I turn
some corner, or look at a cloud, or into a child’s eyes, I
recognize a reflection in the intimate distance that reminds me of a
place larger, closer and more immense than our senses can register.
Mountains
are places of dramatic endings – and sometimes dramatic, or
even slowly smoldering and volcanic beginnings.
Not
many of us are born there, though a few die there. But some of us, if
we are fortunate, find a glimpse of life or reality far beyond human
explanation or understanding we never could have expected in those
intimate, yet vast spaces.
