Brutality, Thy Name Is Mailbox

Wow. That’s really the only word to describe everything about Mailbox Peak. Wow.
Infamous for being one of the most difficult short hikes in the region, it lives up to the hype. At only 2.5 miles on the trail (the first ½ mile is up an old logging road) it gains 4000 feet in elevation. Word to the wise for the novice hiker: Anything exceeding 1000 feet per mile is getting pretty steep; Mailbox comes in at nearly 1600 feet per mile. Or in more relevant terms, it’s basically a 60 degree angle the entire trip. Go find yourself a gym, hop on a Stairmaster… and go. For 2.5 miles. I actually did that a few times when training for this hike and it’s a lot easier than the actual hike, but the thinning air doesn’t help. I know this is all sounding like a deterrent and probably doesn’t sound like any fun at all, but the views are worth it. And the bragging rights help. Speak to any local amateur trail blazer and mention you’ve hiked Mailbox Peak and it’s generally seen as a badge of honor. Everybody who’s made it knows the burn it takes to get there.

It may be short but the climb takes no prisoners; especially not thighs, hamstrings, knees or ankles. Many people don’t have the honor of signing the register in the mailbox that resides at 4,926 feet above the ocean. Yes, there’s actually a mailbox.

I made the trip on my own, leaving my slightly clumsy, and only slightly hairier, partner Mucca snoozing on the couch. I had no problem taking myself out for a punishing adventure, but I was willing participant. Dragging a lazy bulldog along wouldn’t bode well for either of us and probably borders on cruel and unusual punishment. I carbo-loaded on the drive and began my ascent up the old road around 9:00am, a man on a mission. A group of 20 trail workers crowded the path ahead of me adorned in hard hats, and armed with shovels and Pulaski’s, and the high spirits of a well-intentioned mob. The Washington Trails Association is actually in the process of re-building the Mailbox Peak trail. They are rerouting it to make the hike about 5.5 miles instead of 3, which will make the grade less steep, and more accessible for more users. To be honest, I find this somewhat of a shame. While the views are beautiful at the top, I also have a smug side of me that enjoys the face some places just have to be worked harder for, and not everyone has an inherent right to enjoy them. They have to be earned. I’m currently reading a book on the Three Fingers Lookout and feel the exact same way about that hike, which I hope to do next summer. I go into it knowing I’ll need a guide, new equipment (there is a small glacier that must be traversed) and a whole lot of heart to get there. But I’ll have earned it. More importantly I’ll have a damn good story to write about. But that’s neither here nor there… well… actually, I guess it is. Both in fact. There being Three Fingers and here being Mailbox Peak…




The minute you leave the road the trail turns up sharply in to a vague resemblance of switchbacks. Slight curves that wind around the trees while shooting straight up the mountain is probably a more accurate description. The trail curves only as much as it has to, which happens to be a fair amount because the section of woods it crawls through is fairly dense.

The undergrowth is thick and Doug Fir and Spruce closely knot together, hindering any of the distant views typical of other Northwest Hikes. It continues like this for what seems like the first mile (I later found out it’s only about half that) before there is any brief opening into the valley outside the suffocation of trees. As the path climbs any vegetation on the forest floor quickly vanishes, the sunlight needed to support it choked out by the canopy above. It may have been mid-morning by the clock, but the limited light that filtered through shone in twilight grey and muted everything to musky shades of green and brown. I always find a certain sense of calm in this false dusk. It’s like the whole forest slows down.

The air chills, birds quiet, the wet smell of moss and decomposition permeates the air and has the ability to swallow up everything, if you allow it. I was immediately thankful for the extra layer I had decided to throw on at the last second before leaving the comforts of my house. Although it wasn’t long before I was stripping that extra layer off as my heart really got pumping.

The sneak peak of the valley below is really just a tease, and the trees engulf everything in sight as soon as you make and about face with the switchback. The trail widens and steepens again and the slope of the hill really begins to show what an impact it has on the entire environment. It’s incredibly obvious most trees don’t make it long and the hillside is absolutely littered with the casualties of the winter rains, their roots unable to claw deep enough to withstand the erosion. Mailbox Peak is one of first tall mountains (over 4000’) in the Cascades heading west from Puget Sound and the scars on the hill shows how storms intensify as they back up like an accordion on the ridge.

Stumps blackened from lightning are everywhere, silent sentinels keeping the real secrets of the forest hidden, like grizzled old war vets who’ve seen too much.

Having traversed about half way to the ridge, my legs were beginning to feel like an accordian themselves.  I must not have been the first to start hitting a wall at this point because previous hikers had begun writing inspirational messages on the markers used to indicate the trail. The slew of hikers who
 braved the trail each year had created a multitude of paths and unique switchbacks (some of which weren’t switchbacks at all but bold chutes directly toward the top) and the trail was actually a bit difficult to follow. I discovered on the way back down I had barely been navigating the trail at all, and I too had been swindled accidentally into creating my own path. These little beacons of hope kept me moving, not necessarily from their message, but utter curiosity as to what the next would say. They didn’t disappoint.  

          

Every hiker I passed gave out some inspiration as well: “Keep going... You’re almost there… Not much further now” were the battle cries echoed amongst the brave. I’ll be honest; I did the exact same thing on the way down. I must’ve had the same desperate look I saw on most of the faces of those still pushing up while I was enjoying the descent. “Keep going… You’re almost there… Yes, there actually is a peak and this isn’t some cruel joke…” Sometimes the brain wanders into ridiculous corners when it’s deprived of oxygen, which as I finally crested out of the trees was becoming noticeably thinner. For a while I simply stopped and enjoyed the lack of climbing. I had reached the crest (or so I thought) and from here it was a small rock scramble up to the peak. Only 1500’ climb left to go! I kept moving forward, often taking no more than thirty steps before stopping to rest. It was becoming incredibly clear why the warning signs were at the trail head. I knew I would be fine as long as I just kept plugging along, but I’d also been hiking a fair amount this year. For the novice, this level of exertion would be downright dangerous. I give credit where credit is due though; I saw many a hiker in their mid 50’s pushing along, often at a clip faster than mine (much to the chagrin of my pride).

Finally I reached the bottom of the scramble. I let my pack slip from my shoulders and stretched before sitting on the nearest boulder and indulging in some well earned trail mix. While there, a small blue heeler mix came around the corner looking as tired as I did, followed by a group of five kids, none of whom could be older than nineteen. They stopped and questioned me about the trail: how much longer was it to go, which direction to take and so forth. These five would serve as my companions for the remainder of the trail, and I was happy to have the company. Now that I think about it, I couldn’t tell you a single one of their names, and I hardly spoke at all, but their lively chatter and the hazing they shared was uplifting and I was happy to have companions.

The top of the peak was still shrouded in fog, or just clouds by this point, so our group was blind as we lumbered up the rock scramble. We continued to pass other adventures as they made the knee pounding return trip, and there’s always safety in numbers, so nobody was ever worried about the fact none of us could really see where we were going.  Perhaps it was the ignorance of a group who was relying on their youth to keep them safe rather than preparation and experience, but it was never mentioned at all that I can recall. I don’t want to make it sound like we were blindly stumbling up a rock face, in fact there is a trail most of the way, but “lactic acid induced delirium” was taking its toll and the fog sure wasn’t helping. Nonetheless, after what seemed like hours, the silhouette of a mailbox began sifting through the fog. 

Wow. 

I stepped onto the landing that is the peak of Mailbox, a small flat area no doubt worn down from exposure and turned around.

Wow.

 

I was on the highest peak for as far as the eye could see. Granted, the fog was severely limiting how far I actually could see, but the wind kept them rolling along and kept distant peaks dancing in and out of view.





 

 

The little group we had formed separated, and I took a seat next to another stranger with the wind at my back and crunched hard into an apple.

“First time?” the girl next to me finally broke the ice.

“Oh yes" I replied. "Brutal!"



 Rachael, as I would later learn, was also on her virgin trip up to Mailbox Peak, but had hiked nearly all the trails in the Middle Fork area. Just thirty minutes outside Seattle the Middle Fork Snoqualmie River Road was home to over twenty hikes, including Lake Hester which I had just triumphed not long ago. It’s basically the Mecca of day hikes for the average Seattleite. We sat and chatted about this hike and that hike and “Oh I want to do that one!” for almost an hour while we watched trail beaten couples and groups drift on and off the peak, chuckling as nearly every person stepped onto the landing with an exaggerated “UGH!”



The sun was hinting that it might burn off the fog that continued to blanket the peak, and as Rachael announced she was heading down, I informed her I was going to stay at the peak a bit longer. I had heard you can see from the Cascades to the Olympics and everything in between from the top of Mailbox Peak, and I didn’t want to miss out on that chance. I thanked Rachael for her offer to take a picture, signed the register, and began thumbing through it while she left for the trek back to earth.

One couple was on vacation from Korea and couldn’t believe the beauty of the northwest. Another had started hiking at 2:30am that very morning to watch the sunrise from the peak, and sight to behold I’m sure. Most were simply quips on how steep, how arduous, how much my thighs hurt, etc.... but entertaining for sure. I finally admitted to myself that I could sit here all day and never quite feel satisfied with the amount of sun, and I better start making some headway before my legs got too cold and cramped up.

Well wouldn’t you know it, I wasn’t more than 500 paces back down trail when the clouds parted like the Red Sea and the sun broke through, washing everything in a vivid yellow warmth. I stopped, turned towards the peak, back towards the forest, towards the peak again and decided “who knows when I’ll be here again, I’m going back up”. I think I counted ten steps before I changed my mind. The ascent and subsequent rest had taken its toll, and my almost middle aged hammys simply weren’t having it. I shook my head, and my fist, towards the peak and admitted this small defeat. I told myself “there would be another day” and I’m still convinced there will be. The bottom line is that pictures just don’t give the view justice, and it’d be criminal for me not to share it with someone else.  

Thumping not more than a few hundred feet down, Rachael came back into view, which shocked me because I had given her a good fifteen minute head start. She was tip toeing down the trail, overly cautious and making life harder on herself than need be. As I caught up she confided that she was actually terrified of heights, laughed at the irony of a hiker not liking heights, and was having a hard time going down because the trail was so steep, or more importantly open. “I just can’t shake this image of rolling end over end all the way back to I-90. It’s sad, I know.” I agreed to remain her companion for the trip, and to be honest was happy to have company again. Normally I’m able to justify vocalizing my thoughts by telling myself “I’m talking to Mucca”, but in his absence I was just another crazy person…  

We spoke more openly than we would have in a different situation, but the thin air and sense of mutual accomplishment went to our heads and we found easy discussion. Both of us had been the victim of an affair, the divorce that followed, and used hiking as a therapy to find our “Zen”. We each had a pair of bad joints, her hips and my ankles. We shared a mutual fear of heights, though mine related to edges more than the height itself. How we thought Trekking Poles were cheating and usually used by yuppies, although we had each individually been secretly longing for a pair on this hike. The age of our boots, how well they held up, and how much time we had before they would have to be inevitably replaced. How it was difficult to throw out hiking shoes, having shared so much adventure, sweat and earth together. They were a best friend when they treated you right, and worst enemy when cantankerous…

It’s the simple things that become enormous on the trail. A little conversation, a single misstep that tweaks a bad joint, the infantile stages of a blister that can only be ignored for so long before turning into a raging, rebellious teenager! For those of us that partake in the nature seeking, it’s learning to appreciate these little things and apply them to everyday life that draws us out of warm beds before sunlight. An appreciation for what has been here before you, and will be here after. The insignificance of your own existence in the grand scheme of it all, and yet still making every effort to “leave no trace” because ultimately you DO have an impact.

I think it’s this balance that led Rachael and I to simply wave a “nice talking with you” and part ways once we reached the lot. We could have easily exchanged numbers, tried to continue our new friendship, but it just wasn’t necessary. We had our time together; our moment of insignificance, and that was enough. The chance encounter reflected each of our similar and vastly different reasons for craving a mountain peak, the smell of wet needles blanketing the forest floor, the blissful exhaustion following a day of heart pumping and feet stomping.

In the end, that’s always enough.

Advice From My Father - 9/15/12

Be prepared. I cannot stress this enough. BE PREPARED. Many of my misadventures seem to be so simply because I haven’t been aware of what I was getting into, or the snow hasn’t melted, or the sun went down to early etc… All of these things could have been avoided by being a little more prepared. But the bottom line is that being too prepared denies the hiking spirit of adventure and exploration I so desperately crave. I’ll fully admit there is always a little part of me when I’m out in the woods (and usually in over my head) that imagines the early pioneers and what it must have been like for them. Usually this is motivation for me to push on, dreaming of wild adventures like a five year old. It’ll probably get me killed one of these days, but what the hell. At least I’ll go out in style! No hike taught me the “Know what you’re getting into” lesson, and my lack of preparation, more than Hester Lake.

I knew the hike was six miles. I knew it reached a lake that was supposedly stocked with pan sized trout. I knew it gained 2600 ft. and reached an elevation of 3900'. What I didn’t know (and online research failed to tell me) what that most of the elevation gains are in the first and last miles of the hike, and the last mile isn’t maintained. Ok, that’s a bit of a lie. I did read that last part, but I apparently blocked it from my memory before heading out.

I left very early, about 5:30am, knowing it was a bit of a drive to get to the trail head. Apparently “bit of a drive” translates in real life to TWO HOURS, the last half of which involves a pot holed dirt road. Poor Mucca. I think he was a bit car sick by the end. Although I must say it is one of the prettiest drives I’ve been on, despite the terrain of the road. I was even able to snap a few pictures out the windshield between slaloming divots.

     

When I finally reached the trail head I was shocked to see about a dozen other cars! Dammit! I chose the Hester Lake trail specifically because I was (as always) looking for some solidarity! How can I properly enjoy the woods and fuel my childish spirit of adventure when there are other people around! However my frustration quickly turned to relief after a quick inspection of the other cars revealed they were all bearing the yellow fishing tag on their dashboards, rather than the orange NW Forest pass. That there’s some hard core fisherman in North Bend to travel that far and be out on the river by 7:30am. Not that I should talk… With a new sense of exuberance I began my ascent up the Dingford Creek Trail, smirking in silent smugness that I knew where the real fish were.

The trail starts out like many I have found do (disgustingly) with a series of fairly steep switchbacks. This is always a tough way to start. I’d much prefer to have a half a mile or so to get the moderately old legs warmed up, the pack settled, Mucca’s harness adjusted etc… One of these days I’ll just get over it, but as of now I still find it mildly annoying. It was pretty though, and the varied footing provided as much entertainment as the semi-dense old growth around me.

Much of it was the standard picture of a trail, but it was also rocky at times, narrow and barely avoiding collapsing down the hillside at others, and all the while surrounded by wonderful unique landscaping designed by Ms. Nature. Or should it be Mrs. Nature? I have a feeling her and Father Time have a thing going, but that’s purely speculation on my part.

As the switchbacks dissipated, I found myself staring at a massive ravine, which is the drainage point for Pumpkin Lake. I’ll have to look that one up for a later expedition. With a name like that it’s GOT to be an entertaining hike! There is a massive rock face on the east side (I think that’s east?) that must be navigated carefully. One little misstep and you’ll find yourself in the bottom of a trench having a very bad day. Mucca was a little hesitant, but was pretty easily convinced the best idea was to follow the classic “shut your eyes and run” method that’s worked so many times in the past. Given that it worked again, I’m sticking with it.

Once we made our way across the trail stopped climbing entirely and we were treated to a 3 mile walk in the woods surrounded by lush under growth on the forest floor, several small stream crossings (plus one big one) and mud. Lots of mud. At times it reminded me more of the jungles of Peru than the forests of the Northwest. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I’ve seen pictures, so that counts right? Mu’s paws, and most of his legs, were nice and black before too long, because to him the easiest path always seemed to be directly through the sloppiest parts of the muck.

Thank heavens we had all those streams that needed crossing. The natural bathing had him cleaned up in no time, whether he wanted it to or not. We reached the point where the trail splits between Myrtle and Hester lakes in good spirits and in good time. I decided it was a good a spot as any to take a few minutes to enjoy the scenery and reload on some much needed carbos before making the last push up to the lake. Turned out to be the best

decision I made all day.

The trail again turned sharply upward at a tortuous incline for someone who was already almost 4 miles in, and began a fascinating alternation between more mud, overgrowth, sharp switchbacks, dicey creek crossings, and just disappearing completely. It was becoming more and more common to hope that the hikers before me that were stacking rocks to symbolize “go this way” were doing so in good faith, and not as a cruel practical joke. It’s really pretty trusting of us outdoorsy types to just assume that the flags, diamond reflectors, piled up rocks, or tree carving (all of which I’ve followed) are put there correctly and only with the best of intentions. Although they haven’t failed me yet, so my assumption has to remain that they’ll continue to serve as true and honest guides, and that most of my fellow hikers have had the same moment of “Oh shit. Where do I go now?”

Speaking of fellow hikers, let me divert from my experience for a moment to tell the tale of another hiker I came across. Shortly after two particularly hairy creek crossings, one of which left me with a bruised hip (not to self: don’t try to balance on rocks with muddy shoes) I spotted in the distance a bright orange oversized backpack wobbling slowly back and forth. After a minute or two it came to a halt and lowered. I was closer then and able to see its owner who was obviously stopping for a rest. I was about due one myself so I followed suit, figuring I’d give him a bit of a head start and allow me to continue to enjoy the solidarity I’d experienced thus far. Sure enough after a minute or two the pack began its slow wobble again and drifted out of sight. I gave the guy a good ten minute head start before I stretched my thighs back into action, intentionally taking a slower pace than usual. The ten minute head start did nothing. As I rounded almost the next corner (which opened up into a GORGEOUS alpine meadow; more on that later) here he was again. Sitting and resting. I should have just passed him by there, and to be honest I’m not sure why I didn’t, but I used the meadow as an excuse to go off trail a bit and do some exploring, again giving him a head start. I guess I just felt like it would be bad manners to pass him? I don’t know. He also had an off leash dog running around everywhere which didn’t help because Mucca is reactive to other dogs, especially off leash, and I can’t ever trust that it won’t come running right up to us, leading to a fight and all kinds of hassles. Everything is compounded when you’re miles from civilization and cell service… Wouldn’t you know it, not five minutes later I caught up to him again this time lying on a rock, pack dismounted, breathing very heavy and obviously struggling. My thought was he was having the same experience I was, that being: the difficulty of the trail was more than expected, but this close to the lake I am NOT turning back. Fair enough. With an overnight pack I’d probably do the same thing. You’ve got all day, nothing to do once you arrive, and at least one good nights sleep and rest before you have to make the trek again; only this time downhill and with a lighter load. What amazed me was that after running into this guy a mile from the lake, getting to the lake, spending an hour or so there, and hiking back down, I ran into him AGAIN about a mile from the bottom. This means this guy either gave up with less than a mile to go, or humped it up to the lake and immediately turned around. All with an overnight pack that had to weigh at least 25 pounds. It was huge. On top of that, when I passed him again near the bottom he was (no joke) lying flat on his back in the middle of the trail, grunting with every move. That close to the bottom I figured he’d make it out, but I include this story as a lesson: Dude, know you’re limit. If you haven’t been training for most of the summer, what makes you think you can put on a heavy pack and trek six miles into the woods? Especially at 30-40lbs overweight! Mother Nature doesn’t give a damn about you, and if you die out there, nothing changes other than the coyote’s get an easy meal. She DEMANDS respect when you travel into her territory, and if you’re going to go enjoy it, you better know that ahead of time. Otherwise it’ll be a hard lesson taught to you with often vicious brutality miles and miles away from anyone to help you. Just some food for thought.

Now back to the story…

The Alpine Meadow. One of the most beautiful and elusive wonders of the Northwest. For whatever reason every so often the trees, ferns, and everything else except grass just stops growing in one little area. In this case I’m guessing it’s a snow drainage due to the location, vegetation, and canvassing of last years molded, matted grass on the ground beneath this years new growth. In my experience an alpine meadow is usually stumbled upon, and will literally take my breath away. One thing is for sure, it’s always worth spending a few extra minutes to fully take in its wonder and enjoy. This meadow was no exception. Eventually my daydreaming had to come to an end. After all, I had a lake to fish! With a little complaining from the legs I left the gentle rolling of the meadow and once again headed up the steep trail, less than a mile to go now.

     

     

That mile made me work for it. Steep, rocky at first, and then so overgrown the trail was almost impossible to follow. Luckily Mucca’s lower stature allowed him to follow the trail with ease, tunneling under overgrown vegetation that was reaching out over his head.

I simply held on and let him lead the way. And lead he did. I think he wanted lunch as badly as I did, and believe you me, NOTHING motivates that dog like the prospect of food. I had read that there should be two small ponds just before the lake, and when the first one came into view my spirit lifted.

I’d begun to experience the breaking of it with the “I’m never gonna get there” thoughts slithering their way into my brain. It’s amazing what hunger does. Another hundred yards and I began to see the crystal water, clearer than I ever would’ve imagined. Not a single ripple broke the mirrored surface and nearly the entire ridgeline of Mt. Price reflected down on it.

Most of the terrain was incredibly green except for 3 trees, so close they nearly intertwined, that stood grey and dead. Victims of a lightning storm, no doubt.

I found myself a comfy rock on the lake shore, settled in for a mutual meal with Mucca, and began assembling my pole. I could actually see fish jumping out in the middle of the lake. Maybe I’d get lucky after all! It only took a few casts to realize the odds were not in my favor. Unfortunately my backpacking pole is pretty short, which isn’t exactly conducive to long distance casting, especially when you’re pretty much throwing underhand to avoid snagging in the trees on the shore. I stood there flicking the line out half a dozen times, cursing myself for not bringing a bobber (Be prepared!), not expecting to catch anything… and not really caring at all.

When the area around you is so beautiful it’s hard to be angry at anything, and hard not to just decide to stay forever. But alas, eventually all good things must end, as must my visit to Hester Lake. Groaning, creaking and stretching I stumbled my way back down the trail. Twelve miles is a long way on flat land, let alone vigorously hiking up and down a mountain. By the time Mucca and I returned the car we were both visibly physically exhausted. It was nearly 5:00pm, and the trip had taken almost 9 hours,

less than one of which was sitting lakeside. The rest was spent pounding sore toes and tired knees one dragging step after another and forcing my will against the trail to continue on. Totally worth it. I’ll be back again next year, this time sans dog (won’t put him through that again!) and equipped with an over night pack. Something tells me the smell of fresh fish cooking over a campfire while watching the sunset over Mt. Price is a lifetime event I’d hate to miss.

An Everest Kind Of Afternoon 3/23/2012

A lot has changed since the last adventure with our travelers. Oliver and Cass have exited the story, but only to make way for our newest hero: Mr. Mucca the 80 pound lovable lumberous oaf! He's all muscle and good looks, although somewhat lacking in intelligence, akin to "The Situation" but with more fur...

As it is every year, my winter itch was in full stride around mid-February, Seattle's never ending winter bearing down with two white knuckles on this outdoor enthusiasts soul. No fishing. No hiking. No camping. No frisbee at Cal Anderson Park! Don't judge me.

Ah yes, the six month stretch of rain that forces me to remind myself daily how pretty things will look in July when it's 70 degrees and sunny. This years itch was especially fervent, thanks to the abomination of what was called "Summer" in 2011. All three days of it.

Needless to say, I couldn't wait to get back to the forest, but an especially late snow fall created quite the conundrum: Where to find a hike with a low enough elevation there's a sporting chance in hell I can actually reach my destination. Enter stage left - Bridal Veil Falls. A gentle 3.5 mile hike with an altitude of just 2500 feet, and topped off by three waterfalls which, according to pre-hike online research (no, the irony of that sentence has not escaped me),
should be rampant this early in the season. Winter snow pack feeds the falls and has a tendency to all come rushing down the mountain in the first few weeks of spring, originating from Lake Serene, two miles or so above view point. My imagination had allowed me to believe it would be possible to hike all the way to the lake on this day, but skepticism and logic were winning the brain battle and I was almost positive it would be snowed it. Little did I know exactly how snowed in it would be.


The weather couldn't have been more beautiful. A short day at work set me off for the trail around noon on a Friday. It was the perfect crime.
Mid-day/Mid-week wilderness extravaganza with clear skies and a balmy 55 degrees, ideal hiking weather. Whenever given the opportunity to be outdoors during the work week I seize it. The economy machine that requires all of us to drone into a job acts as a nice buffer and keeps the trails open from the three most annoying kinds of hikers: The impolite frat boys who are trying to sweat out their hangovers and don't understand what "leave no trace" is all about, the screaming toddlers or squealing tweens (take your pick), and the Bellevue yuppies who feel the best place to properly enjoy a caramel macchiato is from a ridgetop. No joke. I've seen it. [For additional D-Bag references, please see my "Cast of Characters" post]


There were only four other cars in the parking lot at the trail head and because it was already one o'clock, fairly late to be starting a hike due to the early impending sudden darkness any hiker has found themselves caught it a time or two. (Expect a future post about THAT little mishap in in the near future)

I expected most other woodsmen to be on the descent, opening the path nicely and making way for our heroes. That's myself and the dog... in case you missed that detail.

Just a few hundred feet up the trail it became evident Old Man Winter had pulled out his proverbial cold weather bitch stick and issued a serious shellacking to the lowlands of Steven's Pass. There was the all usual snow damage that is to be expected this time of year: muddy trails, creeks swollen beyond their banks, the occasional bridge washout, and a few spruce's blown down across the tail. No wait, scratch that. Not a few blowdowns. More of an apocalyptic holocaust on the local vegetation reminiscent of the Thanksgiving windstorm that befell the Puget Sound a few years ago (you'll have to forgive me that the "Snowmageddon"-esque title given to the storm by the clever Seattle news media escapes me at the moment).



Those of you who know Mucca first hand, know that he has some... let's call them "trust issues", and therefore has to be on leash at all times. The quaint obstacle course nature had lain out before us would prove to be quite the challenge, but as all heroes must do, we lowered our collective head and pushed on. We squatted and scootched under the trees, scampered our way over the tops of them, muddied up our boots (and paws) through water soaked trails, and balanced our way across the slime ridden rocks nestled in creek beds; all the while praying I wouldn't lose footing somewhere along the way and end up wet and furious. And yet, though all this, it wasn't until we stumbled across a make shift bridge crossing that we reached our first real challenge.


You gotta be kidding me. The water below was easily a foot deep. Nothing very dangerous to say the least, but certainly deep enough to make for miserable feet should there be no alternative than wading, especially considering it was fresh glacier water. Tasty and delicious to drink, not so much for soaking. Just to add insult to injury (which I figured was inevitable at this point) the boards themselves were slick as hell and would've made me nervous crossing them at all, let alone with 3/4 of a C-note attached to me. Mu ain't exactly known for his agility either. After a deep breath and a mumbling synopsis of the Lord's Prayer, I took my first trepidatious step... and then another... and then another... and then ano... well almost another. Apparently Mucca was even less thrilled about the crossing than I was. Here I was about half way across the first tier and Mu was still on the bank giving me a good and proper "you gotta be kidding me" look of his own. My usual "c'mon buddy" wasn't exactly going to convince him I wasn't leading him into a death trap. But with a little tongue clicking and gentle persuasion Mucca took his first step onto the bridge, looking nervous as hell and focusing whole heartedly on not letting a paw slip through one of the gaps between the boards that made up our walkway. I somehow even convinced him to make the hop from one section to the other, but to be honest, I think his primary motivation was just getting off the damn thing at that point. It was pretty much mine too.

Not too long after we reached solid ground (never been happier to step in mud in my life) we met a descending hiker who let us know there was still a fair amount of snow at the top, but the falls were indeed reachable. When I asked about the lake, his response was to give me raised eyebrows and a look that said "are you for real?", but keeping his niceties in order, he simply stated he hadn't gone beyond the falls but imagined it would be a tough jaunt without poles or spikes, and he continued his own journey. Mu and I continued ours as well, traversing though the damaged sub-alpines and making short work of the litany of recently dead wood. Mucca even got to practice some off leash time, staying right at my heels as he crawled beneath, and I hoisted myself over, the make shift lumber yards.

The predicted snow began covering the trail within a mile, first as a scattering on the outskirts of our footpath, but then edging its way more directly beneath our feet with each step, and it was only a few minutes before it was a solid ground covering. The snow was annoyingly soft. That kind of snow that looks frozen over but isn't quite strong enough to hold the weight of a person and crushes in after half a second, which makes for some slow hiking. But the sun was out, the air had a refreshing crisp chill, I had caught a second wind, and was thoroughly enjoying the near solitude.

Another mile in the trail began to get more difficult to decipher. It never ceases to amaze me how even the widest, most clearly marked trails can all become a blank slate from just a few inches of the white stuff. Suddenly all the trees can look the same distance apart, hiding the correct path in a cruel labyrinth of timber. Normally when that happens I perform the "turn tail and bail" maneuver, do a quick fly by of the tower, and retreat to the comfort of my car with a steaming cup of coffee. But today the hikers before me had cut a path in the snow by way of their footsteps, and I moved upward and onward, hoping the prints were leading me in the right direction.


I confirmed my predecessors had not lead me astray at the trail junction for Lake Serene. Obviously THAT was out of the question, and judging by what would ensue, so should have Bridal Veils Falls. The junction marks the point where the trail steepens, no longer traversing the mountain in switchbacks, but cutting almost straight up the mountain for a half mile to the view point. At some point a group of people, probably Forest Service or Washington Trail Association (www.wta.org - best hiking site ever), had entrenched 4x4's into the trail to create a system of stairs to aid hikers such as myself. These are fairly common in low lying trails and are a huge benefit for footing... except when there's snow.

Picture a staircase. Now picture snow on that stair case, almost exactly the same height as each individual stair. Now freeze it. Only thing missing is the bobsled.

It was here I had my first "Death Zone" experience. For those unfamiliar with the term, the Death Zone refers to the area just before the summit of some of the world's tallest mountains. Everest has one. K2 has one. Most of the big mountains in the Himalayas are home to Death Zones. It is an area above 20,000 feet where the oxygen is so thin the human body can't sustain itself. Oxygen levels in the blood drop and causes dizziness, disorientation, confusion, at times even hallucinations. There are hundreds of stories out there about mountaineers on Everest who are instructed by their Sherpa guides that conditions are too dangerous to summit, and they continue on anyway because their decision making has been compromised, and their drive to summit is so overpowering. Knowing I had less than half a mile to reach my precious falls, I made such a decision. Nothing would keep me from seeing those waterfalls... or so I thought.

Each step I had to kick a pocket in the snow with the tip of my boot, balance on the front half of my foot, and kick another pocket to stand in. Not all of my attempts were successful and at times I wasn't so much hiking, as bear-crawling up the side of the mountain as fast as I could. There was no stagnant activity in this process. If I stopped moving forward, I was sliding backwards. Hence the lack of pictures of any of these staircases. But trust me, they're there, and they were a mess. Mucca meanwhile was bouncing around like a fool, impatient with me for taking me so long, and my lack of claws for traction. "Half a mile" I kept telling myself. "Just half a mile". Longest frickin' half mile of my life.

And then, suddenly, the trail stopped. Totally and completely gone. What lay in its place was a tree that had fallen into a creek perpendicular to my path, leaving no choice but to climb up the creek itself. I guess creek is being a bit gracious; it was really more of a trickle, but the amount of water itself is secondary to the story. The primary obstacles were the rocks. Nature had eroded them in such a way they created a staircase much like those laid by... well whomever, with one exception. The height of each stair was no longer six inches, but three feet, and still only four to five inches deep. Enough for me to get a boot on and thrust myself to the next step pretty easily, considering, but that whole plan of attack wasn't working out so well for the dog with four limbs to worry about. My determination was set, however, and I kept moving. First stair, second stair, third stair, I made my way up, using the branches of the tree as leverage. I must've spent five minutes climbing those three stairs, and stopped to rest before continuing on, which finally allowed me to pull out my camera and snap a couple shots of the view.

It was also here I realized that while Mucca was being a SERIOUS trooper and was as determined as I was to get to the falls, it would be physically impossible for him to get back down these stone steps without the weight of his massive head (and general lack of coordination) sending him tumbling him end over end. Carrying an 80 pound dog with a broken leg three miles down a bobsled chute full of downed trees suddenly became a very real possibility, and it was then and there I was forced to call it quits. I was close enough to see the view point, to hear the roar of the falls, almost feel the mist, and I would not see any white water wonders of nature this day. The fact settled in colder than my feet, and with a heavy heart I began my decent.

I soon discovered going up the ice chute was a hell of a lot easier than going down. Funny thing that gravity. Just keeps on pulling whether you want to stop or not, and I certainly wasn't going to be able to step my way down. Wait for it.... wait for it.... SKI DOWN! Yep, I'm going where you're thinking. Acting quickly I unclipped Mucca's harness and reversed it so the leash attached on his back, rather than his chest where it normally sits. A quick "giddyup" and we were on our way like the worlds most awkward slalom team. We slid down the mountain in a breeze, Mu trotting out ahead, me holding onto the leash and effortlessly being guided back to safety.

Ok I wish it were that graceful. It was more like Mu trying to run and me falling on my ass every five seconds, but who has time for details. The point is it was effective. And really the image I presented is way funnier anyway, so I'm sticking with it. Who's going to question it? You weren't there. You don't know!

After a performance worthy of Olympic Gold we returned to the mud, weaving our way back to the trailhead, clamoring back over and under trees, back over the make shift bridge (which Mu had no issues with now that we were coming the opposite way) and back into an unfrozen environment. Back at the car Mucca and I both enjoyed a well deserved snack, and I vowed again, as I did with Eagle Lake, to come back and see me some damn waterfalls!

Mucca had survived the day and was asleep in the car before we left. Regardless of failing to reach my goal I had a sense of accomplishment. I survived my Everest moment to tell the tale, and to return home, where I promptly joined Mu in slumber, the fur of my living pillow scratching against my cheek as I drifted off to waterfall filled dreams...