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.
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...
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