What does it mean, say the words, that the earth is so beautiful? And what shall I do about it? What is the gift that I should bring to the world? What is the life that I should live?
Mary Oliver
When I have trouble getting to sleep at night, which is often these days, I never count sheep. I have tried a variety of other counting methods, and the one I return to over and over again is to review in my mind’s eye the beautiful places where the trails have led me.
I wrote about beauty in last week’s post. I am not done with the topic. How could I be? I never run out of beautiful places to visit at such times. Usually I find myself hiking the Pacific Crest Trail on Lakeview Ridge, the northernmost section of the trail, also a section of the Pacific Northwest Trail. The trail makes its way along the western edge of the ridge line from Hart’s Pass to the Canadian Border. Ross Lake is visible in the valley below and beyond it the rugged peaks of the Picket Range, named for their resemblance to a picket fence. They insert their jagged peaks into the sky high above the lake. Their names reflect their defiance: Mt. Terror, Inspiration Peak, Mt. Fury, and Mt. Challenger. I have never climbed any of these peaks. They require a degree of technical climbing skill I have never acquired, but I have taken in that view from Lakeview Ridge many times, always filled with that sense of awe that backpackers and hikers experience in such places. I believe that section of the PCT and PNT provides the most beautiful views from any trail I have ever hiked, and I am not alone in this opinion.
Not all the beautiful places I cherish have been viewed from a trail. The photo you see above is of the Norris Geyser Basin in Yellowstone National Park. The park is magical in the winter time, as the hot steam rises from springs and geysers and melts the snow, creating grazing for elk and bison and hoarfrost on the surrounding trees. The world sparkles, and at dusk when that photo was taken it softens into a play of shadow and light. Yellowstone is full of wonder any time of year, but the winter time is when it sparkles.
Another place I always visit on sleepless nights is Enchanted Valley in Olympic National Park, a place well named. It is sometimes referred to as the Yosemite of the northwest, for waterfalls tumble down from the high ridges above the valley and to the northeast rises Anderson Peak, the source of the south fork of the Quinault River. It is one of many rivers that flow from glaciers in the center of the park, like the radiating spokes of a wheel. I have climbed that peak and hiked that river, even floated a canoe once downriver to Lake Quinault, another Olympic jewel.
There is one more memory I return to on sleepless nights, more like a collection of memories. I am cozy and warm in my dacron sleeping bag inside my family’s old Army wall tent. I am savoring a meal of rainbow trout, dipped in cornmeal, fried and crisp from the cast iron skillet over a fire. I am going on my first hike ever as a very young child, stopping to eat lunch and to throw rocks into the Skokomish River. I am thrilled. I want to come back to this place and this moment again and again, and that is exactly what I have done.
There are many things I am grateful for in this long, well lived life. One of them is that I grew up in the northwest, a short drive from two National Parks. Both of my parents were comfortable in the outdoors and taught that value to me. They took my brother and me camping, and it changed my life, that moment on the river, that moment at the picnic table, the many moments that have recurred throughout my lifetime and have never let me down. Just moments and so much more.
The Solitude Trail 