Deep Snow on the Mountain

Crystal snow reflected the rays of the sun.  The day was extremely clear with blue skies as I trudged along on snowshoes pushing my way through virgin snow.

My journey began a few days previous when I had arrived at Mt. Rainier for the winter season.  Driving in from Ashford and through the park gate, it was like I had entered a new world with the rain and sleet changing to snow, and the clear pavement becoming a sheet of white ivory ice beneath my tires.  Driving at slow speeds through coated firs and pines, around slick curves and steep drop-offs, it took me nearly 20 minutes to arrive at the sleepy village of Longmire, the hub of Mt. Rainier National Park.

Snow fell heavily and had already blanketed everything around the historical administrative building, the museum and various other buildings.  Pines would on occasion cascade and slough off piles of snow from their limbs to the ground, unable to carry the weight any longer.  They looked as if God had poured whipped cream over their boughs so that only shadows of pine green, almost black could be seen beneath the snow.  But a strange quiet rested upon the place as if the snow absorbed everything and blanketed the world from all sound.

I had been told it was a normal year for snow, which hadn't been seen in these parts for years.  Climate change has receded the "normal" amount of snow leaving many places more rainy, and glacial real estate at a declining minimum.  The very next day, we went from Longmire to Paradise, an elevation of over a mile up.  The skies were so blue, one had to squint just to look at it, and in contrast with the new fresh white, it was a perfect day to be on the mountain.

Cascade fox tracks in the virgin snow.

Donning snow shoes and sunglasses, I ventured out into old trail and virgin snow, through thick stands of subalpine fir and mountain hemlock, so thick with new snow you could hardly see the boughs.  Crystal snow reflected the rays of the sun, but seem to reflect even more my own sense of self.  A Cascade fox's tracks could be seen tracking from tree to tree, sometimes following my path (or maybe I was following his path), or breaking off in search for sustenance beneath the snow.  I felt in awe as the shuffle of my snow shoes through thick snow made me feel small and insignificant in the powerful shadow of the great mountain. 

Eventually, I would make my way to a lookout and see the mountain in her majestic stature, waiting...  Waiting to erupt in a long overdue volcanic explosion.  Waiting to change our world and what we know of it, as Mount St. Helens once did and push lava and ash across western Washington wiping out nearby towns and maybe erasing half of Tacoma.  Or maybe, just continuing it's restful sleep unable or unwilling to awake in our lifetime.

I wander back.  As J.R.R. Tokien once wrote:  "Not all who wander are lost".  I continue to listen to the shuffle of my snow shoes in the deep virgin snow.  My wandering was always with purpose, albeit not always with direction.  For in wandering, we often find ourselves in self discovery rather than journeying to a specific location.  But perhaps I am lost.  Perhaps it is only the mere reality of my perception of the world around that I am familiar with, but subconsciously, I have no idea where I am.  I wander onward as those thoughts of philosophy will have to wait, at least for the moment.

In the meantime, the sun fades into the mountains on our own journey around it, the cascade fox will likely burrow into the well of a tree and find it's sleep.  I for one have to leave this place, if not for a night or two.  For I will be back many times, on many back country journeys, and perhaps I too will find my way home.



Snow shoe trail bordered by Cascade fox tracks.