“Oh Why High” Lakes

Owyhigh Lakes, Mount Rainier

There is rain in the forecast for the weekend. Isn’t that always how it goes ? All the more reason to get out early this morning I told myself. A hot cup of coffee, smoothie, a banana and I’m off. 

I’ve been listening to All The Light We Cannot See. If there was ever a marvelous storyteller, it is Anthony Doerr. Every nuance of this story, these characters, is in gorgeous detail. As I slide into the driver’s seat this morning, my app tells me I’m about 3/5 of the way through. I know already I won’t want it to end. It’s almost intimidating how good this writing seems. I don’t know that there is anything I’ve read that is comparable to this dialogue. 

By the end of the weekend I will finish it. There are three new audio books right behind it, although I’ve allowed a “skip” on two of them. I drive a lot during the summer and this will be my first year with the Libby app for books. 

I’ve done better lately not watching or listening to much news. It takes too much bandwidth to stay calm in the face of such grave unkindness and uncertainty. I resolve to check in twice a day. I know it’s important to stay on top of things but divisiveness and vitriol have no place in matters of the heart. (My health and family and friends are matters of my heart.)  

The drive leaves me in another world as I arrive at the trailhead. I grab my pack and size up my add-ons for the day. Extra water. Sunhat. Sunscreen. Buff and mask. Check. I’m hiking to Owyhigh Lakes. WTA lists it as 7 miles roundtrip with about 1650 feet of elevation gain. Seems very doable. It’s a trailhead I’ve driven by dozens of times, never stopping. It was one that my friend Diana told me about last year, insisting that I should let it surge to the top of my list. 

The snow is melting quickly now. Patches of ice, replaced by puddles. White, frosted fields giving way to wildflowers ; pasque flowers, avalanche lilies, even a trillium tucked away off the trail …Diana claimed the meadows here were even better than at Summerland, another favorite of mine. And so here I am, ready to be wowed !  

This hike is less crowded than others at MRNP. There are no Rainier views and the trailhead is not prominently marked. My 7:30 start seems perfect. I’m the 9th car in a lot that holds 10-12. Starting up through the wood it’s the birds you notice first. I hear the woodpeckers and see the Clark’s Nutcracker as he decides on a branch. Always I hear the sparrows. They’re joyfully noisy as they announce they have made it through another night. It occurs to me how grateful I am for that, too. 

There’s a chill in the air and light is filtering in through the trees. Tiny webs fall from branches and pine needles catch and twirl in the morning beams. The trail climbs gently through old growth forest. It’s easy to find perspective here. A smallness of self against these towering giants in the sky. 

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There will be wild berries here in the weeks ahead. A lot of them. As the trail continues to switchback through the forest, I’m breaking a sweat. Douglas fir, hemlock and cedar all trail off in the sky as I look toward the softening blue. The trail is filled with a scattering of small cones, seven or eight in one of my handfuls. 

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Up here there is little time between the thaw of winter and the bracing for it again. It isn’t a doorway to summer but rather a window between these shortened mountain seasons. I’m writing this post as I go in a tiny notebook. It adds a layer of interest to my day and helps to ensure I don’t forget to say some tiny bit of my Friday I meant to share. 

I take my time these days. I take photos, ramble along the edges, look for the little things I might miss if I were in a hurry. In just over an hour, I leave behind the sound of rushing water and switch back deeper into the woods. At 80 minutes I see the first dots of yellow flowers.

At 90 minutes, SNOW. 

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I had read that there were a few crossings. I would characterize them as tricky, rather than dangerous. I need my poles but leave my spikes in the bag. There are faint outlines of bootprints to follow but it’s not always clear where the trail is. I forge ahead and get beyond the snow to the last foot bridge. I count this as number 8 on this trail. 

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About a quarter mile past the bridge, the trail opens up, the sky is like a flood of blue and then I see it: Governor’s Ridge ! Owyhigh Lakes sit in the basin of this jagged, snow-covered ridge. The lake water looks like rich chocolate swirled with deep forest green. The meadow here explodes with pasque flowers and bright yellow avalanche lilies. They look as if they have been quilted into the sea of green grasses. There are tiny white flowers too, about to explode like stars. 

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The sky is cornflower blue and the dark jagged edges of Governor’s Ridge are tipped in snow and it takes your breath away to see it. My phone won’t do it justice. I find a sit-spot for the day and take it all in. For 30 minutes I’ve got it all to myself. 

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It’s hard to leave. The peaceful nature of this place covers you like a fine mist. But I hear people and I’m grateful for the solitude I had. Coming down, I feel a sharp pain rip across my kneecap on my “replacement” knee. It stops me in my tracks. I walk it out and it seems fine but I need to remember that this “new” knee is nearly 7 now and I ask a lot of it. I slow down and enjoy the gentle grade of this trail as it nears the noon hour. It isn’t the usual jarring on the knees and hips. In fact, it’s like a dance. A forest dance with shadow and light. 

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Could it be any better ? 

Maybe a third of the hikers wore masks. Everyone, mask or not, was friendly and all were willing to step aside if I hadn’t first. Wearing a mask or face cover is such a simple thing. I really don’t understand those who outright refuse. I feel sad for them.

There is a huge heart on the path. Oddly, I don’t feel the least bit alone. I’m telling you, there’s magic here ☆

( I want to also mention that I am not a hat person. If it weren’t for a bit of a sunburn on my last mountain hike, I might still be “not a hat person”. Today before I left I grabbed the oldest hat I own. It was one I got over 30 years ago I’m guessing, designed by Fred Babb. If I’m going to wear a hat, it will be by Fred. He was one of my first artist crushes. I love this guy. )

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