I was trying to catch my breath. I had run and sprinted, giving it all I got, putting all my strength and force into the end of this run. I was running along the creekside on the road just outside of the St. Mary KOA on the east side of Glacier National Park with the towering Rocky Mountains in the distance. Behind all this was not just the motive of wanting to take a morning run. It was a physical manifestation of my frustration, an outpouring of my emotion. I was so fed up with my body and this illness. Sometimes I’d feel fine. Then I’d be plagued with the most uncomfortable feelings in my gut, reminding me I was unwell, and this grave feeling of desperation would take over.
So this early morning, I ran, faster, and faster, and gradually ran more and more onto the front of my feet. Soon I was sprinting. As I did so, my heart pounded forcefully in my chest, feeling as if it was about to burst out. My sides began to ache, naturally from the exertion and I wasn’t accustomed to running this fast. The exertion was painful as my lungs were desperate for more air than they could take in. Normally I’d slow down, or take a break, but I pushed onward, relentless to the pain. I was fueled by fierceness. I suppose maybe in some ways I felt, despite my will and desire, my body had control over me lately with this illness, and now through forcing it through such extreme exertion I was proving to myself I still had control over this vessel, or maybe I just wanted an outlet for all this build up burning frustration.
The more I pushed myself, and the more I ached and desperately drew in breath, the more I realized it was pointless. I was sick. I could pour out all my efforts, all my strength, all my energy into this; and my desire could be so strong, my efforts relentless, yet this wasn’t going away. I was still going to be sick. This wasn’t all on the forefront of my mind, but it was buried in there somewhere, and it explained how suddenly my legs and arms became limp, as I slowed down running. I hit a realization as tears of desperation and frustration ran down my face. I stopped running. The harsh reality fell upon me again. I could not not make this go away. Alone, I was helpless. I wanted to be in control. It was all out of my control.
Just a few days before, I had my great moment of declaration upon the Highline Trail, in which I resolved I would not give into despair, and no matter my circumstance I’d bring glory to God through my illness. Often when we make ground spiritually and draw close to the heart of God, the devil has a counter attack. He did here I believe. Just moments after my heartfelt declaration of resolve, I experienced great cramping, desperation and urgency. Sparing you from unpleasant details, I was above the treeline, on tundra, exposed. There was nowhere to run away to, no privacy, and tourists were around me. With great anxiety I made do. But it happened over and over again, a persistent physical attack, leaving me exhausted.
Exercising, especially running, I thought would be an outlet for this stress and inflammation in the body. After good exercise the body calms down and relaxes. I needed that. Ulcerative colitis also sometimes feels like there is a misplaced energy or fire within the body. The energy or fire was focused on attacking and burning my intestines. If I could, through physical exercise, displace the fire from the intestines and channel that energy into a more productive means, I’d be okay. It’s an abstract feeling that I know is not exactly medically accurate, but it’s how it felt. There was also the feeling that I could force this all to go away, just as it came on so quickly, so too it could leave, like there was a switch in my body that needed to be flipped and it’d all be over. I felt I could flip this switch through exertion. I was trying so hard to displace this energy and flip the switch. After all, I felt there had to be something I could do to fix this problem.
“Forgive me God, for putting my body before you…” I prayed “…for setting it up as an idol, for being so caught up in my health and physical strength and appearance that I failed to put my deepest value in you. I let myself become distracted from that which is most important” I knew this illness would be painful in any circumstance, but the fact I had idolized my body so much, made it all hit harder emotionally, now that I lost my health. I realized I needed this moment of repentance. “Help me focus on you and put you first.”
I continued onward calm and quiet in the presence of God on the Highline Trail among the majestic mountains and alpine meadows. For a while I escaped the turmoil of my condition. I had distractions.
“Look there are two bears,” another hiker called out. Sure enough, pretty far in the distance, but still visible with the naked eye, two big grizzlies grazed on the mountainside. This was my first grizzly bear sighting! I was approaching the Granite Park Chalet. Here hikers lucky enough to score a spot can stay in the rock chalet overnight. I was only there briefly, observing the bears and heading descending four miles to The Loop.
Just in time I caught the last bus back down to the Apgar Village. I was the only one there at the bus stop. I didn’t realize it was the last bus until the bus driver told me how lucky I was. I was exhausted. I had hiked around 15 miles in total, and my legs were very heavy. Although I had completed it, I went through such physical desperation and anxiety with my colitis, that I in many ways felt defeated by this hike. I enjoyed it in some short spurts, but mostly I was in survival mode. I didn’t conquer this trail. It got the best of me.
The rest of the evening was relatively relaxing. There were other great distractions from my illness and my body was for the most part at peace. One such distraction was my visit to the Lake McDonald Lodge built in 1913. It’s a National Historic Landmark and built in the beautiful Swiss chalet-style. Inside it is composed of rustic National Park Style architecture, in which design elements mirror the natural surroundings. It featured exposed rough wooden logs as beams, and railings and fixtures carved of rough planks and tree branches. It had a coarse stone floor and taxidermied animals of all kinds all over, including elk, moose, and goat to name a few. Great big murals of mountain landscapes and native americans adorned the walls, and an enormous chandelier of Native American lanterns, painted on in a petroglyph manner, glowed warm in the otherwise dimly lit space.
The focal point of the lodge was an enormous stone fireplace and chimney, so big there are benches within the mantle, like a foyer to the fire. The precise term I learned is called an “inglenook.” I’m a big fan. There is nothing that says northwest North America greater than this lodge. I poked around its three different levels and balconies, observing the art and taking in the extraordinary ambiance. Around some chairs and leather couches, animal furs hung and coffee tables stood on Native American rugs. Theodore Roosevelt would have absolutely loved this place. It was just his style, and although gentle and calm, it seemed to boastly proclaim such words as “hunter.” “taxidermist,” ”naturalist,” “America,” and “the great outdoors.” I thought about how I’d love to sit here and work on my writing. It would be the perfect cozy and inspiring place to write.
After snooping around the lodge a bit, I returned to the East Glacier Village and had my first elk burger at Frieda’s. I decided to go full-on tourist and pay a pretty penny for the burger. Its lean and gamey meat was delicious. It was also relaxing to be waited on and enjoy a full meal after such a rigorous day. Having multiple cups of water brimming with cold refreshing ice was also just what I needed. This evening I felt normal and at peace. The next few days I’d have other moments like this, in that for a while I escaped the reality of my illness, but then at times- something would shift within my body and the feelings of being unwell would kick in with the anxiety and desperation that accompanied it. Over and over again I’d shift from feeling well and carefree then slapped with reality that inside I wasn’t well. I had to come to terms with this reality not just once, but over and over again. In more ways than one, it was exhausting and frustrating, leading me to my fierce early morning run ending in a tearful mess and the feelings of defeat…but I’m not defeated, I’d remind myself. It’s only an emotion. I must live and lead a life above these emotions. Onward!
Something inside of me is dying, and I feel like death. These were the exact thoughts, exact words running through my mind. I was restless in my tent at night, rolling around on my sleeping bag. I had never felt quite like this before. I wasn’t in pain, for there wasn’t any sharpness of feeling. But there was this subtle aching, and even more so than a feeling, it was a knowledge that stirred within me. I was not well. I couldn’t get comfortable. My body was in utter forthright rebellion. Inflammation was raging on. The body was winning in this battle despite my will. I wanted to be well. I wanted to relax. The body wasn’t having it. Therefore my sleep was interrupted, shallow, brief, and before I knew it was morning.
The day before I had traveled from Lake Roosevelt National Recreation Area in Washington here to West Glacier, Montana. I had traveled nearly six hours, around Spokane, through the panhandle of Idaho, past St. Regis, Montana, and up the west side of Flathead Lake. In St. Regis I made one of my more notable stops of the day at the St. Regis Travel Center. Right off highway 90, just across the Idaho border in Montana. This gas station establishment boasts “restaurant, casino, Montana’s largest gift shop, expresso” and “free live trout aquarium.” I just pulled over to go to the bathroom. I didn’t need all this, but I’ll take it! (minus the casino). ! It was like the Montana version of Buccees. Here I was greeted by a bag of free popcorn and a near endless supply of Montana t-shirts, huckleberry everything; and every Montana, grizzly bear, and Western knick-knack and patty whack you could imagine. Many items were boasting common Montana mottos and phrases: “The Treasure State,” “Big-Sky Country,” “The Montana way,” “Grab life by the horns”… I browsed around and didn’t purchase anything but was impressed by the inventory. In later summers working in Montana, I’d be back here a couple of times.
Shortly I found myself traveling upside Flathead Lake. I didn’t know that was its name. All the places I’d see in the next few days I’d have much more experience, knowledge, and memories with in the future with my subsequent summers working in Montana, but now it was all new. When I write about my adventures I like to talk about my experiences and observations at that time. As difficult as it is, I make a conscious effort to restrict myself from injecting later knowledge and experiences of these places. So although now I know it was Flathead Lake, then it was just some big lake I was traveling by. I was impressed by such an immense lake. Why hadn’t I heard of this before? It is the largest lake in the U.S. outside of the Great Lakes. I stopped in the community of Lakeside. I was very hungry and found a little cafe right off the road. I went inside, but after seeing the prices, I decided to continue on. I wasn’t used to the tourist prices in the Flathead Valley.
Atop the lake lies the biggest city in the valley, Kalispell. My hunger was so ravenous. I stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken. It genuinely sounded so good to me. I know it was not the best choice for my gut, but I was in need of some comfort food. This solo traveler from Kentucky, a little bit weary and beaten down by health issues, needed a bit of comfort from back home. Now it is humorous, because I know of way better and nourishing choices in the valley for food.
Leaving Kalispell, more and more tall pines filled in the landscape, and the road just seemed to roll along these wooded hills, swooping up and down with the great Rocky Mountains of Glacier National Park standing in the distance. Although the woods were everywhere, I did not feel nestled in the woods because the road was wide and beside it was a path for bikers and snowmobiles. Everything around me just seemed so big with the land and forest just so immense. I passed by a few tourist traps: “The Huckleberry Patch” and “Huckleberry Haven” boasting their huckleberry pie, and a western ranch style building called “ The Montana Fur Company” with a tipi and Native American relics outfront. Most prominent was this place called the “Ten Commandments Park,” with a dozen or so billboards situated together in a half circle, each loudly displaying a religious or political message. This seemed like something I’d see in Texas. Is Montana the Texas of the North? This I certainly thought.
Some National Parks have no real build up, not much of a tourist economy around it. Others, such as the Great Smoky Mountains, have an extreme excess. Glacier seemed to have a moderate amount of tourist build-up. The place seemed touristy, but not in an obnoxious way. Its quantity and quality was of such a way that it served the park well in building up just the right level of excitement and anticipation without being obnoxious or tacky.
I wouldn’t make it into the park this evening but according to plan I would stay at the West Glacier KOA. I had read this was the flagship KOA. I’d stayed at many Kampgrounds Of America and had become a big fan, so to stay at the allegedly best of all KOAs was an exciting thing for me. I had noticed, while booking my stay online, that this KOA was also the one featured on the front cover of the KOA directory. This was big stuff! Rolling along wide wooded highway 2, suddenly to my right stood the big bold beautiful KOA sign made of rich dark wood with black letter insignia, and it didn’t say “Kampground” as most are identified, It read “KOA Resort.” Oooh, fancy!
I checked in at the office, where I also was given a free KOA koozie. I don’t drink, but I was still glad to have a KOA souvenir. The campground was enormous. I had a standard tent pad which backed up to some woods at the junction between where the cabin guests stayed and the RV area. I quickly set up my tent, because I was on a mission: I wanted to enjoy the hot tub, which I did. It was small and busy, but I enjoyed a nice warm soak. I then finished setting up my camp, blowing up my air mattress, and throwing my pillow and sleeping bags in the tent. I felt calm and relaxed walking around the campground and getting familiar with the place. There was a vibrant energy, a positive one of happy families on vacation and kids on their bicycles. I kept having to make frequent trips to the bathroom. Although I felt relaxed in many ways, my gut was not happy.
I noticed on the resort map there were some little hiking trails in the woods just behind my site. I went on a stroll through the woods and there I decided to call my parents and let them know of my sickness. I had procrastinated telling them. I guess I was hopeful it’d just go away as suddenly as it seemed to come upon me, and therefore be a non issue. But I felt like now I was in for a long haul. I should let them know. Just talking about it and my experience with it so far was draining. I didn’t want to really talk about it. I wanted to ignore it, but I couldn’t.
Soon, after I settled in my tent for the night, and this was the night things took a major turn for the worse: Something inside of me is dying, and I feel like death. These feelings. After tonight, the illness would not just bother me but rage on.
In the morning I ate at the KOA resort. It had a restaurant, with a nice outdoor patio. I ordered the Montana Breakfast of eggs, potatoes, and thick sausage patties. I was impressed by the quality here. In the subsequent days I’d learn this trio is the standard Montana breakfast almost everywhere. After breakfast, I was driving, for the first time ever, into Glacier National Park with great excitement. I was going to hike the famous Skyline Trail, which in my present state of health, would not be easy.
As I was driving I thought back to what I would consider my greatest thoughts and reflections on this trip so far. I thought about Nurse Logs and the life-enriching ability one leaves behind after they have died. I considered my previous thoughts on the colors of my sunset and the qualities of one’s life that can be evident and seen when a life comes to completion, or to put it more bluntly, one dies. There was so much thought about death, but not in any dark way, but in an inspiring way, thinking more about the quality of a life truly lived before time naturally runs out. I was only twenty-eight, not an age one normally contemplates what they leave behind upon their passing, but these were my thoughts. It was curious to me that shortly after these thoughts came to me unexpectedly my health had been taken from me to the point my mind spoke: “I feel like death.”
Were my deepest thoughts and personal revelations preparing me for this, preparing for the end? It sounds very dramatic in retrospect, but in the moment it was quite sincere. The only other time my body was under this attack with ulcerative colitis brutally flaring was when I was in college and it was severe. There were the restless nights of rolling around the floor in pain, the hospitalization, the intense pain, the blood loss, the anemia, my body not digesting food, the malabsorption, the withering away, the affected eyes, the suffering teeth, the weakness, the fatigue, the fainting, the crying. The option of surgically taking out my colon wasn’t on the table, because the doctor believed I was too weak to survive the surgery. I look back and marvel how despite everything I continued onward.
At that time of the first onset I was a student in education, and I was due for student teaching the next semester. With my current state of health I felt I just couldn’t do it. I informed my parents I was coming home. I notified the education department at my school, telling them I had to postpone my student teaching because of my health. Then, this decision sat horribly with me. I didn’t feel at peace about it at all. Although now officially unenrolled, I called a meeting with the dean of education. I knew how rigid and firm to policies and procedures the whole institution was. I felt embarrassed, but I was going to plead and beg them to let me back in the program. I wanted to proceed with student teaching despite my health and weakness. I told the dean “I am very sick, but I may not get better. I may be like this for the rest of my life, so I don’t want to let this sickness stop me. I must learn to live with it.”
I’ll never forget what the dean told me. Somewhat surprised looking at me square in the eyes, she said “Well, that says an awful lot about your character.” I was back in! God gave me an inner strength and fierce resistance to face my illness while moving forward in life. .
In the struggle I clung on with a tight grip to a harmony of Bible verses I felt God spoke directly to me, 1 Peter 5:10 and Phillipians 4:7 together: “After you have suffered a while, the God of grace Himself, whose knowledge surpasses all understanding, will restore you and make you strong in Christ Jesus.”
It’s just for, “a while,” I thought. That helped me persevere. God will “restore” me and make me “strong.” That gave me hope. However, I was struggling with this. I wanted to believe it. I held the word of God to be true. It had proved itself over and over again to be so, but this night was exceptionally long, and there was no improvement in my health whatsoever. I felt myself slowly dying. What does this promise and these verses really mean?
One evening in my quiet time, alone in a little study nook in my university, in my sickly state with increasing complexity of illness, I was journaling and thinking over this promise of God. Then it dawned on me: I think I know what it means. The first part about “suffering a while,” well I was there, no doubt. I knew that to be true. The second part, “I will restore you and make you strong.” I struggled with that because I was not seeing it as I expected it to be, in this life. Maybe, that is the part God will accomplish when he calls me home. When I die. In his eternal presence I will be restored and he will make me strong. So maybe God is telling me, “After you have suffered a while, I will bring you home to restore you and make you strong.”
It was profound to me and haunting in some ways. I didn’t want to die so young, but at the same time the notion was comforting in knowing that whether it be in life or be in death God restores me and makes me strong. I am victorious through Him, either way! I took a deep breath as though accepting my fate, not sure I felt ready for the responsibility set before me, to proceed into death with faith, resting on His promise. I zipped up my backpack, tucked away my journal and Bible, and carried on with life’s demand. Live strong and fiercely to the end. But oh what an ache it was still to my soul! This was a silent disease. Few would know. I’d be here and then I wouldn’t.
God’s promise did hold entirely true, as it always does, and to my own heart’s desire, for God is good! I was restored and made strong in this life shortly after.
When I look back at this period of sickness in my life, it doesn’t seem so dark, and actually never felt dark in the moment either, though it may seem so from the casual observer. Actually, I am extremely grateful for that time of sickness and for the wrestles with faith. These were times of some of the greatest spiritual intimacy and dependency on God in my life. His promise held so much more, too, than what I even thought at the time. When God promised to restore me and make me strong, I considered that just in the physical sense. God did mean that, but He also meant it in a spiritual sense. God would strengthen me spiritually beyond what I could see in the moment. To go through such an experience of facing a prospect of death so young and doing so walking hand in hand with God, I think produces a level of wisdom and maturity that I am eternally grateful for and has become an integral part of my character and outlook on life and death. I would never want to go back and relive those days, but I’d also never wish they didn’t happen. Dolly Parton captures the sentiment in her song The Good Olde Days When Times Were Bad: “No amount of money could buy from me, the memories that I have of then, No amount of money could pay me, To go back and live through it again.”
But now, what was happening to my body here on this journey out West, here at Glacier, with the return of this great grave sickness? My thoughts went back to this previous era of life, to the promises, to the pain, to the prospects. I didn’t want to have to face and reconsider everything, but here it was again, in my face (or in my gut rather). There was a bit of initial panic and I felt overwhelmed. What do I believe again? I saw how God’s promises applied back then, but how do they apply now? I thought I had closed that chapter and had moved on, but it was back. Was it the same chapter of life? No. This was chapter 2. I was more prepared in the spiritual sense. Something was about to go down (or come down rather). That would soon become evident.
“Okay, I look alright.” I said to myself while looking at my picture by the sign to Lake Roosevelt National Recreation Area. It was a relief. I was not feeling well at all. I thought my relaxing time in Stehekin would be good for the body. It was certainly good for the soul, those two nights up in the forest in the most remote community in Washington surrounded by nature. Yet inside my intestines and my immune system were still angry. I felt as if I was entering that stage where my body was starting to reject food altogether. Anything I would eat would make me feel unwell, and I felt weak and withering. This was devastating to me at the time for a number of reasons, but especially because in recent years I had really focused on my health and building my body up. I was so disciplined and persistent with my daily workouts. I was very strict on my diet. My body was my most valuable thing in life. We should all treat our bodies as the valuable things they are, but I believe I had become over preoccupied with it.
I could see the natural process that played its course for me to arrive at such a place. I had spent much of my teens and young twenties very ill. Then my body healed. I regained strength and began to feel healthy after a long period of sickness. As my body began to once again absorb nutrients from food, it was exciting, and I held such an appreciation and gratefulness for my health. Slowly that evolved into being over-concerned and over-consumed with it. It was more about health too. It was also about building muscle and maintaining a certain physique. It was building an image and maintaining it. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing, but did I let that consume me, so as to lose my health now was unnecessarily devastating? This is what I was thinking.
Now I felt like everything I had built was crumbling down. I was living to build my body. I had put so much value in that and now I did not have it. My muscle was withering away and I was feeling weak and ill. It was a punch to the gut that was already wounded…. But in the photo I just took I thought I looked good. I still looked healthy. I still looked strong. I certainly was feeling worse on the inside than I looked on the outside. Sometimes with ulcerative colitis, it is apparent when someone is ill, but it is also a silent illness, in that one can be very sick and feel utterly miserable but on the outside everything may look fine.
The photo I took gave me a little pick-me-up, for I was low in spirit. After the welcomed distractions of Stehekin and the excitement of exploring that little pocket in the woods the past few days, I had a three hour drive in which I felt miserable. My gut was restless and my body was fighting itself. I was pestered with the thoughts Why is this happening to me? And then No, this can’t be happening, but then I repeatedly was confronted with the reality that, Yes, this is happening. My thoughts would at times be distracted, especially by sights along the way- but then I’d feel the abnormal churning of the gut, an urgency to pull over, and I‘d have to repeatedly confront reality: I’m ill.
Eventually I arrived at Lake Roosevelt National Recreation Area. I had pulled over at one of the entrances to take my picture by the sign, something I try to do at every National Park Until. Feeling slightly better about my current state after seeing my photo, I pulled into Kettle Falls Campground. It was a very open arid campground. There were a few pine trees here and there, but mostly dry grass and dusty ground. I was atop a bluff beside the lake and on a rounded island very close to the mainland. As much as I love the deep forest, there is always something very comforting to me about wide open spaces. I think it’s the midwestern Illinois blood flowing through me. It’s calming for me to see the big sky and gaze over long distances, and there I could see that sky, and could look across the land over the lake.
Conservationists vs. Preservationists
Lake Roosevelt really is a part of the Columbia River formed by the Grand Coulee Dam created by president Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1941. I love natural places, and there is something extra remarkable about a beautiful lake naturally occurring in the wild, but there is something mildly disappointing about a dammed lake. I am not against dams. I think dams are fascinating in how much renewable energy they can provide and all the outdoor recreation they can afford. However I am well aware that there are people who are completely against dams altogether and any human influence upon the land. When I consider these people, I know I differ with them in the type of naturalist I am. I believe I am a conservationist, which I would define as one who calls for responsible use of the land to maintain its benefit for further generations. This is certainly different from exploiting the land, for I have great reverence for the land. If we were to exploit it, we would rid it of all its benefits, rendering it useless and defacing its natural beauty. Rather I believe we conserve it, so we can have it for its benefits for generations.
In some instances the best step we should take as conservationists is leave some things alone, preserve them. However my worldview is that the earth is designed for man’s benefit, and therefore we should use the earth for its intended purposes, and sometimes that benefit is simply in its beauty. An example is the Yosemite Valley. Don’t touch it. Let it be. It holds remarkable beauty. Other times the best purpose is for recreation or energy, perhaps that the assessment here for Lake Roosevelt. Sometimes the best purpose is agriculture, mining, cattle raising, farming, housing. Historically, the National Forest service has been a conservationist department, their motto: “land off many uses.” The National Park service is different in that its “to preserve and protect,” a largely preservationist mentality.
The preservationist as an individual doesn’t believe in any human involvement with the land. They believe in leaving it completely untouched. They want preservation as is. A conservationist believes in preservation as well, but the preservationists doesn’t share the same view of land use as the conservationist. Historically speaking, I have great respect for both types of people. Theodore Roosevelt was a great conservationist and John Muir was a great preservationist. Together they accomplished a lot. I think the input of both, the challenging view of one upon the other is good to find a balance and approach situations reasonably. The conservationist unchecked could be corrupted into an exploiter of land, but the preservationist helps bring the conservationist back to his roots of mighty respect for the land. Also the preservationist unchecked can become an extremist, viewing the human as merely a hindrance to the planet, restricting his due duty to the earth. As a consequence the planet actually suffers. Unfortunately I think many have arrived at this harmful viewpoint today, or at least those with loud voices and showy influence have.
Let’s take the example of forestry. It was once common practice for those working in forestry to attend to the forest. Fallen trees would be cleared from the forest and used for timber. This would benefit the man, but also benefit the forest as a whole. When lightning would strike and forest fires began, there would not be all the dry dead wood on the forest floor as ripe kindling, and therefore forest fires wouldn’t be as large and destructive. I know forest fires are natural and can be good things too, for the aftermath of a forest fire regenerates new growth and provides nutrients to the soil, but forest fires have grown bigger and more deadly, causing much damage, killing habitats, and disrupting air quality. People today want to blame out-of-control forest fires on “climate change,” but really the main factor is that in many parts, because of preservationists’ no intervention policies, forest floors are not cleared out of fallen timber. I see this as man not attending to his duty. Man in my view was created to attend to and take care of the land. He benefits from it, but he also takes care of it.
Many preservationists of today are treating humans like an invasive species. Not only do we have man not attending to his duty to care for the land, but we also prohibit and restrict him in so many instances, which may not be necessary or good. I am so glad the infrastructure of our National Park system and the creation of all our beautiful National and State Park lodges and roads occurred at a time of the healthy pull of both sound thinking conservationists and preservationists. Today the preservationist would prohibit humans from all of what we have and enjoy in terms of parks. We wouldn’t have the richness of our access to these beautiful places. We have to be responsible but we cannot throw out reason. After all, this is ours too!
Each Animal Has a Job
Take a look around the animal kingdom. All animals manipulate the earth. I think the strongest example is the beaver. They gnaw down trees, create dams as well, creating whole ponds and waterways that otherwise may not exist. They use their creations for their homes, their habitats, and cultivating their food sources. We don’t see huge movements and people taking to the streets to protest beaver dams now, do we?
What about bees? They build these hives, enormous in comparison to their size, then they go around stealing pollen from all these flowers. Should they just let these flowers be? Should we regulate bees and restrict them from tampering with all these flowers? Should we place zoning restrictions on their hives? What would happen then? Well, there would be no pollination of our flowers. They would cease to reproduce. We’d have no flowers and would lose many vegetables and fruits to extinction. Also, bears feed off of beehives.
Let’s talk bears. They have a responsibility to the forest too. They clean up dead carcasses and their waste spreads as fertilizer and spreads seeds to propagate growth of many plant species. Should we regulate bears and not let them roam free and confine them, for they are tampering with the forest by moving all those carcasses and spreading all their waste?
Man’s Role in Nature
Just like the bear and the bee God has given every creature its role. Birds build nests, bees build hives, beavers build dams, prairie dogs build entire underground towns, can’t the human build for himself a home or build his own dam? Every animal has a role with the environment. The human has a role too. The discussion should not be, how do we remove humanity from nature, but rather what is man’s responsible role in nature? Ignoring his role, the earth suffers. As written in the book of Genesis, God put man in the “Garden” to attend to it, and not to ignore it. We should especially not ignore our forest and water ways in this great garden. We need to attend to them.
This is not to say I am careless, but man is not an invasive species. I believe the earth is created for man. The bigger issue is that man doesn’t know who he is. The further we get away from God as a society, the less we know who we are; and the less we know about who we are, the less we know about our role and responsibility to the earth.
Here I stood at Lake Roosevelt. What do I make of this dammed lake? When it was constructed at the time of the U.S. coming out of the Great Depression and into World War II it provided much needed energy for the economy and today it provides great recreation. I acknowledge and have an appreciation for these things, but I also was a bit saddened learning more about it. Kettle Falls, the water falls which were a great and prominent gathering place for many Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest to trade and fish along the Columbia River, was now flooded because of the dam. I was saddened that such beautiful things as waterfalls were eliminated by man, and I was sad considering tribes lost such an important location for them. When the dam was built and the falls were being flooded over, a number of tribes got together for a “ceremony of tears.”
This site was also so important to their salmon economy. At one time the Columbia River was home to the world’s largest salmon runs with over thirty million salmon taking the route. The dam changed that. Oh, what should I make of Roosevelt Dam? Some things we just have to accept. There’s no changing. Things won’t go back. Kettle Falls are gone. The salmon run is not what it once was. Lake Roosevelt is here to stay, and so I have to approach it, not by the past, but in the present. Lake Roosevelt is unarguably beautiful. I chose to appreciate it and enjoy it.
Mission Point
I drove just a few miles up the road to Mission Point, a little peninsula on the lake where the Jesuits had formed a mission, beginning with the visit of two Canadian-French Catholic missionaries, Francois Norbert Blanchet and Modeste Demer in 1838. They witnessed to the Colville Indians and the fur trappers and traders of the Hudson Bay Company visiting the nearby Fort Colville. The following year they held the first recorded mass between the Rockies and the Cascades and baptized nineteen Native Americans. This was my first time learning of Catholic missions in the U.S.. I would go on to learn of many more on my travels through Montana. There at Mission Point was the old mission meeting hall. It looked like nothing more than a cabin. I walked around and read the interpretive signs. There was a small path that led out to the tip of the peninsula. I walked out there and sat down for a moment. Everything was still, calm, and quiet. The sun was setting behind the hills in the distance on the other side of the lake.
On my walk back down the path to my car I spotted a deer. It was watching me through a window of pine trees in the forest. I paused and locked eyes with it, then I moved slowly and quietly towards it before it trampled off.
Back in my tent I looked through the pictures I had taken on my phone and reviewed my itinerary. Tomorrow I’d arrive at perhaps the climax of the summer adventure, at what I was considering the National Park of all National Parks, Glacier National Park!
I woke up to the strangest, most intrusive sound in my campsite just aside my tent. I could not place this sound. I was so perplexed. It sounded like a drumming, but too soft and coming from too low-down to the ground to be that of a human. A gnome? An alien? That’s ridiculous! It was so close, approaching my tent. This is bizarre. I rolled over and pushed myself up quickly to unzip my tent. There stood the funniest looking bird. I would describe it as looking like some sort of wild chicken, but it was strutting with its feathers on full display and its chest puffed out, like a miniature turkey. It looked so proud and pompous, yet it was so small and ridiculous, especially with its little feather tufts sticking up on the top of its head like some punk-rock motorcyclist. It was trying to be tough, but had big curious infant-like eyes. My initial thought: What the heck is that? Upon locking eyes, his feathers shrank close to his body, in what I perceived as a reaction of embarrassment, and then he scurried off into the forest in fright.
I had never seen this type of bird before, and I don’t know how I knew, but somehow it’s name was on the tip of my tongue. As I excited my tent and slipped on my boots, I kept trying to fish this word out of my memory. I was so close. I gathered my water bottle and my new book on Stehekin and threw them into my backpack. I began walking down the hill and it hit me: It’s a Grouse!…then, Is the plural form of grouse, grease?
This was day two of camping in Stehekin, the most remote community in Washington. My encounter with the grouse was midday. When I woke up and unzipped my tent for the first time of the day, I was greeted by the tall pines, the serene lake below, and the mountains standing mightily on the other side of the lake. My camping neighbor Luna Luu was already up as well, fixing things about her camp.
“Good morning,” I greeted. “Did you get some pictures of the Milky Way?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t end up going. It was cloudy last night,” she explained.
It’s what I had suspected.
This morning my first order of business was to go to the bakery for some breakfast. I invited her to come along, but she had her own hiking plans. After quickly throwing myself together, I hopped on my bike and took off down the road toward the bakery: Stehekin Pastry Company. The mountain morning air was brisk and refreshing, and there was no morning bustle about this place, as is common in so many places. Here the few people that were around eased into their morning. It was relaxing, moving at the gradual pace of the rising sun, slowly, growing with every passing moment gradually more alive.
Opening the bakery door, I was bombarded with the enticing smells of cinnamon and coffee blended with all the other aromas of the fine craftsmanship of the Pastry Company. After camping outside in the cold northern night, biking through the brisk mountain air, I knew it was going to be so relaxing and perfect to sit down with a cup of something hot to drink and a great big fresh cinnamon roll dripping with house-made icing, while sitting by a window, glancing outside to watch the forest slowly wake up and be illuminated by the morning light. I sat there in peaceful bliss doing just so.
After a while I got up to browse the nearby shelf of merchandise. There were hats, stickers, and books. A particular book caught my attention Stehekin: A Valley in Time, the true story of the valley through the eyes of Grant McConnel, a man who lived here from the 1940s until the 1990s. I bought it, along with a sticker. I wanted to learn more about this place, and this book seemed perfect. I also noticed a number of other books, all by local authors. I realized this was somewhat of an author community. I understood why. The place was ripe for inspiration with its natural beauty, and its remoteness and solitude eliminates all the distractions for the writer. I would love to live in such a place and dedicate my time to writing. So far I’d imagined myself living here as a baker, then a teacher, and now an author. I had no idea that in less than a year I’d find myself spending my whole summer on the edge of Glacier National Park, in the remote community of Polebridge, sandwiched in between parkland and national forest in the wildest river valley in the lower forty-eight states. There I’d live and work amidst the beautiful Rocky Mountains, off the grid, in the beloved Polebridge Mercantile and Bakery. I guess we could say it was a dream come true, looking at the dreams occupying my mind during my time in Stehekin. When I was interviewing for the job in Polebridge over the phone in the winter- the owner told me how he wanted to place me at the front of the store as a closing cashier. In that moment, and in fact all-through the interview, in my mind I kept seeing the Stehekin Pastry Company. It was my only point of reference to such a job. I recalled seeing the bakers back in the kitchen with their mounds of dough, working so diligently but seeming to have fun. “What about putting me in the role of a baker?” I asked. The owner, Will, explained how he believed that with my skill set as a teacher I’d be best suited for the front of the house. He was right. He told me that if things work out he’d like for me to keep a relationship with the business and return for more than just a summer. I worked there for many summers and continue to do so. My time working at the Polebridge Mercantile and Bakery are some of the richest of my life. Although oftentimes rustic and primitive, it’s my summer paradise. I love it!
After my morning cinnamon bun I got back on my bike and traveled non-stop to the other end of the road, past all the sites I had stopped at the day before: the one-room schoolhouse, the two-room schoolhouse, Rainbow Falls, Stehekin Ranch, and then bearing off the main road I rolled down a path to the Stehekin Airstrip, a field amidst the pines. Is this really an airstrip?…I guess it would do. I could imagine a little private plane landing and rattling atop this field. I supposed boat access wasn’t the only way to arrive at Stehekin but plane access had to be private. There were no commercial or charter flights. Biking past the “airstrip” I sought out “The River Trail,” from my map. When I parked my bike against a tree and started on the trail I realized it was not a very frequently trafficked area, for it was mostly overgrown and had just a narrow space barely big enough for my feet. My ankles were brushing up against the growth of the forest floor. This was a rich lush forest, more characteristic of those back East. At one point the path came close enough to the river I could see the water. At this location I’d call it more of a creek than a river. I veered off the path and stepped down onto the river bed. It was so shallow the water didn’t even reach as tall as the top of my boots. The water was also not high enough to cover all of the riverbed. The middle of the river was dry, so it was there I sat down. With my eyes closed and listening to the trickling water around me, I prayed a prayer of thankfulness for being here. I also prayed about my health. I had enough distractions from all I was seeing and experiencing in Stehekin that I hadn’t been focusing on it, but it was still, in its own aching way, always present on my mind and felt in my weakening body.
This is good for me, I thought, to relax by the river, to take in the soothing sounds of the water and the lights beaming through between the tree branches. This was a gift from God. I had been feeling that my body was caught in this state of high tension and if I could get it to calm down, escape this state of being, I’d be okay, but it felt like a lot to do. I was up against my very self. I concluded every moment should be used to help bring my body out of this state of tension. This was one such moment. Relaxing was now a priority of mine. In my relaxed state I broke open my journal and began to write.
When I got back on my bike, calmed, settled, grounded into this time and space, I leisurely began biking back to the other end of the road. Of course I had to pass by the bakery again, and it was time for lunch. I was hungry and there were many great things on the menu for lunch. I couldn’t make up my mind of what to order so I just decided to buy two lunches, a salad with salmon and a roast beef sandwich. They were delectable- especially the salmon. I thought it was fitting to eat salmon in the Pacific Northwest. Once back in “town” I realized it had been about twenty four hours since I had rented my bike, so it was time to turn it in. Then feeling mildly handicapped without my wheels, I walked back up to my campsite. It was time for a nap. It was only afternoon, yet I had already covered great ground this morning and felt it was fine to give up some of my day to sleep. After all, relaxing was now a priority. I fell into a deep sleep in my tent, wrapped in this fold of nature, and then I woke up to the drumming grouse just outside my tent.
I ended up spending a large portion of the evening sitting on a rock up on the mountainside behind the campground, looking down at the lake. There I read the book I had bought about Stehekin. It was a very entertaining read. Between this evening and the following morning I read the whole book. That’s very fast for me. It was that good. I especially enjoyed learning about the community back in earlier times. I read how delivering mail along the stretch of road was a shared responsibility. People took turns. In the winter, the author delivered the mail on skis. It was customary for him to stop by and visit with everyone along route. It sounded kind of nice, skiing out in the cold of winter, stopping occasionally every few miles, stepping into a warm house with a warm fire in the hearth, greeted with a cup of coffee or tea, and engaging in conversation about the latest news of the valley. It also stuck out to me the part discussing how there was only one phone in Stehekin in the post office brought in by the National Forest Service. That was the only immediate communication to the outside world, and it wasn’t very reliable. It also struck me as comical, the part about the aftermath of a plane crash up in the woods, and how the locals, given they had very limited resources, stripped that plane and used it for building materials in their homes, and even parts of it was used for dinnerware. Remnants of the plain could be seen popping up all over the community in people’s houses.
The author talked about how for so long Stehekin was frozen in time, and a unique and very personal community. Whenever someone had to take the boat down the valley into Chelan, people were often repulsed by the chaos and lifestyle of those “down lake.” Reading this book, everything seemed like such a far-off, foreign, yet intriguing concept. However, later in my own time working at the Polebridge Mercantile and Bakery in Montana, I would live through similar experiences. It too is, at this time, a one phone community. The contrast between our life up the North Fork River valley couldn’t be more stark against the developing society down stream.
The following morning, day three in Stehekin, it was time for me to go “down lake” back into the real world, but I wouldn’t be spending much time in society. It was time for the next leg of my adventure and off to other wild places, soon approaching the behemoth of National Parks: Glacier National Park. Before I boarded the boat I walked to “The Garden.” This morning the gardener was there. From my understanding this was all his. I bought from him some sugar snap peas and cherries. I stood there in the garden and spoke with him for a few minutes. He told me some of his story and how he ended up here. To me, at the time, it struck me as sort of weak, running away from society and life’s problems to live up here in remoteness. I had perceived it as a negative thing, but with the evolution of society “down lake” and after my own experience living in a similar remote community, I have grown in perspective thinking back on his story. There is a healthier way of living that is lost in the bustle of growing society. I get it.
Back on the boat, I was munching on my delicious sugar snap peas, so sweet and crisp, mixing things up every-so-often with a nice tart juicy cherry. This is going to be good for me, I was thinking, for my body and fighting the inflammation I was feeling. Some nice fresh produce, a few days in Stehekin with moments of great relaxation, and now sitting in the sunlight on the open water is going to make me just fine, I thought. My ulcerative colitis was just some strange nightmare. I’m going to put this illness behind me. It’s over. I’m okay now.
I was wrong, very wrong. This was only the beginning. Things were going to get much worse… and much more beautiful.
I got an early start because I had slept in the car. There was no deconstructing the tent and packing up. I was ready to go. I went from sleep to the turn of the car key and I was on the road. Now it was time to pay a visit to another National Park: North Cascades National Park, which was only about an hour away. When people refer to the North Cascades, it’s similar to when referring to the Redwoods. As the Redwoods constitute a collection of state parks, North Cascades too is a collection. There are three major entities: Ross Lake National Recreation Area, Lake Chelan National Recreation Area and North Cascades National Park proper, though the latter name is just used to refer to all in the trio collectively.
I had big plans for this visit: an overnight backpacking adventure the following day in the Lake Chelan area. Today I would just be traversing the heart of the parks on highway 20, stopping at the visitor center, all the overlooks, and seeing what I could see. I had noticed in my investigation that all the iconic views of North Cascades were roadside viewpoints, so I figured I wouldn’t be missing anything essential.When visiting parks I’ve got to make sure I don’t miss out on the essential views. What a shame it would be to go to Yosemite and never see Tunnel View, or go to Yellowstone and fail to see Old Faithful.
My first stop was at the visitor center by the west entrance of the park. There I watched the park film, and a series of other films on smaller screens throughout the visitor center. The three National Park units that make up this area were all created in 1968. This park has glacial mountains, consisting of over 300 glaciers. Although it’s famous for its sharp mountainous peaks, called the Cascades, it got its name North Cascades, and I suppose the mountains too, from all the water cascading from the peaks, forming many streams and rivers. The water sources of the area were used for hydroelectric power, but the development of the National Park stopped the further industrial development. The park’s two most famous lakes, Diablo Lake and Lake Ross, are the result of man-made dams. Both lakes are extravagant in their bright turquoise color, which is created from rock particles. The National Park Service describes it best: “the distinctive turquoise color of the lake is the result of suspended fine rock particles refracting sunlight. These rock particles, called glacial flour, enter the lake when rock from the surrounding mountains is eroded by ice and flows into the water through glacial streams.”
After learning about everything in the visitor center, it was time to experience it all first hand. About ten minutes up the road I made my first stop. Nestled closely by mountains on either side, within a gorge, and right along the Skagit River, was this little town with modest homes and a few small businesses. It was strange to see manicured lawns, and intentional landscaping around buildings in a National Park. The only other thing it reminded me of was the town of Mammoth Hot Springs in Yellowstone, where many park rangers and staff take residence. But this town looks rather industrial with lots of electrical wires and utility infrastructure. I know this had to do with the dams and hydroelectric power, but it didn’t even cross my mind that the waterways in this park were still being used to generate electricity. I had assumed this was all a relic of the past, that it was a company town of a hydroelectric power company but the homes left over from that bygone era were now ranger residences. I thought this was a little ranger and park employee village. I’d soon learn I was wrong. The town of New Haven is surrounded by federal National Park land, but this mile long community is owned by Seattle City Light, and all the residents of the town are exclusively employees of Seattle City Light, working on the Skagit River Hydroelectric Project, a series of dams and hydroelectric stations. Altogether this operation provides about 90% of Seattle’s electricity. I was surprised to find a currently operating utility company stationed within a National Park. Operations of the hydroelectric project began in 1924 with president Calvin Coolidge formally initiating it all. With The National Park designation coming more than forty years later. I suppose the value of the hydroelectric power was too valuable to eliminate. I’m sure there is quite an interesting and complex relationship between Seattle City Light and the National Park Service.
In town I wandered around a bit, reading a few historical placards. Prior to World War II this town was quite a tourist destination. The tourists would come in on a twenty-three mile train ride, stay in the Gorge Inn, and go on tours of the Hydroelectric Project on boats. It was quite a thing to see. But after the war it lost its status as a tourist destination.
There in town I saw an old steam engine on display, and crossed a suspension bridge, and I bought a brown sack lunch at Skagit General Store. This town wasn’t particularly charming or quaint. It wasn’t rustic, and it lacked any defining character. The proximity of the mountains and river were its most prominent features, but it wasn’t trying to be a tourist destination anymore, for it was only a functioning company town. The city dwellers need their electricity. I wasn’t expecting this but I learned that hydroelectricity is a part of the experience when visiting North Cascades National Park.
Just a little bit up the road I passed a dam, one of a series, but this one was the most visible and creatively named “The Gorge Dam”. It had to be old. Observing the architectural design of the powerhouse, you could say, “they just don’t make them like that anymore.” It was designed with attention to the image it would portray. It was a work of art. Not knowing much about architectural terminology, I would say it was a fusion of Roman and Art Deco design. It had long rectangular windows and boxy features with a regal boldness and pillars.
Suddenly everything changed past the dam. I was back in the National Park, and back in nature’s beauty. I was a little disappointed, at the time, to learn that the lakes of the National Park were not natural but were the result of dams. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good dam, and I admire human ingenuity to harness power through water, but to know the National Park was not all natural just kind of tainted it a bit in my mind. The only dam I wanted to see here was a beaver dam. Of course if a beaver dam is a part of nature, then isn’t a human dam a part of nature too? Is man himself not a part of nature?
As I continued my journey on the park road, climbing upward in the mountain reaches, I made my next stop at the overlook of Diablo Lake, and oh my! What a sight! Pristine! I was surprised to see that such a vibrant turquoise color could even exist in nature. It was such a bright and vibrant color. Although perplexing, in its surrealness, it yet looked so natural and believable. Mountains dramatically sloped down into the milky turquoise water, which curved around into many bays. To the right side of the lake, before the inlet of a bay, stood two small little islands. The middle of the lake spread up to the foot of Davis Peak, a jagged snow-capped mountain. From behind the mountainscape delicate clouds wisped forward, as if imitating beams of sunlight. The dark richness of the pine forests on the mountainsides, contrasted with the turquoise lake and the blue sky created a unique pacific northwest color scheme. There at the overlook I also noticed a pine tree whose needles were turning red. It was probably a sickly tree, but in my photos I was able to add a splash of red, creating such a colorful capture. From here the mountains were dramatic and tall, but there were only a few to behold. Mountains didn’t stretch on in layers in the distance. Only the immediate ones were seen, giving the accurate impression that I was up very high. All other peaks were below and hidden. Only here could I see the highest reaches and I did feel on top of the world.
Just a few miles up the road I also came to an overlook for Ross Lake. It too was stunning. It was similar in color and nature to Diablo Lake, but much longer, and the way the mountains were situated and the lesser number of immediate bays, made it just the slightest bit less picturesque, but still beautiful and magnificent nevertheless.
The rest of my drive provided great views of sharp craggy peaks, jutting up from the mountains, as if mountains were upon mountains. These weren’t rounded or flowing mountains but dramatic sudden reaches. And they were immediate reaches, right there, with snow caught in their veiny rivets. There was a definite character to these mountains, and if these mountains were music, they’d be crescendoing cymbals of a regal nature. It’s was if I could hear the mountains. I stopped at one overlook of the mountain valley and beheld the mountain peaks beside me, so tall. It was truly a moment of awe, and I thought, I’m back. I’m in my element. The awesome wonder that beset me my first great summer adventures is here to recapture my spirit. The sense of adventure was on fire again, a blazing campfire, with sparks igniting the night sky. I was coming back in my spirit to a place I so longed to be.
About twenty miles outside of the park I arrived into the town of Winthrop, Washington. None of the campsites in the National Park were reservable online, and planning my trip I wanted to have the security of a place to stay. I wasn’t sure how busy North Cascades would be. It didn’t prove to be very busy at all. Arriving in Winthrop, I was surprised. The land was very arid. There were hillsides surrounding that were very dry and barren. I could have been fooled that I was in a desert of the Southwest. I had never before associated the desert with Washington. On the way to the KOA I drove through the little downtown. It was a quintessential Wild West downtown of not just Western facades, but the real deal. Nothing was too bold or boisterous but rather small and charming. The businesses beheld names such as “General Merchandise,” “Emporium,” and “Saloon.” A vintage but functional gas station with two pumps sat next to the road where people walked on the sidewalks. I realized this place was a tourist draw, but not overly so. It wasn’t crowded. It wasn’t flashy. It was just right. After being in the remote, brisky north reaches of the Cascades, it was comforting to be in this warm little welcoming Western frontier town. I’d later learn that Owen Wister, the Harvard roommate of one of the original settlers in the area, Guy Winthrop, wrote his famous Western novel, “The Virginian”, after a visit to Wintrhop.
The KOA was only a mile from the downtown stretch. I drove across Chewach River, noticing a bike path parallel to the road and also crossing over the river which was shimmering in the evening sun. Everything around here looked well taken care of. Right next to the entrance to the KOA was a long wooden western style building named “Winthrop Dry-Goods.” Perfect! I went inside the small grocery store and bought some yogurt, Frosted Flakes, and milk.
I checked into the KOA, and it was so nice. It sat right at the Methow River at the foot of a desert hill. I had reserved a camping cabin, which had plenty of space around it, and I felt like I had so much space to breathe in this nice dry, warm, and welcoming place. I took off my boots and trod around barefoot. Relaxed, I organized the trunk of my car. Now that Zach was not here, I had full reign. I also did a load of laundry, and packed for my upcoming backpacking trip to Stehieken. While the clothes were spinning I took a warm shower in the nicest KOA bathroom I have ever experienced. When I checked in, the hosts even bragged about how new it was. It was a log cabin style building and inside there were about a half dozen little individual private bathrooms. Each had their own shower and little changing area separate from the sink, mirror, and the rest of the bathroom. They also each had their own skylight, letting in warm sunlight. They all had that nice new building smell, but not just any new building, but a fresh-wood log cabin smell about them.
When I gathered my laundry and went back to the cabin, I noticed a few items hadn’t dried completely, so I laid them out on the railing of the porch. I then poured myself a cup of Frosted Flakes into my KOA cup from the night before and reveled in the sweet crunch, as I sat on the porch swing, updated my journal, and read a little bit of John Muir. This was a simple yet blissful moment.
I then drove back into town, first stopping at the cable bridge alongside the bike path to cross over and look down into the river. In downtown I parked my car and walked down the mainstreet. There wasn’t as much to see as I expected from the initial perception driving in, but it was all pleasant. I ate dinner in an old turn of the century schoolhouse, rightly named “Old Schoolhouse Brewery.” I had a chicken sandwich on the back porch overlooking the river.
Back at my little cabin, at great peace for a quite a productive evening, and after having a day full of great vistas and travel, I slept soundly, anticipating the adventure that lay ahead: backpacking into Steheiken.
It was the hour to get organized, for it was time to head toward the airport and return Zach to Kentucky where he came from. So we began first-thing this morning. The trunk of the car was just a grand mess of all our things sort of mixed together: the boots, the backpacks, the flannel, flashlights, the park maps, the souvenirs. We handed things back and forth as we got organized. “This is yours…..This is mine.” We also had to take down the tents and pack up the sleeping bags. It was quite an operation. I wasn’t sure how to feel about all this. Was I to be sad to send Zach off, continuing the adventure by myself? How would that feel after all this time together? Or should I feel happy and relieved to be able to have my solo freedom, to do everything as I wanted to and not have the stress of the complaining and the concern of trying to appease. I guess I sort of shrugged it off. I’ll find out when he’s gone, I concluded.
Leaving Mount Rainier National Park, we stopped just outside at a little “backpacker lodge.” That’s how I described it in my journal. I didn’t bother to write down its name or provide any details, except that I bought a cup of hot tea and a scone for breakfast. I described it as a “backpacker lodge,” by the part-grungy, part-artsy nature of the place and the few patrons around sporting large backpacks. In writing about this place I’ve examined maps and have tried to locate this place, to give it a name here, but I simply cannot find it. Perhaps it doesn’t exist anymore, or perhaps it is just well hidden on the maps.
In recalling my adventures in the National Parks and the beautiful wild, this is not the only place I visited I haven’t been able to relocate. The very day I picked Zach up from the airport, and we were traveling our way up California on highway 101 in the semi-arid lands, passing by many a vineyard, I came to a sign boasting some sort of self-sustaining community. It was advertised as an all-natural farm working on renewable energy. Its signage read “visitors welcome.” I knew this was the kind of place Zach would like to see. So, I pulled off the road. This was for him. He seemed excited to see it. We pulled onto a dusty driveway. The land was dry and the sun was harsh. A box stood at a post with a suggested donation listed. We threw in a few dollars. I should have known better…Well, honestly I had no idea what was in store.
So this was this little commune of various buildings and paths between them we could walk around on. We weren’t quite sure where we could go, or what we were to see. There was some interesting makeshift infrastructure, networks of homemade irrigation systems, green houses, lots of plants hanging around, buildings that were constructed…um…what’s the word… creatively. It was kind of intriguing, but then we came across a local. He was a middle-aged man, leathery, wrinkly skin from too much sun exposure. His hair was dirty and matted; his shirt only buttoned up halfway to show off his collection of hippie necklaces. He was super friendly and talkative…because he was drunk. The first piece of evidence was the smell on his breath. He welcomed us, and gave a slurred introduction to the grounds. He wanted to show us his home that he built himself. It was a hut, made of dirt clay and glass bottles. I’ll admit it was impressive. It even had some nice windows built into it. It had to have been a lot of work, but after I briefly saw it. I was done. I was done listening to him curse like a sailor so casually and I was ready to go! But he kept talking and talking. When we did get away, I made a comment to Zach about how drunk he was, “…and high,” Zach added. I hadn’t picked up on that, but it’s because I hadn’t been exposed to enough high people to know what that sort of behavior looks like. Then a notion started to dawned on me: I think we are on a marijuana farm. Again, I was done. I wanted to get out of here. Before we left we did go into a gift shop, which was surprisingly nice and put together, not very reflective of the jury-rigged nature of the rest of the place. By observing the type of merchandise my suspicion grew stronger.
That was weird. We carried on.
As I’ve gone back to maps and the internet to try and find this place, learn more about it, to confirm what exactly it was, and to give it a name, I can’t find anything. Perhaps that’s intentional, and that’s fine, because I really don’t care to know more. What I do know is that it was in California, and they can have it, and they can keep it. I suppose all I’ll ever know about it is what I remember. Just like the backpacker lodge outside Mount Rainier National Park, that’s all I got.
After our brief stop for breakfast we only had a couple hour drive to the Seattle-Tacoma airport, so as we got close we made a few stops. Zach wanted to visit a Target to return a Nalgene bottle he had bought toward the beginning of our ttrip together. I have a tradition on my summer-long vacations to get a Nalgene bottle and sticker it up with stickers from each park I visit. I had a neon yellow bottle for stickers for my Southwest adventures I write about in my book Canyonlands: My adventures in the National Parks and beautiful wild. I have a dark green one with stickers from the Still, Calm, and Quiet: More adventures in the National Parks and beautiful wild summer, and I have two classic blue ones from parks I’ve visited on various smaller trips back in the Eastern United States. For this trip I had a dark turquoise bottle sporting my stickers. Zach had learned of my ways and wanted to do the same. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, as they say, so I liked that he wanted to copy me, but the Nalgene he had bought earlier on the trip had a plastic casing around it that must have, at some point, melted onto the bottle and now could not be fully separated. So he wanted to exchange it.
I also let Zach pick where to have lunch since it was his last day on the trip, and he was always the one with the large and urgent appetite. It’s definitely telling that we were no longer in the wild when he chose ihop. We were in the city of Tacoma next to Seattle. It was my first time eating at an ihop. I was surprised to learn there was more on the menu than just pancakes.
In the later afternoon it came time to take Zach to the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. I parked and we went inside. He checked his bag, we said goodbye, and he quickly made it through the TSA security checkpoint. I did feel a poignant sadness. As much as he frustrated me, I felt this heavy aloness set in. It was the realization that I was so far away from home and now all alone. Why should this bother me? I’ve traveled so far away so alone so many times. But as I saw him move past security towards his gate, I knew deep within me, our friendship wouldn’t recover from this trip. Our friendship was built over a love for the outdoors and recreation. Those are great things, but they can also be superficial, especially when we view nature so differently. I view it as God’s design with purpose, intention, and messages which it beholds for mankind to draw closer to Him. Zach didn’t share that view. I also value human life so greatly much differently than Zach. We argued about this. He saw human life as too abundant and in need of being lessened. This sat so incredibly unwell with meI saw it all as sacred and designed by God with even greater purpose. Humanity is God’s most prized possession. Yes, possession. We are His. I felt I couldn’t bring up these deeply held views of mine. They would cause further arguments. Zach saw human life as too abundant and needed to be lessened.
There also was no peace in this friendship. There was complaining and conflict and never a sense of security. We were not kindred spirits. We didn’t share any weightier values. At this time in my life I was too young and immature to realize that perhaps I could be an influence upon Zach’s life, but when it comes to forming friendships it takes a great deal of effort for me to form them. I also don’t throw the word friend around casually. I take the term friendship quite seriously. In recent years I’ve been very conscious of my use of the term “friend” versus “acquaintance.” I will only use that term friend for a true kindred spirit, for someone I can rely on, whom I share great values with, whom I am willing to get behind and advocate for in life, and someone who is willing to do the same for me.
I also believe friendship is a design of God for us to build each other up spiritually. The Bible has a lot to say about friendship. Take into account Proverbs 18:24, “One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Then Proverbs 17:17 reads, “A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.” Lastly, I’d like to mention Proverbs 27:17, which I also think has a lot to do with friendship. It reads, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another”. What I thought was a friendship between Zach and I was not reflective of any of these verses.
We are all wired differently. It takes a deal of effort for me to create friendships. There’s this effort of really putting myself out there and sharing of myself that doesn’t always come naturally. I do it and delightfully so when I see the potential for a fruitful and lasting friendship. In such instances it encourages me. I get a great deal of energy from it, and my life is enriched, but to put forth the effort for a friendship based over a mere superficial hobby for nothing of substance, is exhausting. I am not saying that the way I maneuver friendship is the best and that my views are even the best for me. I find myself often to be solitary, lonely quite often. I suppose if I didn’t take friendship building so seriously, but more casually, and I put forth effort to connect even over the shallow and superficial things in life, I may have more people around me. Maybe I’d be less lonely, but also being surrounded by people on a shallow level of commonality I think is exhausting. I would probably feel even more lonely to be surrounded by people who do not share my values and outlook. I do say, that because I do take friendship so seriously, that the people I do invest in that I truly call friends mean a lot to me. I am very rich because of that, and maybe I feel a richness of friendship that some people do not, and for that I am very thankful.
As Zach was now gone on his way back to Kentucky, a whole different mindset had to set in. I had to shift from accommodating another traveler, to just looking out for myself. I was free! Not gonna lie, this is what I wanted.
Leaving the airport, I was able to quickly adopt the new mindset of being alone and free! The next leg of my journey would take me to North Cascades National Park, but tonight all I had to do was drive two and a half hours to a KOA northwest of Seattle, so I didn’t have to be in a rush. Therefore in Marysville, Washington, a suburb of Seattle, I stopped at a Planet Fitness. The original plan was to take a shower there, but then I realized I could just shower at the KOA tonight, and so I just enjoyed a workout. Normally I focus on one certain muscle group per day at the gym, but since I hadn’t been to a gym in a while, I decided to just do a little bit of everything.
At this point in my life, I still hadn’t made the switch from the flip phone to the smartphone. I had an iphone, a cheap one, just to take photos and connect to wifi when the opportunity allowed. I needed to take the iphone into Planet Fitness and connect to the wifi to make a payment through mobile banking. In between sets I was trying to remember a password, reset a password, select all the images of stop-lights, get a confirmation code through the flip phone, translate that over— all of those technicalities.
Next to the gym was a local thrift store. It was pretty large, and I was excited to check it out. Maybe I can find some fun camping gear. I’d really like to find a skateboard. That isn’t something I could have packed in my suitcase. Maybe I can find some good CDs for some different travel tunes. Since I hadn’t made the migration from flip-phone to smartphone, I also hadn’t made the switch over to digital media. I had no such luck with any of these hopes, but I did find an Under Armour base layer that would come in handy during the cold nights and mornings up in Glacier National Park. Leaving the thrift store, I did notice a couple homeless people loitering around the parking lot, one pushing a shopping cart as if it was a caravan. The way they acted, their demeanor, made it evident they were drug abusers. It was nice to get a workout in, and to wander around the thrift store, but the druggies were a stark reminder I was in the city and I wanted to be back in the wild.
I got in the car and made my few hour drive to the KOA campground. After zipping up interstate 5, I was on highway 20 heading east along the Skagit River. Urbanization waned, and gradually more forest set in. I knew the KOA wasn’t going to be anything fancy in terms of KOAs. It was just a basic one, but all my experience with KOAs thus far had been good. Making the turn into the KOA I was surprised to find that it was gated, and I had to press a button to open the gate. I went to the office to check in. The host seemed a bit frustrated. She went over the usual rules and explained how the gate will be located after 10pm. I wondered why this KOA needed such a security measure as a locked gate. We seemed to be in a pretty rural area, and back in nature, which is generally a safer place to be. It’s not like we were in a city. She pointed on the map where my campsite was. It was the furthest away at a dead-end road. “There was a picnic table at your campsite, but we’ve been having a problem. Some people entered in from the woods and stole the picnic table, dragging it off into the forest.” This explained her frustration, and now I knew why there was a locked gate. But who comes from out of the woods and steals a picnic table? It seemed so odd. I wasn’t bothered by the fact I wouldn’t have a picnic table, but it was unsettling that people come from out of the woods and steal things.
I drove down the gravel path where it dead-ended at my campsite. I was farthest away I could be from any other camper in this campground, isolated. I stood there at my site and looked into the forest imagining some strange forest people emerging and scoping out what they could glean. Where were they coming from? What’s in those forests? Not having made the smartphone migration, I wasn’t accustomed to using any digital maps to check out my surroundings, so I just looked at that forest with a mysterious wonder, imagining people dragging picnic tables into its depths. Those were unsettling thoughts.
I drove back to the “recreation center” as it was called. It was like a community center in the campground next to the pool. There was a water dispenser and plastic KOA cups. I was a KOA fan and had never seen a KOA cup before. They were obviously meant to be taken. Souvenir! There I sat at a folding table, cracked open my Chromebook, connected to the wifi, and began transferring some of the photos from my point-and-shoot camera’s SD card to the Chromebook for backup and also to share some photos online. What an adventure thus far, from the Mojave Desert to the North Cascades in the Pacific Northwest. It was very relaxing to sit there for a while, and I was at great peace while looking at all these beautiful photos I had taken on my journey. I also proceeded to take a shower and was all refreshed and reset. Then I hopped back in my car and drove back down the dead-end to my campsite.
It was dark now, so there was a certain mysterious ambiance in the air. I stood there on the tent pad in the silence, alone, looking at the forest again. The host’s words reverberated in my ears, “Some people came from out of the woods…and stole the picnic table, hauling it into the forest.” I imagined them now hauling a body into the forest. I did not saunter over a decision. There was an unsettling vibe here. It was not strange enough to cause me to leave, but I was going to sleep in my car, and so I did.
More snow, more glacier lilies, more flopping marmots, more blue sky, more wandering mountain streams, more astounding views– they were all here. It was day two at Mount Rainier National Park in Washington state, and Zach and I were on our way to Panorama Point. This point was not on my itinerary for the day, but much had been shifted and changed. For the most part, my printed itinerary was ignored for this leg of the trip, and we were just feeling it out. I wasn’t going to stress about it either. I was learning to be more career free, trying to lessen my level of stress and go with the flow, as I was still concerned about my health. So once arriving at the park and observing the maps, a trail named the “Skyline” trail reaching a “Panorama Point,” stuck out to me. I figured places with such names would surely deliver satisfying views.
As we started off on the hike, we had to leave from the Paradise hub of the park and hike past Myrtle Falls again, which we had seen the evening before. The entirety of the hike was uphill, and “hill” is quite an appropriate term to describe the terrain although we were on a mountain side. For this mountside was composed of various hills and was a very wavy landscape. We’d round one hill, and the incline would lessen greatly for just a moment, and then we were traveling up another. The path we were on had been trodden enough that for the most part I could see the path clear from the snow with its natural gravel surface. Much of the trail was also outlined with rocks, but surrounding us, apart from the beginning meadows of glacier lilies, we were surrounded by snow. Slowly but surely we climbed higher, and Paradise was becoming smaller behind us. Reaching the higher snowy elevation of the hike, I noticed a giant gray rock canyon carved to our left by a glacier. The glacier was no longer there. It had melted down into Paradise, but its pathway was clearly visible.
The most astounding view of the trip was not the actual Panorama Point but when out in a fair distance beside us, on the snowy sloping landscape, with a giant rocks wall behind them, and glaciers looming over them, trekked a group of mountaineers. They were traveling all in a line, as in a train pointed upward diagonally. Each mountaineer was bundled up with winter gear: hoods, gloves, and large packs on their backs. They all had trekking poles, and it was obvious they were on their journey to summit Mount Rainier. The view of this train of mountaineers, so tiny and miniscule compared to the immensity of the mountain, added great perspective; and considering the notion they were on their way to the mountain peak on an impressive journey, sparked in me an exciting admiration for adventure. To be in their presence, if just for a moment, and yet at a distance, helped create this climate of sheer adventure! I wanted to summit Mt Rainier too!…but not this time.
When we reached Panorama Point after about three miles, there was a leveled area of gravel, outlined with rocks like the path was. It was also fenced in with a steel cable strung between some stakes. The Park Service didn’t want people on this trail going beyond this point obviously. From here there was a 360 degree view. Looking southward, the main attraction of the point were the sharp peaks of the Tatoosh Range. Although still quite grand in their rugged and sharp attire, they looked like miniature Tetons. From Paradise, the Tatoosh mountains stood tall, but from up here, we looked about level to them or down upon their peaks. Here we could also look down and see the Paradise Inn and the whole village far below. Here the marmors were trying to steal the show and grab everyone’s attention, posing majestically in the most dignified and stately ways, as if suddenly ignoring their rather goofy nature.
Turning to the east were many layers of mountains far in the distance, stretching on in immensity. They were of various dark blue shades. The closer ranges appeared darkest and the further ones lightened up just slight enough to create a contrast, and thus I could see there were four layers of mountain ranges on display, one in front of another. Behind us, to the north, was a mountain on display as well. First was a snowy stretch of mountainside, but behind it stood the mighty Mount Rainier ever so boldly with its crumbling glaciers. Completing the 360 panorama and turning to the west, two main features came into view: The entire glacier rock canyon I had seen climbing up was in prominent display, as a gouge or scar on the mountainside, and then next to it, down in the depths of a valley, was the Paradise River, snaking around the forest.
The views were nice, but I believe better views were seen elsewhere in the park. The greatest highlight of this hike was not in the views but was in the journey back down to Paradise. We decided not to complete the entire loop, as it would be a little bit longer and we wanted to preserve time to see some other places in the park, so we went back the same way we came… sort of. This time we did not stick to the path at all. Instead we slipped and slid down the mountainside, surfing all the wavy declining hills. We did so standing up on our feet. There was such a lack of friction between my boots and the snow, and such a perfect uniform slippery slushy icy consistency of the snow, that I was speeding down this mountainside. I’d launch myself forward and see how far I could keep the momentum. It was reminiscent of sliding across the newly polished wooden floor in socks as a kid, but here we were sliding down over great expanses, and it was exhilarating! I was surprised at the physics of this occurrence in that it was even possible. The fun icy descent had us back in Paradise in no time.
After a quick stop in the cafeteria for some burritos, we were back in the car. At eleven miles west on the park road, we stopped at Longmire, a historic section of the park with tales to be told. Here was a small flat prairie, surrounded by trees, and somewhere tucked away were mineral springs. This was the site where a man named John Longmire and his family had a homestead in the 1800s. It is also here where the Longmire’s opened a mineral springs resort. People with all sorts of illnesses came from all around the country to stay at the Longmire’s hotel and soak in the mineral springs. It was believed the waters had healing properties. Even doctors would prescribe patients to soak in these springs. Where are they? I questioned. I need to find them. Maybe the springs can heal my Ulcerative Colitis. It was unlikely but I was willing to try anything. If only I was here about two hundred years ago. The closest thing I found to a spring was some sort of water source pooling in bright orange. It very much resembled the leakage of abandoned coal mines I see in the forests of Kentucky, but it was likely the minerals of the spring oxidizing and changing color…It was not very appealing.
In this Longmire area was also a short path called the Trail of Shadows which traced a meadow, which next to stood a small collection of historic buildings from the Longmire’s resort days. They were all built in the rustic National Park Architecture style. The Longmire’s hotel today stands as the functional National Park Inn. Next to it was an old rustic gas station and “comfort station,” as they called it back in the day, with a tall stone foundation and an overhang with two old gas pumps that were probably once just more gas pumps in the wild. Another building that used to be the park headquarters is now a small museum on Longmire. It’s most fascinating feature to me were some antique taxidermied animals. Maybe it was their age or the way they were poorly put together, but to me they were funny, especially this taxidermied pine marten flaring its nostrils and showing its teeth, very territorial. As we meandered around the Trail of Shadows, at one point we veered off onto an unmarked path. We ended up crossing a suspension bridge and found a village of unmarked cabins. These weren’t on the map. There seemed to be one central building among them. We walked inside just for a moment, for I quickly realized we weren’t supposed to be here. There were couches, tables with board games, and a kitchenette. This was a part of a staff lodging complex. I concluded. It was like a community center. How cool it would be to work in a National Park for the summer, I thought. What a foreshadowing moment.
Just a couple miles up the road in the park was our campground at Cougar Rock where we had spent the night the night before. I thought of taking a break, hanging out at camp, maybe relaxing in the tent, perhaps doing some reading, regrouping and planning the rest of the evening. Our campsite was number 20, so there was a bit of slow driving through the campground to get to our site. When we arrived I was stunned to see our tents were not there. Someone else’s bright orange-colored dome tent was there instead. All our stuff was gone! I was completely taken off guard. Did someone steal our stuff? Did someone rob our campsite? How dare they! What a nightmare! I got out of the car for I was going to confront these imposters, but no one was there. The feeling of offense grew stronger. Then I looked to my right. Our tents and all our camping gear had been throw alongside the campground road. The audacity! Then I vaguely remembered something. I think at one park we are to switch sites in the midst of our stay…It wasn’t this one, already, was it? I pulled out my itinerary. I wanted to prove my suspicion wrong and reclaim my site with my reservation documentation. I unfolded my itinerary, and embarrassment immediately set in. I was the one at fault. We were the trespassers. We were the squatters. We were the offenders. We were at site 20, but we were supposed to have moved to site 2. I was embarrassed in front of Zach, to myself, and to whoever else might be in the campground watching us. We got back in the car and I drove to site 2. It wasn’t that far, only 18 sites away. I didn’t want to deflate my air mattress and deconstruct my tent, pack it in the car, only having to reassemble everything. Instead I decided to take a walk of shame, picking up my tent with the air mattress and all inside it. The tent floor was sagging greatly as I was walking it down the road to our new site. I succeeded at trying not to notice anyone else around me, for my head hung low in shame. Back at the tent I situated everything in its place, and carried on, hoping to blend back in among the other campers in the campground.
I don’t recall what Zach was up to at this moment. I was probably too inner focused on my own embarrassment, but when camp was reassembled, I proceeded to seek out some firewood to purchase for a fire we’d have at night to cook our soup, and I rested my head in my tent and read some more of my book on wolves. After a brief rest, we took the short trail from our campground to Carter Falls. The trail was a 1.3 mile segment of the Wonderland Trail, which in its entirety is over ninety miles. We rushed along the path beside Paradise River to the falls, which spilled down from about fifty feet in height. It’s described as a “horse-tail” falls, but the falls splits in two over a protruding rocks, near its top, to create almost two side by side falls. So I guess its a “horse-tail” falls if the horse has two tails. It was a pleasant fall for such a short hike from camp, but nothing to really write home about. It reminded me much of a fall I’d seen in the Great Smoky Mountains.
After our quick visit to the falls, we drove back to Paradise. I wanted to hang out in the Paradise Inn again like we did the evening before. There was a balcony up by the rafters in the eves of the roof with wooden desk and warm lamps. I bought some hot tea from the inn’s cafe and a few more postcards. I’d fill them out as well as update our happenings in my journal. When I went to purchase my postcards I also bought a green bandana that itself was an artistic map of the National Parks of the Pacific Northwest, of Olympic, Mount Rainier, and the North Cascades. It was a perfect souvenir covering all those parks.
When night set in, we headed back to the campsite, and this time our tents were still there. Phew! I started a fire. I peeled the label off my can of soup and opened its lid. I set it just aside the fire. It was time for supper. This would be the concluding night of our stay in Mount Rainier National Park. This was also the last full day of Zach on this summer’s adventure. The next day, as planned, I’d take him to the airport in Seattle to travel back to Kentucky. Though this leg of the adventure was over, I had much still before me as a solo traveler. I would go on a backpacking adventure in North Cascades National Park, venture on to Lake Roosevelt, and would make my acquaintance with the national park of all National Parks: Glacier. My health was also about to take a turn for the worse. I’d struggle physically, have to come to terms with reality, learn how to accept it, and find the resolve to carry on amidst hardship.
“Of all the fine mountains which like beacons, once blazed along the Pacific Coast, Mount Rainier is the noblest.” – John Muir
Cars were backed up to get into this park. I could see just a little bit up the forested road to the entrance gate. There a large wooden sign hung down from a rustic pine log which laying there, propped up by other pines on either side, had constructed an archway- a portal into the park. Its letters were all upper-case, bold, and carved simply into the sign. The grooves painted white displayed “MT. RAINIER NATIONAL PARK.”
This was a top tier national park, our nation’s third behind Yellowstone and Yosemite, created in 1899 by President William McKinley signing a bill passed by Congress. This park is named and centered around one mountain peak, but deservingly so. MountRainier is a giant at 14,411 ft. It is visible throughout most of the state of Washington and has the most glaciers than any other peak in the contiguous United States with a whopping total of 26 glaciers. We had seen this mountain much earlier in the day, traveling from the Olympic peninsula around Tacoma. It was a magnificent bold giant standing in the distance. Over the course of hours we noticed it growing bigger as we drew closer to it. Now we were at the mountain’s base about to enter the National Park!
Once officially inside, passing beneath the enormous sign and log beams, flashing my park pass and getting my park map, the road immediately began to gradually ascend. We were on our way to the Paradise village area of the park on the side of the mountain. There in Paradise was a visitor center, a lodge, and a network of trails. On our ascent through the thick rich forest, I stopped at one point to hop out onto a short path to a platform overlook nestled between the dark pines. There at the platform’s edge I beheld the amazing wonder of Nisqually Glacier tearing down the mountainside. Up until this point this was one, if perhaps not the most, impressive view in nature. It was my first time observing a glacier- the breaking ripples of ice, deep grooves, sharp edges rolling over and tearing down the mountainside, but all seemingly still. It was action frozen in time to my eyes. I observed a depth of snow and ice I had never witnessed before, and as the glacier spread down the mountains I saw the enormous gorge it had created over many years, carving away at the mountainside. Although there was a plaque labeling Nisqually Glacier, I believe, after considering the park map, I was also looking at two other glaciers in the same view: Wilson Glacier and Von Trump Glacier. It’s hard to differentiate between all the glaciers as they run so close to each other and at times converge.
Van Trump Glacier was named after Philemon Beacher Van Trump, an American pioneering mountaineer who made the first recorded summit of Mount Rainier. He wrote: “That first true vision of the mountain, revealing so much of its glorious beauty and grandeur, its mighty and sublime form filling up nearly all of the field of direct vision, swelling up from the plain and out of the green forest till its lofty triple summit towered immeasurably above the picturesque foothills, the westering sun flooding with golden light and softening tints its lofty summit, rugged sides and far-sweeping flanks – all this impressed me so indescribably, enthused me so thoroughly, that I then and there vowed, almost with fervency, that I would some day stand upon its glorious summit, if that feat were possible to human effort and endurance.”
Unlike P.B. Van Trump, I would not be summiting Mount Rainier, but I shared in his admonishment of the mountain, and around its base and on its mountainside I would experience many of its rich wonders. With just one up-close and unobstructed view, it was love at first sight!
“Let’s go!”
We got back in the car and continued on our way to Paradise. It was about twenty miles of meandering parkway that climbed and switch-backed up to 5,400 feet. At Paradise the mountain peak was on full display. The terrain had leveled to an extent to allow the construction of the large visitor center, lodge, and ample parking. I was anxious to get outside. Breaking my usual protocol, I took to a trail before even watching the park film. We’d do that later.
Zach and I started on Nisqually Vista Loop. It’s supposed to be a casual paved loop, but pavement was only visible for a few yards, the rest was buried under multiple feet of snow. We slid, ran, trudged, fell, and laughed our way around the loop. The mountain peak with its great and scarring glaciers came into view every once in a while through the lodge-pole pine trees, and at the trail’s furthest reach we had an unobstructed view of the mountain while on enormous continuous icescape that stretched up the mountainside connecting to the glacier’s ripples. Although it was summer, and I was wearing gym shorts, this place had so much ice and so much snow, that I felt so far in the North, in an extreme arctic landscape. The one thing I had to overlook, however, was the air temperature, as it wasn’t very cold out at all.
At one point on our hike we heard water rushing. We paused and tried to figure out where it was coming from, just to come to the realization that it was beneath us. A mountain stream was flowing beneath the snow. We then encountered a few cavities in the snow just wide enough to fit a body. So taking turns we both hopped down, our boots landing in the shallow stream, and we raised our hands up out of the hole, taking each other’s photo trying for the illusion that we had been buried in snow.
When we completed the loop, we went into the visitor center. It was quite large, with lots of ample space for sitting in its spacious lobby beneath a combination of timber and iron framework that supported a pointed ceiling. Its walls were almost entirely glass, giving way to much light, especially with all the sun reflecting off the snowy landscape outside. The visitor center had museum exhibits on the park on its second floor which was a combination of loft and balcony. We went into the theater to see the park film, of which I remember nothing, probably because this mountain did not need a film to speak for it. It was so grandiose and commanding of attention, that any measly park film was greatly overshadowed. After the park film, we had a quick bite to eat in the cafeteria there in the visitor center, and then we were back on the trails to visit Myrtle Falls.
Our short hike to Myrtle Falls was lovely. I think typically it’s only about a half mile walk one way on pavement, but it was a bit more of hike for use trudging over snow banks, perhaps wandering off the official route at times, observing the many marmots lounging and flopping around, and admiring the alpine meadows full of blooming glacier lilies. We concluded our hike at around two miles. Here we weren’t exactly above the tree line, for small groupings of pines could be seen at the fringe edges of the meadows, but largely we were above the trees in rolling meadows of the mountainside. Despite it being a sunny day with a nice rich blue sky, we were cast in the shadow of a foothill, a ridge on the mountainside. As we approached the falls, we saw it sprawling down into a Edith Creek Gorge, chillingly cold in the shadows, water falling and tumbling over water, streams cascading upon protruding rocks behind the many paths of the water falling. It was a rather simple, but beautiful water fall, as from the creek it sort of bloomed as it fell, branching out in many streams down into the gorge. Just above the falls was where the trail led to a pedestrian polebridge perhaps about thirty feet long, made of timber from the forest. Behind the view of the falls, the bridge, the creek, the snow banks, and the flower laden meadows, was the towering Mount Rainier. Its highest reaches were adorned with the silver lining from the sun peeking out from behind some adjoining ridge with a cast stretching just far enough to barely reach the top of the mountain.
With all the movement of water sprawling in every which way, falling, and cascading; and glacier lilies feeding off the melting snow, the marmots flopping around, the tourists delighting on meandering paths and trudging through snow, I thought about how rich of a place this was. I also considered how we were up high on the mountainside, and below was a rich forest, full of more waterfalls and streams, thick pines, and forest growth; with bears, mountain lions, bobcats, foxes, minks, and all the other wild animals and tweeting birds of the forest. This mountain provided so much life! It was truly rich. I’ve written about how we can liken mountains to people. There are so many different types of mountains which exhibit the different kinds of influence and character of which a person can behold.
I started this summer’s journey in the Mojave desert where the mountains surrounding are largely dry, harsh, and bare. They lack the richness of a place like this. They do not support an abundance of life. There is no richness of the forest like on this mountainside.
Mount Rainier with its glaciers melting feeds the forest around it. Not only can I liken this mountain to Wheeler Peak, being bold and unwavering, but this mountain is also very life-giving. Like a nurse log, it provides rich nutrients, giving life to the forest around it through its supply of melting ice, and its delicate balance of sunlight and shade. However, unlike a nurse log, this mountain is not dead. It’s alive. I say it’s alive on the basis that it is an active volcano. Thus here lies the message: though nurse logs provide great insight showing us how even when we are dead, we can provide life to future generations, we provide life to others while still alive as well, just like Mount Rainier. I know this may seem maybe even more obvious than the nurse log analogy, but I think we ought to be aware that we should not over focus on our efforts of what we can leave behind while ignoring who we are and what we can do in the present. We have the immeasurable benefit and advantage of our present life. We can use it to take hold of the life books of others and write into them powerful influence, whether it be in the form of encouragement, instruction, giving… Whatever it is we do, we do not do it alone, as to do so would be in vain. We do everything through the power of Christ in our lives. We may be the mountains that provide for the richness of life around us, but who provides the weather to bring snow upon our mountains? Who causes the sun to shine on our side? Who causes the water to melt and fall? Who brings the flowers to bloom? This makes me think of Scripture, of all the mentions of bearing fruit spiritually. To bear fruit spiritually is to be like Mount Rainier. Look at the life flourishing around it. There is evidence of God at work here, and there would be much more to consider and write about here in regards to the powerful symbolism of Mount Rainier.
When we were done with our hike we went back to Paradise Inn next to the visitor center. It was an inn of beautiful rustic National Park architecture style, cozy and woodsy, with wood logs beams stretching in every direction, an “A frame” roof, dangling native american style lanterns, a blazing fireplace, and inviting little nooks to relax in. It was a great sanctuary from he snow and he evening cold outside. There I bought some tea and wrote some postcards.
Leaving the lodge, getting ready to head down the mountainside to our site at Cougar Rock Campground, a beautiful sunset was on display with deep rich pinks and purples. The sunset reflected off the snow on the mountain peaks, providing colorful stretches of snow. Wow! It was a sunset so perfectly reflective of a mountain so rich in life. Its colors were so vibrant and deep. Most of the tourists were gone. The area was silent and serene. I had to pause a moment to take it in. John Muir knew what he was saying when he said Mount Rainier was the noblest of peaks.
When their procession was over there were nineteen mountain goats in total just a stone’s throw away. We were on the trail to Klahhane Ridge in Olympic National Park. The path was just a small one trodden into the side of the mountainous ridge. To detour left from the trail would be dangerous as the mountainside was sloped so steeply, and to the right it would be perilous as well. Although it was pretty and ladened in wild grasses and flowers, it too was steep and plummeted down into the valley. The truth is, this path was probably the mountain’s goats’ path before it ever was a trail in the national park. The mountain goats were loyal to this path. One by one they rounded the bend and emerged from a pocket of pine forest to this open mountainside. I’ve heard they can be aggressive when approached, and I noticed a few patriarchs of the band with tall sharp black daggers for horns. Behind them were the women and children, or I guess technically the “nannies” and their “kids”. They were all so beautiful with long coats of fur. Some of the more mature goats had strands of fur dangling from them, like the moss laid on the trees. Some of the strands of fur caught in the breeze and wisped around. It was summer shedding season, and it was obvious these goats had been carrying fur to the max. They were drenched in it, except for the young kids. Their fur was short, fluffy, and perfectly white and pure.
Enough observing, a decision had to be made on the part of Zach and myself. The mountain goats were not the least bit inhibited by our presence, and continued walking toward us, potentially posing a threat. They had to have noticed us, but they didn’t acknowledge us. They continued about their parade, walking along their path, although not with a prideful march. They were certainly not pompous, nor were they timid. They seemed to not have a care and continued on with a quiet and steady confidence.
I had learned from the Rock the Park show that making spitting noises can deter mountain goats. I didn’t know at the time why, but later I looked into it and learned that it’s the sound male mountain goats make to warn aggressors to retreat. So, per my lead, Zach and I started making spitting noises. The goats showed no alarm, but it did work perhaps, for casually they climbed off the trail and down onto the steep grassy slope, an area Zach and I could not have gone down for we don’t have that sort of mountain goat balance and maneuvering ability. Here they were on full display as a band. I was thrilled at the spectacle of mature mountain goats, in white shaggy fur, on a steep mountainside, contrasting the dark rich blue of the forested mountains behind them capped with snow; and the innocent little kids, taking careful steps in the wild grasses alongside wild mountain flowers. Once we felt at ease seeing the goats travel off the path, Zach and I paused to revel in the moment, exclaim to each other how cool it was, and take photos.
This wasn’t our first wildlife encounter on this hike. When I parked the car at the Hurricane Ridge Visitor Center, right along the parking lot were four deer grazing in the grass. One was a buck with its young rack of fuzzy antlers. He was laying down but had his head propped up, alert, as if looking out for the female’s feasting in the grass nearby who came very close to us as we were observing them. I suppose this event was foreshadowing of the richness of wildlife and close proximity to it we’d encounter on this trail.
The trail was 7.6 miles in total, starting from the visitor center and ending for us at Klahhane Ridge, although this was just a segment of a much larger network of trails. The path held snug to the side of the mountain nearly the whole time, not on a ridge but close to one. It meandered through open grassy slopes and patches of pines. Some of the pines had very shaggy bark and were ladened with moss, especially as we gradually climbed higher.
In the open grassy areas, we would see the trail ahead snake among the mountain side. To see it slither along added great perspective to the mountainous scene. To our right, in the distance, the Cascade Mountain range sprawled. It was an overcast day, but the clouds were high enough that even the tallest mountain peaks were not covered. What the clouds did do was darken the forest, making the mountains a deep navy blue with their snowy peaks really popping out. No mountain really stood out from another. Instead it was one after another, rather uniformly, with short divots and valleys between them, and each mountain plateauing at about the same height. They stood tall like soldiers in uniform, guarding the way eastward.
Alongside our path and down the grassy mountainside were a plethora of wildflowers. As Zach had studied up on them in the visitor center, he was able to identify and call some out by name. There was one with many delicate little white petals that were brushed with pink at their veins and fine edges. Its leaves were stringy pale yellow and green, and they sprawled out like spaghetti. They were a region specific plant called Olympic Onion, actually producing a bulb that is edible and produced commercially. Another wildflower spotted was White Avalanche Lily with its bursting star bloom and dotted with yellow at its pistil. Each one stood in its own space, seeming very independent, spaced out from its counterparts. They weren’t like some wild flowers that seem more like city-dwellers, crammed into a small space together. These lilies were country folk. They had their own space, their own plot of land, their own hardy independence. At one point we came across patches of a stalky plant bearing multiple tubular bright purple blooms. They are called Penstemon and remind me a lot of Blue Bells. These were all subalpine flowers.
This hike really made me aware of how far north we were and not just in terms of the nation’s edge and proximity to Canada, but also in terms of elevation too with mountains, goats, patches of snow, deep mountainous ravines, subalpine blooms, and an arctic touch in the breeze every once in a while. As were climbed in elevation on our windy path, we at one point ascended a series of switchbacks, and there at the higher elevation were marmots, those funny whistling flopping, nervous little guys, those beavers of the mountain, as I call them for their flabby appearance and prominent two front incisors. They smile and run, call out in a loud beeping sort of whistle, or lounge around in the sun. To me they are just simply a funny animal in appearance and behavior. They are delightful.
When we reached our journey’s farthest peak we beheld an incredible vista. We could see out to the ocean, an inlet of the Pacific called the Salish Sea which gives way to numerous straits around Vancouver and the San Juan islands. Also boldly and majestically stood Mt. Baker on the edge of North Cascades National Park, between Seattle and Vancouver, although neither city was visible. The mountain was still around 150 miles away, but it was clearly visible with one enormous rounded peak covered in snow and another jutting peak down its side. We sat down and beheld the vista. What an enormous view! We could see so far and even see the ocean yet feeling nowhere near it.
As we were sitting there, enjoying the view and pointing things out, out of the corner of my eye I spotted something moving. I looked down to see a chipmunk getting a little too close to my backpack laying on the ground by my feet. I grabbed the backpack up, knowing the critter probably wouldn’t think twice of going inside in search of food. This chipmunk was familiar with humans. I could tell. I had no plans of carrying a chipmunk down off Klahhane Ridge. No one should feed wildlife, and there are rules and even laws against it, but before I had time to say anything, Zach had a piece of a Clif Bar in his hand which the chipmunk was eating from. Zach then reached down with his other hand to pet the little rodent’s back. After one swift swoop down the back of its coat with his finger, the chipmunk took off.
I planned to stay here a while. I had no rush to get away from this great view, so I settled in the spot I was sitting, clearing away some small uncomfortable rocks beneath me. From my backpack I was guarding from the chipmunk, I took out my new book: The Wisdom of Wolves. “Storytime?” I proposed. I proceeded to read the introduction of the book out loud and Zach listened.
On our hike back down Klahhane Ridge we saw more marmots, deer, and wildflowers. When we reached the car, we could agree we had completed a truly satisfying and rewarding hike. It had some of the greatest elements that make for a good hike: great wildlife spotting, diversity of plants to observe, mountainous views the entire way, and a majestic overlook at its furthest reach. Although the day was a great one, night was soon coming, and things would take another turn. Things were about to get rocky.
I wasn’t going to let this happen again– the stress of nearly running out of gas. We were still on our visit in Olympic National Park in Washington, but as access to the park was split up by various types of land allotments, now we were on a small piece of Indian reservation at a gas station in front of a casino. I noticed the price was $3.19 per gallon which seemed cheap after braving the gas prices elsewhere in the Pacific Northwest. I’d notice in a few days gas prices plummet leaving Washington into Idaho and Montana, which was not much of a curiosity considering the states’ politics and their effects on their economies. Here at the Indian reservation casino gas station I filled up. When I went inside the gas station convenience store, I was surprised by free coffee and tea. I got a cup of orange spice tea to calmly ease into the morning. Then we were back in the car for a short drive into the park to the Hurricane Ridge area.
A few days prior, leaving the Chateau at Oregon Caves National Monument, driving through the long expanse of national forest, we were low on gas. We were also in a very remote area, and when we finally reached an isolated gas station there was a sign that read “cash only.” We had the cash but perhaps were here too early, for no one was working. Zach couldn’t use his phone to look up the next nearest gas station either, because we were out of service range, but I was able to search in my GPS. The next nearest gas station was thirty miles away! I wasn’t sure if we would make it, or if it was even en route, but it was the only option unless we were to wait a few hours to see if someone would show up to work at this gas station. What if they didn’t? It would be a morning wasted.
So we journeyed on. There was an uncomfortable silence in the car. I probably wasn’t the only one questioning my judgment. Out the window was merely pine tree after pine tree- no people, no cars, no buildings, just the forest and us. Mile after mile, it was all in uniform, and the road was straight and unending in the dark morning forest. It made me wonder if we were getting deeper in the wild, further from any civilization. Normally I’d like this, but not without gas! There was more and more of the same drawing on, and according to the vehicle’s interface, we were out of gas. Yet we were still moving. I was starting to feel the regret and dread of relying on this GPS. It seemed to be leading us astray, then…
“You have reached your destination,” the GPS sounded. As my journal details, I didn’t think this was in operation, but I pulled up to the singular pump. There was no store and no booth, but attached to the gas pump was a curly coiled wire phone. Zach pointed to the sign.
“For gas dial 1,” it read. We looked at each other with probably the same thought. We were puzzled. What’s going to happen? We hadn’t seen anyone, just trees for dozens of miles. Was someone or something going to pop out of the forest and pump our gas? Is this sasquatch’s gas pump? I opened the car door and stepped out. The forest was silent. I lifted the phone and held it to my ear. To my surprise there was a dial tone. I punched in a “1.” It rang!
“Hello,” The muffled voice came through the receiver.
“Hi. I was wondering if I could get some gas.” I believe I was too puzzled and confused to have even considered the pleasantry of bidding a “good morning.”
“I’ll be right there.”
This might actually work.
We waited, looking around with suspicious anticipation in every direction.
After just a couple minutes, we saw a golf cart coming down the road- our rescue!
A pleasant older man in flannel and blue jean overalls asked how much gas we wanted. I handed him a $20. “Sorry about the wait,” he apologized, although it wasn’t much of a wait at all. “I had to find my keys at the lodge.” I concluded there was some lodge I was unaware of, and this was their gas pump. The golf cart was used to travel around their property.
“No problem,” I responded. “Thank you.”
And we were on our merry way.
That was four days earlier, and I wasn’t going to find myself stuck in that sort of situation again, and that is why I filled up. In the far remote West, with distances so grand and gas stations so rare. Every opportunity to fill up should be carefully considered. Take advantage of any gas pump in the wild.
We eventually reached the Hurricane Ridge section of the park. We were getting ready to hike about seven miles to Klahhane Ridge. There was a visitor center, and of course I had to go in. There wasn’t much to see for it was a small place. I was engrossed in the literature, the books for sale, while Zach found a binder on display with pictures and information to identify wild flowers. He studied up on the flora for the day. I ended up buying a book about wolves. The cover of the wolf’s piercing stare drew me in. Back at the car, we geared up for a beautiful hike on a trail loaded with wild flowers, majestic view, and lots of wildlife (but no wolves).
And experience with the gas pump inspired me to write this song…
Ode to the Gas Pump in the Wild
Driving through the wild, beneath the towering trees, Feeling the stress as the gasoline quickly depletes. In Siskiyou National Forest, a land so vast and grand, But stranded in the woods, was not what we had planned. Miles of pine trees, stretching, nothing in sight, Will anyone be our rescue, or will our day turn into night?
O gas pump in the wild, like a lifeboat in the sea, Rescue us from drowning, would you pretty please?
Then a glimmer of hope, a steeple in the pines, A chance to refuel? Hopeful as a child. With a phone on the pole we dialed for our need, And from the forest’s depths, came our lovely savior’s steed. A golf cart in the distance, rolling into sight, An old man with a smile, making everything alright. In flannel and overalls, this man helped save the day, He powered up the gas pump and sent us on our way.
O gas pump in the wild, like a lifeboat in the sea, Rescue us from drowning, would you pretty please?
In the remote West, where gas is rare and few, Seize every opportunity to safely see you through. If it’s just a little gas pump, hidden in the trees, It may be a lifeline, setting you at ease. So now we hike the trails, where the wildflowers abound, Learning of the animals of which us surround. Here at Hurricane Ridge is where we will happily be With gratitude to the gas pump forever endlessly.
O gas pump in the wild, like a lifeboat in the sea , Rescue us from drowning, would you pretty please?
Gas pump in the wild, a sanctuary found, In the midst of nature’s bounty, you wear the crown With this adventure’s end, there’s a story to compile, Of a journey’s uncertain detour forever worthwhile. So here’s to the gas pump, a tale to be told, Along the Rogue River, where memories unfold. Of a certain lonely gas pump, that will always be In my adventurous heart forever endlessly.
It was right there, a bear, not more than twenty feet in front of me! I had been strolling along a trail in the Hoh rainforest of Olympic National Park. Bears were not on my mind. Then suddenly, rounding a bend in the path, came the bear. I was headed towards it. It was headed towards me! It all happened so quickly. There wasn’t time for keen observation, just reaction…and a photo. The bear seemed not the least bit inhibited by my presence. It just kept walking on the path towards me in the mere seconds this all went down. I, on the other hand, had fear struck into me. I was that tourist taken off guard.
Now this bear was only a black bear, with much less potential of danger than a grizzly bear, but a bear is still a bear, and the visual of a pitch black coat rounding a bend, contrasting with the greenery of the rainforest, was anything but subtle. Unless a domestic pet, animals with no fear towards humans usually should be of concern. This part of the rainforest was thick with ferns, thus there was no space to get out of its way alongside the path, except by braving the wild undergrowth of the rainforest and whatever lurked in there. So I turned and ran. My own human instinct kicked in. When I look back at the photo I managed to capture in the midst of my quick escape, I find this bear to be quite small. Having much more experiences with bears since, I find myself near ready to mock my former self for my own startlement by this bear, but it was a quick matter of instinct and reaction. I had not been expecting to see a bear at all because I had associated bears with thick pine forests, but I was in a rainforest, and in my mind bears were just not associated with rainforests.
Also, despite hiking, I had also been relaxing. I guess you could say I had let my guard down. Recently I found myself to be rushing too much and allowing myself to be stressed by trying to make this adventure experience worthwhile for my travel companion, Zach. Today I thought I’d seize any opportunities to relax, and this trail would afford one such opportunity to really do so. We started the hike from the Hoh Rainforest visitor center on the Hall of Mosses, surrounded by not just tourists, but trees dripping with mosses. It hung on their sprawling branches like drapery, reminding me of some photos I’ve seen of the humid deep South and the trees that rest on some former plantations. Their trunks were also covered from the forest floor to their highest reaches in moss. Among these moss-ladened trees were other deciduous trees in the forest, and a forest floor nearly covered in ferns. In any area there weren’t ferns, there were other green plants stretching out to fill the voids. The humidity, the hanging moss, the lack of pine trees, wasn’t something I’d associate with the far North. It’d be more appropriate from my own experiences to believe I was in the United States’ deep South or the jungles of South America, but no, I was in the far reaches of the U.S. on the Olympic peninsula.
After we completed the 1.1 mile loop of the Hall of Mosses, Zach and I took off down the Hoh River trail. It was very similar in nature to the Hall of Mosses, except instead of a loop, it was a rather straight path parallel to the river. After a few miles on that trail, I saw a small breakaway from the path, an outlet down to the banks of the Hoh River. It was nice to get a break from the thick forest in an area where the river created a natural clearing where we could see the sky, the mountains, and look out upon a larger landscape, but our attention was also focused downward because in a still pool alongside the river was an utterly bustling cloud of tadpoles. They were thick, chunky tadpoles with well-rounded bodies, and quickly moving tales, storming around each other in sheer chaos. It was really quite a grotesque display of nature, an unsettling visual, but terribly unique of an experience and fascinating in that. The size of these tadpoles spoke of the large frogs or toads they’d become.
After observing those creatures, I noticed the warmth of the sun on my skin and the peacefulness of the river. Its nearby ruffle was soothing to the ears. There were patches of sand amidst the rocks, and in one I set down my backpack as a pillow. “Let’s take a few minutes and just relax,” I proposed. I laid down and closed my eyes. I knew the healing power of the sun when it comes to body inflammation, and I wanted the sun to just envelop me in its healing power. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. This is what I believed I was lacking. I needed more time like this to relax in nature instead of always being on the move. I prayed for my health, and I wanted to fall asleep to wake up with a refreshed feeling of renewal. I didn’t fall asleep, but I took time, with my eyes closed, to focus intently on the sounds around me, trying to distinguish each sound, focusing on each one at a time. First I tuned into a bird’s call, then a frog’s ribbit, then the ruffling of the river. This practice is something I’ve found very relaxing. After about twenty minutes of laying there on the river’s shore, we were back on the trail. I was slow-moving purposely, trying to have a relaxing stroll through the rainforest, keeping my body down from its recently normal state of intensity to that of peace and calm…then…. suddenly… a bear!
I was the first to spot the bear. I turned around, pushing Zach who was behind me and urging him to run. “There’s a bear!” I pointed my camera behind me as I ran to capture a photo. Eventually the trail opened up where the rainforest floor stood barren around some trees, an obvious place where people have stopped to take breaks. There was also a couple there, hauling their own backpacks. We stopped. “There’s a bear just up ahead,” we warned. ”It’s right on the trail.” They were going the other way, so it wasn’t of much concern to them.
Zach and I assessed the situation, and decided, since the bear did not make its appearance to us again, and it had plenty of time to catch up to us, it must have ventured off into the forest. So we decided to turn back around and continue on our hike cautiously. We concluded our journey at a beautiful waterfall. It was maybe forty feet tall and was a double fall in that the water fell into one pool and shortly after down into another. Some limbless fallen tree trunks covered in moss laid at its base, adding size perspective to the scene. Moss also snuggly held onto all the surrounding rocks of the falls as well, making the scene very green. We had seen the falls from the trail, and following Zach’s off-trail lead, we bushwhacked through the ferns and rainforest undergrowth close enough to shake the falls hand.
When I think back to this day and I consider the encounter with the bear, I think there must be a message here, a purpose for this encounter. Maybe the message wasn’t evident then, but the purpose could be found now in reflecting back upon the event. As I’ve sauntered over this thought, I’ve come to some great parallels.
Now, first off, I am a big fan of bears. Visually they are stunning. They are such an intelligent creature, and one of God’s greatest beasts. I respect their strength, their space, and existence, but for the sake of this analogy, I’m going to liken the bear to the enemy. I’m imagining bears as spiritual beasts, things dark, dangerous, and destructive to our spiritual lives.
Now, as for us, we are on a journey through the jungle of life. Some people wander aimlessly in the jungle, lost. They have no direction. They are riddled with fear, anxiety, and hopelessness. Spiritually they are hungry and desperate for they haven’t found the spirit sustaining substance of God’s Word. Others don’t think they are lost, for they are on a path, a very wide and well traveled path. It lures with the prospect of encountering great treasure buried deep in the jungle. The travelers think wealth and prosperity is their destination, but they are lost too, for this wide path leads really to nowhere of good consequence but rather to destruction. It leads off a cliff edge, down a waterfall, and into a mountain lion den, but little do they know this. Then there is the God fearing man who follows a path that is narrow through the jungle. Its tightly accompanied by flora and fauna of all kinds which can cause great distraction, but the man sticks to the straight and narrow along the River of Life, the flow of God’s grace and mercy (or in this case, the Hoh River). Others have been on this path before. Great spiritual leaders and people of incredible faith, great “Nurse Logs” and “Wheeler Peaks,” led by God himself, have helped clear this path with wisdom and knowledge. With their great machetes, spiritual fortitude, and grit, they have helped clear the path for us. This spiritual path, though leading to the very physical presence of God and the safest place to be in the jungle, is not isolated from trouble. It exists yet in a spiritual realm of all forces, good and evil. There are the creatures of darkness that try to disrupt our journey, our progress. Unexpectedly they come onto the path with the intent to kill, steal, and destroy. They threaten to take us off the path, or send us backward, running away from the pursuit of God.
Now not all these spiritual creatures are the same. Just as not all bears are the same. Black bears are generally fearful of humans. Of course there are exceptions, like the one I encountered this day, but typically they instinctively fear what man can do to them. They run off in the presence of man, and man can run off from them, as I’ve done a few times, but then there are grizzly’s which are much more territorial. Although their threat is overhyped they have been known to attack on occasion, and grizzly bears are not to be run away from. When presented with a running human, it is of their nature to chase the human. A grizzly bear must be handled differently from a black bear, and if all strategies fail, you have to fight it.
So first let’s examine the spiritual black bears. They are spiritual beasts that cower. They usually get out of the way in fear. Sometimes we don’t even know these beasts were just up ahead on the trail. They are those animals we never knew were there on trail, because the animals heard or smelled our presence first, and in fear, ran away. There are beasts of the spiritual world that are in great fear of the presence of the Christian who beholds the Holy Spirit. When we behold the Holy Spirit, these spiritual creatures are truly mortified. They simply cannot encounter the presence of God or be touched at all by the light of his glory. They run away. With God’s Spirit dwelling in the Christian, so many encounters with spiritual beasts are avoided.
This gives me, and should give you, a great deal of confidence. For example, I’m not one who believes in ghosts, but I most certainly believe in demons and think the two are often confused. I have been in places that are supposedly “haunted” before, but I disregarded these stories as any danger to myself. Because even if people did have chilling encounters with the spiritual in these places, I know I wouldn’t because of God living in me. The powers of darkness flee in my presence, but not because of my actual presence, but of His presence in me. Hence, I have not a single “ghost” story to tell. This also explains why sometimes people say my presence emits a peacefulness and sense of safety. That is not of me. Sometimes my human mind is fraught with concern, but despite that, there is God’s presence dwelling in me. The mere presence of a Christian in whom the Spirit of God dwells is very powerful and influential to the spiritual forces at work in the world.
Then, there is another form of spiritual beast. We can call it the grizzly. It’s a specifically tailored one. It does not flinch. It is concocted by the devil himself and released on our path strategically. Sometimes it tries to avoid the Christian for it too is fearful, but when it is encountered, it usually will not flee in our presence but it will approach. It’s also very territorial. The territory it wants, that it thinks it is entitled to, is you! It’s a stalking creature, and thus, in this aspect, more like a mountain lion than a bear. It also strategically strikes in time of peace. Here’s the thing, we are not to fear these creatures either. God has equipped us with the power and tools to defeat them, but sometimes we are not prepared. We are taken off guard.
In times of peace and security, when we have taken a relaxing break by the riverside, enjoying the sunlight, and strolling pleasantly through life, watching the tadpoles, sometimes we can become very relaxed in our spiritual lives. We become complacent. We drift away from the Word, from daily prayer and devotion to God. We stop asking questions of faith and pursuing the knowledge of God. Subconsciously we default to, we don’t need any of that now because we are traveling along this path just fine. Then the spiritual beast appears, the bear comes right out of the jungle. It comes near us and we are unprepared. We are not armed up with the spiritual armor of God. Our Shield of Faith is in the backpack, we left the Sword of the Spirit at home, and the Belt of Truth is in the car. It’s not to say we are hopeless. We are not, but we face a lot more turmoil trying to pull ourselves together, and in the meantime we may experience a lot more headache and heartache that we would not have if we had been equipped. The lesson here is that in times of peace and comfort, when the sun is shining and the river is just ruffling, we need to work out our faith, to sharpen the sword, to affix that armor. In practical terms, these are times we need to be really delving into His Word, meditating on it day and night, to pray without ceasing, to ask God questions and pursue His truth, to continue to grow and fortify our faith. Imagine a fully armored Christian encountering a spiritual grizzly on the trail. It approaches the Christian, attempting to bring chaos and destruction into His life, but there’s not even a match here. Nothing is a threat to a Christian in the fully affixed Armor of God.
This is not all to say that even the fortified devoted Christian is not met with great challenges and pain. Remember this second kind of beast is tailored specifically for its assaultant. The stronger the Christian, the greater the beast. Even the strongest Christians sometimes go through immense heartache and headache, but rooted in Christ, they are standing on a solid rock out in the tumultuous waves of the Pacific. They know the battle is already one. They are able to endure the pain with peace and resolve that is deeper than human understanding, because it is of God and not themselves. In my own life I have a specific tailored beast. It is that of ulcerative colitis. Although some may dismiss it as a purely physical ailment, the physical and spiritual and intertwined. When I am sick, it does affect me spiritually. For someone who is so active and tries to be so healthy, when I lose my health, I feel like my life is ripped from me. It can be devastating. It has the potential to take a serious spiritual toll. I certainly view my sickness as an attack from the enemy. However, during this summer’s adventure I’d soon come to the realization that even if I’m not physically healed, I can win the battle spiritually. No physical ailment needs to have dominion over my life.
Oftentimes when we are strolling along the path in the jungle, at peace, we lose sight that we are in spiritual war. All of life is a spiritual war. There are moments of peace between battles, which we are to enjoy, but just because we are not engaged in a battle at the moment, does not mean the war itself is over and we have the luxury of letting our guard down. In any war, you use the in-between time to train, fortify, plan, and strategize for the next move.
To liken all of life to spiritual war may sound pessimistic, but I don’t think it is so. Even if it sounds so, it’s an unavoidable reality that I’ve come to terms with. But I don’t view it as pessimistic because there is a great Hope. It is knowing through Christ Jesus the battle is already won and we have the presence of God with us! When we engage in spiritual battle, we participate in this victory. What an incredible honor and responsibility. It also brings us back to Scripture and prayer. We should never take such things merely casually or as ineffective. Our sincere time in Scripture and our prayers are never wasted. God is using them to fulfill His will. It is all a part of His plan, the same victorious plan of Christ Jesus! We also know that one day, in His eternal presence, not only will all our battles be over, but we will be on the other side of the war, on the other side of eternity, living in complete peace in His presence in His new Heaven and new Earth. Thus we run forward with perseverance on a path that is marked for us (Heb. 12:1). We press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called us heavenward in Christ Jesus ( Phil. 3:14).
During the in-between times of peace on the trail, it’s so important we don’t let our guards down, that we don’t become too comfortable with the numbing narcotics of life’s pleasures and distractions. When considering the war, I also think about our spiritual storerooms. In Matthew 12:35, Jesus says, “ A good man produces good things from his storeroom of good, and an evil man produces evil things from his storeroom of evil.” This begs the question: What is in my storeroom? We place in our storerooms our own amusements, distractions, our selfish thoughts and pursuits, and just flat out a lot of junk. Many of us need some serious spring cleaning, and we shouldn’t take these things to the Goodwill either. Much just needs to be burned.
So what needs to be in our storerooms? The things of God, what He values, what He loves, and chiefly, His Scripture. His Word is the most powerful of our weapons. A dear friend and pastor of mine, Steve, in his teachings has called this our “arsenal of Scripture.” I like this analogy because so much of Scripture is like ammunition. Immediately it paralyzes fear and stops the enemy. When true pessimism does sneak into my life, often connected with my own health, one of my very effective weapons is the truth of a two verse harmony of 1 Peter 5:10 and Phillippians 4:7, “After you have suffered a while, the God of grace Himself, whose knowledge surpasses all understanding, will restore you and make you strong in Christ Jesus.” I say it, sometimes out loud. It lifts my own spirit, as the assaulting beast of pessimism and hopelessness is paralyzed when the promises of God are declared and the name of Jesus is invoked. Yes, sometimes it is that simple. We are all in a war. We fight battles that look very different for each of us, but we are all in the same spiritual war and we all reach victory by the same means. So I raise the same question Steve does, “What do you have in your arsenal of Scripture?” and as Jesus evokes, “What is in your storeroom?”
Next time a spiritual beast approaches me on the path of life, I don’t want to run away backwards in fear, like I did with the bear in the Hoh Rainforest. Instead I want to be so fortified with the Word of God and His presence that I can approach that beast confidently and leave it behind victoriously. I can rebuke it with Scripture and the name of Jesus. God gives us the power to slay whatever comes in our path, but we must fortify ourselves in Faith and knowledge of His Word. Do not let your guard down in times of peace. God warns in Hosea 4:6, “My people perish for lack of knowledge.” Instead, be in His Word, build that arsenal, polish the armor. The more ready you are, the more beasts will also just stay off your path. When they smell that blood of Christ they stay away, but be ready, for despite His protection, a next battle is always inevitable until He calls us home.
Hold on Josh. Hold on. You’ve got to, or you’re going to die. I could feel myself beginning to slip from consciousness. I was in a desert canyon in Death Valley National Park in southern California. It was 122 degrees outside this summer day without a single cloud in the sky. The sun beat down harshly. I was out for a hike, not a long one, just a few miles, but I was competing with nature. I thought it wasn’t going to be a challenging match, but Death Valley was winning. I began to experience lightheadedness. My hearing began to sound muffled. Then there was the dreaded fading of colors. Hold on. Don’t let yourself go. If I were to pass out, it would only be a matter of minutes before Death Valley would dry me out and bake me in its inferno. I was hiking uphill on jagged triangular rock and badland formations on the Badlands Loops Trail, trying to make it out of the canyon. Normally this would be easy, for I’m fit and capable, and this wasn’t even very steep, but here in the harshness of the desert, with the oppressive heat, my body was giving up. Am I dehydrated? Or am I lacking salt? Or is it heat stroke? The body could be overheated, no longer having the ability to cool down to a life sustaining temperature. Maybe my body just could not keep up with the extreme heat of Death Valley.
My heart began to race rapidly. Oh no, I know how this goes. Soon it could beat out of control, bringing me to the ground. I’ve fainted before, at Big Bend National Park, but luckily I was inside around other people. Here I was completely alone, except for with her, Death Valley. We had met before. She caught me in a sand storm summers before.
The Badlands Loop
There was a little bit of shade just up against the short canyon wall. There were fragments of broken rock down by my feet, which seemed, in my present state, so far away and unreachable, but there was one big enough for me to sit upon. I lowered myself slowly and cautiously. Any quick movements, any exertion whatsoever, could cause me to black out. I crossed my legs, the most comfortable position to keep myself up from complete collapse. My vision went blurry for a moment, but I still had a grasp on it. I focused on breathing slow, deep breaths.
I had water, but I wasn’t sure if that’s what I needed. If I was salt deprived, this would worsen my symptoms. However, it could be life-saving as well. I took a sip of my water which had turned hot from the all-consuming heat. I poured the rest on my head. Although hot, it was not as hot as the air around me. It could cool me off just a bit. And if salt was what I needed, there was one thing I could do. Sweat contains salt. I began to lick my arms. It’s not that I was particularly sweaty, for one doesn’t sweat in Death Valley, as sweat immediately evaporates in the extremely dry climate. But even this being the case, there should still be leftover salt deposits on the skin, I thought.
I had overestimated my strength in the desert. It didn’t help that I did this hike shirtless. I like the feeling of the desert sun on my skin, and I thought that in the heat the less clothes the better, but actually if I had worn something to cover my torso it could have provided shade for the body and maybe I wouldn’t have overheated as quickly.
I had not yet cried for help. I was only about a mile from Zabriskie Point, a popular lookout point, where people would be present, marveling over nature’s artistic display of giant jagged rock formations, but I was so far down in a canyon with a sea of rock formations before me that I could not hear any of them, and I don’t think they would hear me. If I were to exert my voice loudly, this might take too much energy and cause me to lose my consciousness. I could not make a phone call. My phone was in the car. I left it there, for there was no service out here anyway. It was just me and her, Death Valley. I’ve always said she is my favorite park. She is so different and unique from all the others. Her views are so astounding, Her mountains are so tall. Her valley is so wide. She is rich in history of gold, silver, and borax mining. She’s the keeper of abandoned mines and ghost towns. She’s so strong and so dramatic, and this was one of the many features I liked about her, but she was also ruthless. She lures people in with beauty and mystique, as in the past she tempted with her riches of gold and silver. She’s a masterful artist, skillful at manipulation, luring man in to choke and turn him back to the very sand from which formed him.
She caught me. She had me right where she wanted me. Though a lover turned hostile, I had done her no wrong, but merciless she pursued me. I focused on breathing and said a prayer. After a few minutes my heart returned to a normal pace, colors in my vision returned, and my hearing was sharp. I was okay. I had to get up and continue. Time was of the essence. I needed to get back to the car. I stood up slowly, and I walked carefully. A peace had brushed over me, despite concern still guiding me. I was able to be calm yet knowing the urgency. I made progress, slowly, calmly, not letting my heart rate spike.
The trail wound up and down and around wavey rocks and canyon walls, until I could see up ahead the sharp pointed rocks of Zambriski Point. I could see people on the rim taking pictures, and it was a sign of relief. Slowly and methodically, I made it back to the lookout point among the other tourists. They were nonchalantly posing for photos in front of the jagged points spiking up from the canyon. I then was assumed to be another one of them, but no one knew what I had just experienced. I got back to the car and turned the air conditioning on high. I had some hot gatorade, and dry snacks. They seemed to help. I longed for something cold and refreshing, but nothing here would be cold. It was all hot.
Zambriski Point
I’m done with hikes for the day, I concluded. After resting in my car for a few minutes, I was ready to check out the Furnace Creek Inn, one of the two accommodations in Death Valley National Park. I wasn’t going to stay. I just wanted to see it. I had learned about this historic inn from a documentary about National Park lodges. It was built in 1927 by the Pacific Coast Borax Company before the area was declared a national monument and later a National Park. This inn was once a desert oasis for Hollywood elites, and to this day, it says on its website that it “still pampers every guest.” I had to see it for myself.
Its a structure that very much fits in with the landscape. Its foundation and lower level walls are constructed with rocks from the very desert. It’s building blocks were formed from the very sand of Death Valley. After I parked my car I walked up the drive. On one side there was a lawn with a tall fountain. Yes, there was a lawn in Death Valley! I could scarcely believe my eyes. On the other side of me was a wall skillfully crafted out of rocks and above it a patio for guests. Up above was the main level of the establishment. To get there there was a rounded tunnel that cut through the rock wall and seemingly went back to a staircase. Lights were affixed in the tunnel to light the way. How unique of an entryway, I thought. It seemed sort of like I was approaching some passageway in a medieval castle, but as soon as I entered the tunnel, a large aggressive wasp darted towards my face. I abruptly moved my head, evading its assault. It buzzed around me loudly and invasively. I ran back out of the tunnel to the drive. I had thought I was alone, but then I saw a lady walking her way around the front of the inn. I must have looked ridiculous, running away erratically from a wasp. I immediately regained composure, stood upright, and walked moderately. I smiled and nodded my head politely. “Hello,” I said, as if nothing unusual had just happened.
I walked around the rock wall to another staircase that led up to the main lobby of the inn. Inside I was quite impressed. I beheld a beautiful lobby of simple elegance. Intricate tilework spread through the lobby and into the halls. Big rounded windows looked out into palms and the desert mountains in the distance. Oritenal rugs sprawled out beneath wingback chairs and floor lamps. I did feel out of place, however, and began to wonder if this was alright, that I, a mere vagabond of the desert, was welcome in such an establishment. If I knew it was so nice, I would have dressed a bit differently from my gym shorts, cut-off, and hiking boots. But I decided to ignore my attire and just walk about the place as if I belonged. No one had to know I was a foolish young man who nearly died in the desert, who really is not sure where he is spending the night, and could no way afford this place. I could pretend and carry myself as if I knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. Some National Park lodges encourage visitors and are quite welcoming. This seemed just a little bit prestigious and more intimate to me, but I pretended like I belonged the best I could, given the circumstances. I wanted to appreciate its architecture, elegance, air conditioning….and pool?!
I walked out into the oasis garden behind the inn. I was so completely surprised that such a place existed in Death Valley. Here was a forest of palm trees on a hillside blanketed in green grass. Small winding stone pathways and stairs meandered around it and over a bubbling brook and rippling pond. Little stone walls held up the hillsides of tasteful landscaping. This place looked so cared for and so astounding to exist in such a barren place as Death Valley. Between the palms, in the distance, I could see the large expanse of the desert and its mountains standing tall. What a contrast! More immediately before me I was faced with a large natural spring fed swimming pool. Its poolside was encased by beautiful stone architecture with arches resting on cornerstones, and it was all in the shade. After being so exhausted in the desert, and strolling now still in the oppressive heat, the thought of being engulfed beneath the water of a swimming pool seemed so perfect and just what I most wanted. I had been successful thus far in pretending as if I belonged at the inn, walking around the lobby and garden oasis. What if I just took it one step further and helped myself to a little swim? I was very close to letting myself walk through the gate and into the pool, but I first noted that it would be quite obvious if anyone was watching, for no one else was at the pool. Then my moral conscience kicked in. This was not for me. It was desirable. It would be so nice, but it was not mine.
the garden oasis
Back at my car I noted cell service here by the inn and sent a text to my mom telling her about the 122 degree temperature. She responded “You are not going to camp in that!” She knew that was my plan, and it still was my plan.
I drove thirty minutes to the Stovepipe Wells Village. I remembered the general store here from my previous visit. I bought a Death Valley Black Cherry soda in a long-neck glass bottle here back on my first National Park adventure. Inside I was greeted by a self-serve soda fountain. I got myself the mega jumbo cup, nearly filled it with small nuggets of ice from the dispenser, then poured over it cold refreshing blue Powerade. When I left the store and took the first sip through the straw, it was the most heavenly experience. My body was crying for this so badly: the sugar, the sodium, the electrolytes, and most welcome of all, the cold. I couldn’t take it in fast enough. I may not have made it into the pool at Furnace Creek, but this ice-filled cup of Powerade drowning me was the most perfect thing at the moment. Death Valley had tried to take me, I survived, still weary and war torn, but now I’d just powered up. It was going to be a good night.
Next order of business: finding a site and setting up camp. There were a number of first-come -first-serve campgrounds in Death Valley. In accordance with my itinerary, I was on my way to the Emigrant Campground when I discovered, along the way, a large sandy lot where others had parked and pitched tents. It sat a little bit elevated on a plain that sloped down into the valley. It displayed a beautiful open expansive view. The sun was setting, and I preferred not to set up camp in the dark. I figured this area would be fine. There were no numbered sites, no bathroom, but I could do without. I pitched my tent, and then went for a walk.
I passed by a ranger station or some park service building in the middle of the road that looked closed for the summer. Just past it I paused. I deviated from the road and stood up upon a rock looking out. The sun had set. The mountains were a rich dark blue, and the sky a vibrant pink. This beauty was enough to give shiver with goosebumps, even in the extreme heat. Out in the valley there appeared to be a lake, but I knew it was just the giant salt flats contrasting the surroundings. Everything was so giant, so huge- the mountains, the expanse of the valley, the salt flats. Everything seemed to flow smoothly from the Artist’s brush. Even with such an incredibly huge view, the desert was so still, calm, and quiet. This confirmed all the more that Death Valley remained my favorite National Park. She has a unique overwhelming effect on my soul. I love her, despite the fact she tried to kill me.
With a calmness of the late evening desert seeping through my being, I walked slowly and relaxed back to my tent and shed a few tears in response to such beauty. This was also my first stop of my very first grand National Park adventure back in 2015. I was coming back to where it all started, my following in love with the Parks, where excitement and wonder was so fresh and new. The desert reminded me of all I had seen and experienced since, and I felt extremely grateful.
Back at my car I brushed my teeth and didn’t bother changing clothes for the night. It would all be coming off in this heat. I checked the temperature from the car before I locked it up for the night. It displayed an even 100 degrees. I noticed I had cell service and decided to respond to my mom’s text over her concern about me camping in the heat when I told her it was 122 degrees earlier. I responded “No worries. It has cooled off…it’s only 100 degrees now.”
I crawled into my tent. Death Valley had spared me and now was as beautiful and captivating as ever.
Josh Hodge blog 