Morning Fog, Gradual Clearing

The sky is cloudless all afternoon on Thursday, except for the cloud border at the west end of the valley, hiding Mt. St. Helens. And then, as the day begins to fade, the mountain top (what is now the top) becomes visible. It would have been easy to miss. I was feeling the same way early in the week. I am here where I want to be－I am clear about that; but what I am doing here is foggy. Just as I am despairing, my clouds lift just a bit and improve my vision. It would have been easy to miss.

Friday promises to be a spectacular day, and I am off for Mt. Rainier. I leave later than planned because of dense fog. Then, heading downtown to wait it out at Santa Lucia, I realize that visibility at road level is fine. I kick myself for the loss of nearly an hour. I want to get to Paradise before the masses ascend and the parking lot is full. I grab my low-fat, double-shot latte and head up the interstate.

The interstate is not my recreational route of choice to anywhere. In fact, I spend the evening before searching Mapquest and old-fashioned paper maps, trying to determine if the road that crosses the valley below the house and disappears into the hills on the other side, hooks up to the road I need through the map dot labeled Cinebar. It is not clear; I decide to save that exploration for another day and stick to the known non-interstate road through Chehalis and Mary's Corner to US 12. However, due to my tardiness, I roar down I-5 out of town.

But a funny thing happens on the way to the mountain, I exit too soon－State Route 508, rather than Highway 12. I don't realize my mistake until I am a good way in. I check the map to see if I need to go back or can cut across somewhere. I discover I am headed for Cinebar. Which intersects with State Route 7 at Morton. Right where I need to be. Apparently I am meant to check out Cinebar－though I confess the dot is so small, I don't see any sign of increased civilization. As I approach the dot, I stomp the brakes and pull off the road after I cross the "Caution, Narrow Bridge," rounding a curve to the fog-filtered sun slanting through the trees. Grabbing my camera, I walk back to the bridge and only then hear the gentle whooshing of un-visible water tumbling past rocks in the Tilton River, hidden in undergrowth. I can't get a good picture of the sun, but I enjoy the attempt and am overcome by the beauty. A few curves on down the road, the fog clears over the barns of a farm at the foothills of the Cascades. I stop again to visually walk down the lane to the house. A chance discovery－my route of choice for future trips to Rainier.

The speed limit signs are in place for a reason: in a speeding car one could miss the first nano-second view of the mountain peeking around a hill in the foreground; or even the 30-second full view a few miles later. I pass through the park entrance gate, for the first time purchase the annual pass rather than the day pass, and wend my way through the old growth forest for the 45 minute climb. I arrive at Paradise to cloudless skies－and a few empty parking spaces. And that smell; oh my God, the smell. I wish I could photograph it and post it in this blog.

I start out on my favorite trail, counter-clockwise on the Skyline loop. I observe an older couple on the trail below me, she carrying a purse. Why, I wonder, do we unnecessarily burden ourselves? A bit later our paved trails merge and he asks me if the way I have come is fairly level. Behind me comes a multi-child family: three on the hoof, one papoose. On the return I meet a woman in flip-flops. I move on to the unpaved trail, the descent followed by the ascent that is not for the disabled. I love this trail because the mountain is visible only occasionally; which makes it, for one thing, a more solitary trail. The dominate view of the Tatoosh range and the in-and-out-mountain-view makes it more interesting to me than the constantly clear view of the breath-taking Rainier.

I continue until the trail disappears under late-season snow pack. I am not adequately equipped with crampons and poles to traverse snow. And one fall per year is all I allow myself. I will return (I got the annual pass, after all) when conditions are different or I am better equipped. Then I will continue the lung-burning climb above timberline to the incredible view of three mountains. For today, there are plenty of other paths beckoning. On the way back to the Alta

Vista trail, I have a shoe malfunction－the elastic lace breaks at the top of the tongue of my right shoe. I make a successful emergency repair and continue until the next trail, and the next and the next, morph into snow. There are more children going happily up one steep trail than I have ever seen. And then I see why－there is a huge snowfield halfway up. Eighty degrees and all the snow one could wish for.

Streams and waterfalls trip over themselves down from the glaciers, the volume ranging from trickle to roar, making their swift trip to reservoir lakes and on to the Pacific Ocean. Back in the day, we would lie down on our bellies and drink face fulls of icy water. Before we knew about giardia and the fragility of the Paradise meadow gardens of avalanche lilies, marsh marigolds, western pasque flower, old-man-on-the mountain, subalpine buttercups, Indian paintbrush, lupine. And the old-as-God trees that reach for the sky－and in the thin high-altitude air, get nowhere near. They all persevere.

I leave Paradise and head down the back side of the park to Reflection Lakes. No reflection is visible, but I lift my camera lens for a shot anyway. And through virtual viewfinder of my digital camera, the reflection is as clear as the cloudless day.

In the cool of this early Sunday morning, I sit on my patio as the sun sweeps the low fog from the valley floor and illuminates the "lesser" Mt. St. Helens. The week has illuminated my vision of the future. There may be fog now, but the clearing will come. Meanwhile, I will enjoy the limited view.