On the Road Again, If Only for One Day: Cue Willie Nelson

Hey, it’s not what I had hoped for, but it was better than nothing.

If you have never been to Mt. Rainier, in Washington State, well, I am sorry.

It is majestic.

It is 14,410 feet tall.

It has twenty-five named glaciers, the most in the 48 contiguous states.

It is the largest mountain, by area, in the U.S.

It is an active volcano which last erupted in 1894.

It literally dominates the landscape of Western Washington.

I was thinking the other day, looking at the mountain from my home city of Olympia, how we who live in this region take that Lady for granted.  I mean, she has been there throughout my life, a backdrop for the Life of Bill, always there through loves and deaths, through struggles and victories, and because she has always been there, at times she is almost invisible.

But for those who have never seen her, for those from the Midwest, flatness extraordinaire, or the east coast, thinking the Appalachians or Whites or Blue Ridge are really mountains, or the south, surrounded by swamps and levies, it must be almost unfathomable to see something so large, so awe-inspiring, and so damned beautiful, nature showcased, on icy display.

And so, I decided to take a day trip to that stunning Mistress of the Northwest, a mountain I know up close and personal, for I cut my hiking teeth on her flanks, and she will always be held in the highest esteem by yours truly.

And then . . .

The trip was taken as advertised.

Full disclosure: It was cloudy and I never saw the mountain.  But let’s not let that detract from my telling you about the day.

As the trip began, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times I had made that drive. There was no need for Google maps or MapQuest or any other AI assistance. My earliest memory probably dates back to a toddler of five years, family trips, trips with the families of friends, hard to put a number on it, fast-forward to our young man with a driver’s license, through high school, through college, discovering hiking, discovering the stunning solitude, a gift she has always granted me, at home with nature, at home with the frozen majesty that is Mt. Rainier.

I would be remiss if I did not mention one troubling change in The Mountain.

She is slowly disappearing.

Not like a magician and the rabbit disappearing, but slowly her ice mantels are receding, melting, where once you could see them from the road, now you can’t, that kind of disappearing, and that is, indeed, cause for worry, for those glaciers are the heart and soul of our rivers, of our dams, of our reservoirs for drinking water, for the thousands of species, plant life and animal, who call those river valleys and watersheds home, and I’m talking very noticeable, scientist say close to 50% of the glacial mass of ice has gone the way of the Do Do Bird in the last seventy-five years, literally during my lifetime, and I can certainly attest to that.  Three glaciers have, literally, melted completely, leaving twenty-five at half volume.

It is disturbing.

Anyway, pushing all the gloom and doom aside, it was a lovely day for a drive to the mountain, even if we couldn’t see the mountain which, if I think about it, is a metaphor for the global warming of those glaciers I mentioned.

Through the familiar towns of Yelm, Elbe, Ashford we went, past Alder Lake, the reservoir fed by the Nisqually River, itself a product of the Nisqually Glacier, past the lodges and cabins and curio shops, to the grand arch, the entrance, and a line of cars waiting for entrance, late September, late morning, cloudy day and a sign warning “no parking available at Paradise,” rather unbelievable, really, not even tourist season, but the Puget Sound population has exploded, like this dormant volcano has in the past, and the tourist destination of Paradise, end of the mountain road, was built for far fewer visitors.

We spent some time at Longmire (first tourist stop), stretched our legs, Maggie peeing on the side of the road, but the trails are not meant for dogs, so we were limited in the number of things we could do. Pushing on to Paradise and, sure enough, the parking lot was full, as were the sidewalks, as was the visitor lodge, and the mountain, as though hiding from the throngs, was not to be seen.

Not that the trip was dampened by the hiding, for the joy, for me, was in the journey and not the final destination.

And that, right there, is a metaphor worth ending with.