That Itchy Foot
The happiest group I've people I've encountered all year where those of us who started our wet December hike up Mt. Si in the predawn morning.
Atmospheric rivers deluged Washington this December. It’s always wet and dark this time of year in Seattle, but this year was something else, with power outages and rivers breaching their banks, cities flooded and evacuated. Despite the wet, there wasn’t enough snow for skiing, as the precipitation has held stubborn at 35°F. As a friend depressingly pointed out, “it’s like that 1.5°C of warming makes a difference.” Ouch.
I wake up early on December 20th—the second shortest day of the year—to yet another dose of dark and rain. Last year, I would’ve looked outside, rolled over, and gone back to sleep. But not this year. It’s been a few weeks since I went on a hike, and I have the itchy foot. I miss the woods, the smell, and rhythmic cadence of poles to ground, feet over rocks. The Nature Pyramid, which mimics the food pyramid for nature, prescribes an extended session in nature once a month. Mt. Si which has 3,400 feet of elevation gain and takes about four hours to get up and down, fits the bill. I enjoyed my hike there in November, and despite the wetness, know that I need to return for my December dosage.
I pull myself out of bed and head downstairs to pack my bag. Coffee in hand, I start the drive to Mt. Si. It’s just after 6am on a Saturday.
It’s so dark when I get the trailhead that I become disoriented and park a few sections away from the trail. I get out of the car, put on my headlamp, zip my puffer jacket and rain coats up, and head up the trail. Visibility is around three feet. I follow the circle of light from my headlamp.
Half an hour in, I stop to take off my puffer and have a sip of gatorade. It taste like sugar ants smell when you smoosh them— metallic, pungent, sour. I thought nothing of the gatorade being 90% full when I took it off the pantry shelf, but now assume that the cap was breeched and it’s become a floating grave for sugar ants. I reflexively spit it out as it hits my tongue and pour the rest out on the trail. The light rain coming down will wash it away, down into the creek. I turn off my headlamp; daybreak is coming.
Just past the first junction, the impact of the atmospheric rivers becomes clear; cracked trunks, downed branches, and uprooted trees, some over one hundred feet tall, litter the area. I sink into the mud, and hop over the creeklet that slices through the trail.
It may just be confirmation bias, but I swear that this place seems more alive than any other spot on the trail. Tiny juncos emerge from below the logs and head into the stand of Douglas Firs that envelop the trail, where they are joined by robins. I always smile when I see robins in the woods. While they are synonymous with suburban America, they are deep forest birds by nature, and I bet that they’re happier here than they are dodging swing sets and power lines.
I continue up the trail as it snakes its way up the trail, always up. About two-thirds of the way up the mountain, the rain turns to snow, which covers the top half of the trees. With each step up the trail, the snow extends further down the trees until it reaches the ground, blanketing the area. Two trail runners and a dog pass my on their way down.
“How’s the summit?”
“Snowy, beautiful, perfect” one on them replies behind a wide smile and deep breaths.
I continue up the mountain; the snow gets deeper. I have microspikes in my backpack, but don’t need them. The snow is fresh enough that there’s not yet a layer of ice below it. I sink ever so slightly into the snow with each step as I follow the paw prints up the mountain.
I’ll be the sixth person to summit today. The five that I see on their way down—three trail runners, one dog, and two solo hikers—are all in a great mood. Smiles all around. It’s a certain kind of person who starts up a mountain in the predawn darkness on the last day of fall. I take it all in at the summit; the snow and freshness of the air, hoping that the clouds will break enough for me to be able to see where the rain blends into snow. Several additional hikers push through and reach the top.
A British hiker with a golden retriever puppy asks me to take their photo, which I do, and we talk about our hiking plans for the summer—Glacier Peak and the circumnavigation of Mt. Hood, Section J of the PCT, etc. Black and white, East and South Asian, speaking English and not, the diversity of the group is beautiful. Yet we are all here in search of the same feeling, that sense of stoke that comes from getting up and down a mountain, literally hiking through different climates, before most people have started their day.
I turn around, head down, drive home, and get ready to chaperone Rosie to a birthday party, feeling a little more centered, a whole lot more fatigued, and more grateful than when I started the day.