WA: Astrid Meets a Mountain

“See that mountain over there? Yeah. One of these days, I’m gonna climb that mountain.” -Mountain Music [song by Alabama]

Astrid stopped and looked around. She was trudging up the eternally steep Skyline Trail in the Paradise Area of Mt Rainier National Park, and had walked right into a fairytale, without knowing it. 

As the bleary morning aged and the sun grew strong, a heavy mist emerged from the thick forested parts of the mountainside, from where the darkest green, triangular pines stood in eerie contrast to the flower-pocked spring-green grass. The spectral mist moved elegantly, slowly through the cool air; it was as close to a fictional scene as she may ever live. It would not have been wrong if a dragon or some mythical creature swooped out of the hazy silver curtains. But the only exquisitely perfect creature, dark, silhouetted against the mysterious mist and sitting atop a gigantic boulder, was a chipmunk. A fat, overfed chipmunk, looking for handouts.  

Astrid couldn’t fully comprehend what she was seeing. She tried to find meaning in it, like in a movie when ominous music plays as foreshadowing to some significant event. This mysterious, wondrous mist, crawling out of black-green trees … surely it “indicated” something other-wordly? Spiritually? Metaphorically? Other than high-humidity slowly moving from the cool trees out to the sun-warmed air? 

Nope, it didn’t. 

It was beautiful, but Astrid wasn’t privy to, nor trained in the language it spoke. It was an aesthetically attractive show of how water in the aerosolized state acts on mountainsides. But maybe that–the science constructing the living scene which worked on and prompted her notice, her admiration and fascination–that was the other-worldly miracle.

Despite it’s non-portentous state, she treasured the scene all the same, and let it pique her imagination, then just walked, her thoughts falling onto the trail sides of overflowing meadows, nature’s rock gardens with wildflowers of every kind and color, and a mountain stream lined with decorative rocks running through it. These flowers were the same ones which people like her, pay good money for and put in eastern US gardens.

The family were visiting during one of the park’s most popular seasons. The day had started early, with a 6 am drive to the Paradise Area of Mt. Rainer, where they found the parking lots already overflowing. Because if visitors can’t snag a timed pass online, some of the more persistent get up early, and drive into the park before the gate starts collecting passes at 4 a.m. 

At some point on the Skyline Trail, Astrid stopped taking pictures and just hiked (and heaved, and gasped) up the side of the mountain with the many, many other hikers crowding the trail.

“This is what it’s for,” she reminded herself as she felt a twinge of annoyance at “lots of other people in nature.” These national parks existed so that many, many people, Astrid included, can behold the beauty, without private condos or McMansions marring the mountainside. “Lots of people” is a good thing. But she couldn’t stop her chiding thoughts at the sight of uninformed tourists feeding the already over-fattened chipmunks, despite the signs asking them not to.

Leave No Trace Principle #6 is a good idea. 

Because Bjorn would stop to take pictures, Astrid and Snorri hiked ahead and waited, which gave Astrid ample time to sit on a rock and look and just “be” on the mountainside.  Contemplating the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t peak of Mt. Rainier, she wondered why men and women climb mountains. 

Why climb mountains? To see what’s there, out of curiosity, like the “Bear Went Over the Mountain” song*? Sure. To see if they can? Absolutely. 

Was it because of humanity’s “Small Dog Syndrome”? When presented with someone or something so much bigger and seemingly more powerful than them, humanity often wants to see if they can “take it” or conquer it, to try their power against, so they know where they stand in the world. 

Or maybe it was a search for a material good thing? A spiritual Good Thing? 

On Marmots

Marmots, in short, are gigantic ground squirrels, closely related to the sometimes-pernicious groundhog of rural and agricultural notoriety, but bigger. Marmots are one of the world’s best splooters, and can often be seen sunbathing on a pinnacle of rock, looking as if they had not a care in the world. And no, Astrid, those whistles you hear are not obnoxious tourists breaking Leave No Trace Principle #7, those are marmots communicating. But it sounds like uninformed, obnoxious tourists.  

At a flattish point along the trail, a marmot was standing on his hind legs, looking out over the ledge, at an astounding view of Mt. Rainier, as if he were just another tourist. A few yards behind, human tourists were admiring him. But there was another mountain mammal–long, thin quick–which ran and skittered between the rocks. Weasels, being carnivores, were more shy, and didn’t look for handouts, as if they already knew humans didn’t carry delicious dead rodents in their backpacks.

The late morning was clear, despite clouds blocking Mt. Rainier at times. As the family turned to go back down the mountain, Bjorn said, “We may never see Rainier again.” The mountain and the thick sheets of fog surrounding it were fickle and sometimes hid the whole behemoth from view for days on end.**

The desire to hike downhill is never so great as when one is hiking uphill. But hiking downhill is not always the rest and relief one might think. Gravity hinders us as we strive uphill, but downhill, it pushes, urges us to chaotic falls, requires significant restraint through the feet and legs to resist. 

After the hike, the family drove the circuitous road back out of the park, to Copper Creek Restaurant, known for their blackberry pies, made every Tuesday (Astrid overheard this as they waited at the counter for their very good lunches). 

As they made their way back to the park to set up camp, they realized they had made a very big mistake. 

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