Resting Place: Reflections on the Mountain - Mount Rainier National Park, Washington
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Stumble It!Resting Place: Reflections on the Mountain
Mount Rainier National Park, Washington
I hadn't been able to get out of the city for a good hike all summer. Now it was September, and the snows that would close off most of my favorite destinations were not far off. Mount Rainier National Park is about an hour and a half's drive south of Seattle, Washington. The mountain is so strikingly present from the city that it seems surreal to be able to point at it and say, "I'm going there tomorrow."
I prefer to do my day-hiking during the week whenever possible. Most of the best hikes within a few hours drive of Seattle are often thronged with happy feet during the summer months. And for good reason: the Cascade Mountains arguably boast the most stunning scenery on earth. After Labor Day most of the summer tourists disappear and the high traffic days are limited to the sunny weekends. But a sunny Saturday in September was all the time that was available to me, so I took advantage.
In the northwest quarter of the National Park, Spray Park is an alpine meadow with an unobstructed view of Rainier's summit and is home to herds of elk, foraging bear, mountain goats, and squeaky marmots. The trailhead begins at Mowich Lake, and it's a relatively easy three-mile hike through old-growth cedars and across glacial streams. Reaching a certain elevation, the trees suddenly disappear and you're left in an alpine meadow worthy of the family von Trap.
I left town early, hoping to get to the trailhead and off into the woods before the weekend masses with the same great idea arrived. By 9:30am I pulled up to the trailhead to find the small parking lot already full and cars lined up the road beyond it. I was initially annoyed that I might actually have to share the trail, but luckily Rainier's a big place. The trail was largely my own.
The summer had been a warm one on the mountain, and there hadn't been much rain. It being mid-September, I was expecting to see more signs of fall. The alpine meadow turns fiery reds and oranges, and there is usually a flurry of activity by the local residents provisioning themselves for winter. It felt like high summer. There is a small pond just over a ridge from the main trail that I like to visit. A large granite boulder sits on the north side of the little pond. Invariably I perch here to rest, have my lunch, sun myself on the boulder, and meditate. On clear days, when the summit reveals itself, the pond becomes a reflecting pool.
Not many people come this way, and I was enjoying my solitude.
"Wow, I've never seen it this low!" Two men had approached from behind without me noticing. He was referring to the water level of the pond. In fact it was lower than I had ever seen it, and there were still tadpoles in the water; very unusual for this time of year.
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. They were an odd pair. The older man was probably in his early forties, sporting a beer gut, grease-stained t-shirt, and a red Washington State baseball cap. He carried a heavy walking stick that he must have picked up on the trail that day and a bright pink and purple Barbie™ backpack. He had a grizzled gray beard and the look of someone who had lost one too many nights' sleep. The younger fellow turned out to be his son. I figured him to be about 15 years old. Dark and brooding, he looked like he'd rather be at home playing video games. He was carrying his portable CD player and wore a permanent scowl.
I never did catch the man's name. I imagine it was something like Frank. After a few minutes talking about the weather and how beautiful it was in the meadow, Frank began to look distracted. He was looking around like someone who'd lost his keys. Then came the moment when he found what he was looking for.
"I know we're not supposed to do this," Frank said sheepishly as he stepped over the little habitat restoration sign, "but this is a very special place to me. My mom's here." He bent down and touched a rock in the brush and turned to his son, "Grandma's right here. This must be her Christmas tree," he said, referring to a young pine sapling that had sprouted up next to the rock.
I wasn't exactly sure what to make of him. "You've got family here?" I asked.
"Yup," Frank said proudly, pointing to the rock. I was still confused.
"When my mom died, she asked to have her ashes buried on Mount Rainier," he continued. "I spent about three months searching for just the right spot, and this is it. I come up here once or twice a year or so, but this is Jeremy's first visit." Jeremy was looking slightly less bored.
Frank went on. "My daughter use to say, 'Daddy, when I die, I want my ashes buried on Mount Rainier just like Grandma.' She was shot and killed two years ago, so we buried her down there." He pointed down the meadow in the direction from which they had come. "They both got a good view of the mountain."
Frank's tone was cheerful, but it was clear that there was pain behind it. Frank had lived a hard life. He seemed like one of those people that the universe keeps sending one challenge after another. But it hadn't dimmed his spirit. He excused himself and knelt down in the brush to quietly pray. This was sacred ground to him, and he was having a very personal moment without any sign of minding an audience. Jeremy looked embarrassed. He had that look of, "Dad, not in front of the guy!" But oddly I didn't have that feeling one usually gets when they intrude on someone else's personal space.
When he had finished, Frank stood up, collected his walking stick and his Barbie™ backpack and said, "Okay, we gotta be goin'. Got a long way to go today. You have a good time with Grandma."
And so I was left alone again on my boulder, with the reflecting pond and Grandma. As strange as it was, the experience left me smiling. I continued in my own thoughts for a while longer and then looked up in the direction they had gone, to see a flash of pink and purple disappear over the ridge.
