Hiking the Upper Dungeness River

Beautiful partly sunny February days don't happen very often here in the Northwest. But when they do, you better know that folks will line up to hike the low land snow-free trails - unless the trail is a 3 hour drive from the Seattle.

Welcome to the Upper Dungeness - or any trail on the north end of the Olympic Peninsula. A magical place where the crowds just don't go, at least not early in the season. By the time we parked and got our boots on, we saw no other cars in the parking lot.

The Olympic Peninsula is a magical place for me. This is where I first learned about the wonders of the natural world. It's also where I learned about hiking and backpacking. Even old familiar trails are new and wondrous for me with each passing season.

So when I have the chance to share my favorite places with others I leap at the chance. I get to spend the day in the wilderness with friends as they explore nature and themselves. What could be better than stopping by a river and having a snack in camaraderie of fellow travelers?

And when you're hiking through the shadow of ancient trees on a chill February morning, stop to feel the sun on your face for a brief moment and become spellbound.

Big Doug

They call you Big Doug an I wonder if you like the name or are oblivious to the hikers who come to gape at your size as I have. Is it rude to stare at a tree?

I sit at your base, on roots of a tree seen in any other context could be considered grand yet nest to you it seems small and insignificant. Your stature reaches toward the sky with branches only near your crown - they appear to be arms outstretched to welcome the sun.

The stories you tell are in the cracks of your bark. Burn marks from a long forgotten wildfire scar your trunk, the bark seemingly more fragile than the rest. small shrubs have started to sprout from the debris in your crevassed bark.

You're an old being, an Ent taking the time to tell your stories. To whisper you wisdom on the breeze. Living a life of quiet contemplation among your peers conversing through the creaks of your stems, the sway of your limbs and the buzz of life around you.

What shall I call you you other than venerable?

Tree in Solitude

"I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity." - Albert Einstein

I read this quote from Albert Einstein and almost passed it by, before scrolling the page back up to look at it again. Then I imagined this tree, hunched over the canyon rim of Dead Horse State Park in Utah.

How fitting.

I had spotted this tree years ago on a trip to the southwest. The setting was simple - nothing in the background to distract except a dark grey sky. It was a vision of solitude. As a sapling, it must have struggled and fought for every inch gained for its roots and drops of water. Wind must have buffeted the poor young tree, threatening to tear it from the cracks in the rock. Maybe, if it had  other trees surrounding, the elements would not have been so harsh. Yet the tree withstood to grow in maturity with strength and beauty.

How many times in our youth do we yearn for someone to stand with us against the elements and when we turn to look for someone to buffer us we're standing alone? The only action we can take to survive is to dig in and hang on to our vision, beliefs, and selves. And in time, we too grow into our beauty and strength. We find we can stand on our own.

Lone Tree

It stood on the hill.

Alone.

Bent over like an old man with arthritis.

A weather worn tree, formed into it's crooked appearance by the wind. Wind blowing hard and stiff over the years, bending the life of the tree to its will.

And the tree bent and it grew with the direction of the forces of nature until it was permanently hunched under clouds.

But do not pity the lone tree, crouching on top of the hill. This lone tree does not cower in the fierce nature of the elements. Instead, it was made by Mother Nature in this form to protect the delicate flowers at its base.

This tree, this old weathered man with arthritis is strong in purpose.

Tree Hugger

I admit it. I am a tree hugger. There's something rather comforting about putting your arms around the trunk of a big sturdy Douglas-Fir and inhaling deeply the (forgive me) woodsy and earth filled air. I know, this admission ranks me up there with the wacko environmentalists, but I can't help myself. OK, once in a while you get sap on your shirt or a splinter in your cheek - I generally see these as little kisses from nature.

However, hugging trees isn't just the strange desire to grab onto something strong. There have been several instances in my life where hugging a tree has eased my passage through the woods or flat out saved my from serious damage.

I often reminisce of the hike along the northern part of Mt Rainier Park's wonderland trail when a tree came in very handy for our progress. We came across one of the many washouts along the way. the trail cut uphill through the trees on a trail that mountain goats must have built. Our downhill descent wasn't any easier and at one point the trail made a sharp drop about 5 feet down. With a full pack and a steep downhill, I was a little hesitant on jumping. But was able to grab hold of the tree next to the trail. I hugged that tree as it helped me safely descend the cliff and was able to continue after a gentle pat at the base of the trunk.

Another trip on the wonderland trail found me crossing a steep snowfield. I lost my footing, but was able to reach out and grab a branch from a nearby sub-Alpine Fir. I hugged that branch with all my strength to save myself from a slippery descent into its brethren far below.

Yeah, I'm a tree hugger, but I think in my case it's quite justified.