Hiking in the Olympics: Being Present in the Moment

Three days ago started out foggy and cloudy.  But we had planned since last weekend to take a hike in the nearby Olympic Mountains.  As I drove up the highway, heading north before our left turn to the west, I could see that the peak toward which we headed was covered in low, thick clouds.  Nevermind, I thought.  We’re on our way.  But oh!  The first surprise came as we drove across the clankingly loud Hood Canal Bridge, a low stretch of metal and concrete that affords the illusion that one is driving nearly on top of the water’s surface:  the clouds and fog had suddenly vanished!

As we headed up the wide dirt trail, I found myself immersed in the red cedar, hemlock and Douglas fir coastal forest that I have come to know and love.  Rhododendron bushes (native to this area, as well) began to join the edges of the trail and I realized that it had been over a year since we hiked this particular trail.  The sun shot down in spikes of light and warmth, finding its way through the thick canopy and adding just enough warmth to counter the pre-autumn chilly breeze.  The shapes of leaves, varying textures of tree bark, shadows dancing with light in ever-shifting patterns on the forest floor:  these were my focal points; the outer landscape captivated me. 

We had not expected the wildflowers to be out this late in the season (surprise #2), offering their full palette of glory and showiness; so when we came to the higher stretch of trail where the “garden” blooms, I gasped in awe at the diversity of the wildflowers, many still in their prime!  From the reds of the tall paintbrush stalks to the blues and lavenders of the penstemon, I found myself smiling, almost giggling.  Now this is a hike!

Two humans and a dog, we made up one fifth of the registered hikers on the trail that day:  pretty good turnout for a late season tromp through the woods.  Higher and higher we climbed until we found our usual lunching spot about thirty minutes shy of the summit.  Typically, we go to the top, to the ridge that (on a clear day) affords a view stretching from the southernmost islands of the Puget Sound to the islands in B.C., Canada.  But this day we did not; commitments at home called to us and we headed back down slowly, gingerly, attentively. 

The biggest surprise for me, as I meandered the switchbacks of the trail, was the calm and ease I felt.  I’ve been hiking mountain trails for more than half my life but on this particular day I had an inner peace.  Often I am preoccupied on the trail.  Will we make it to the summit?  Do the injuries we collectively bring along need tending?  Does our need to be back home impinge on our hiking time?  Will we beat the inclement weather or darkness?  Often I am in such a hurry to make it to the top that I miss the entire journey along the way.  I move so quickly through the lush landscapes of these Pacific Northwest coastal mountains that I miss the rich details of the flora and fauna.

Our hike three days ago moved me deeply.  Though we decided to forego the summit, and the promise of a view stretching for tens of miles to the east, north and south; while obligations at home that evening, as well as the need to care for a previously damaged meniscus, helped us decide to turn around and head back down before we reached the snow pack near the ridge, my soul was restored to serenity by the hike.  The pureness of presence in every moment and immersion in the tiny, stunning details of what lined the trail as I slowly wandered up the mountain afforded me pleasures far beyond the summit’s bliss.  For once, I was able to let go of (thoughts of) the past and the future so that I could truly engage with the many gifts offered by each present minute on that mountain hike.

Photo courtesy Mark Turner/Turner Photographics.