After the storm that had raged through our campsite the night before, I think we were all relieved to wake up and find that everyone was in one piece! We had spent the night in Cameron Basin, and shortly after returning from our night hike in search of ice worms, a storm moved in and gusts of wind shook our tents and howled relentlessly over Cameron Pass for pretty much the entire night. Unfortunately, this was also the night that a few members of our group–J, Tino, Aubrey, and Vanessa–had decided to cowboy camp under the stars; needless to say, their experience was cut short around midnight as they hurried to set up their tent following Tim’s warning. In the morning, I learned that they had all huddled in J and Tino’s two-person tent to escape the storm, and meanwhile Tim’s tent, held up only by ski poles, had collapsed several times before he held the poles in place while sleeping.
It was still raining lightly as we packed up camp, and the change of weather made me feel even more lucky that we had experienced sunshine and dry conditions for the previous 7 days. That said, there was something eerily beautiful about the gloomy skies and layer of mist that blanketed the mountains, and the storm had been a jolting reminder of how intense, and at times frightening, nature can be. It was also nice to have a break from the warmer temperatures of the past week, and I was finally able to use my rain pants for some actual wet weather.
We may have set a record for quickest camp cleanup of the week coming in at just under an hour compared to our leisurely mornings prior, and it was decided that a quick breakfast of Wasa crackers and peanut butter would give us enough fuel to descend into a drier spot in the Cameron Valley where we could enjoy a bigger meal. Just before we left a rainbow popped out against the mountainous backdrop, which I took as a cheerful sign of a great day to come. With that and an uplifting quote of the day by Kimiam, we headed off down the trail to begin our 10 mile descent back to Three Forks, our first and final campsite.
Over the course of the 10 mile trek, our group traversed what was probably the most diverse array of landscapes we saw during this trip. From our campsite in the alpine terrain of the upper Cameron Basin, we quickly dropped down into the marshy meadows of the lower Basin amidst numerous stream crossings and views across the Cameron Valley. The scenery changed rapidly from the rocky, relatively barren alpine environment to lush fields of flowers, mosses and grass, and there were many conversations about how the misty trees and mountains contributed to a Twilight-esque vibe. Before long we dropped back down into the forest, and Tim navigated the group to a small clearing in the trees where we paused for a second breakfast. At this point in the trip most cook groups were down to and interesting array of less desirable foods, which made for some unique combinations throughout the day.
As we continued to meander down the Cameron Valley, we paused occasionally to soak in Tim and Eve’s wisdom about the surrounding plants and animals. Tim found a tailed frog which provided an interesting example of adaptation, and he also pointed out various trees included a huge Doug-fir that was probably over 500 years old, a massive yellow cedar which was perhaps even older, as well as a grove of Engelmann Spruce which is a rare find in the Olympics. We also gorged ourselves on salmon berries and thimble berries which grew in abundance alongside the trail, and provided a much needed energy and morale boost every time a patch of them was spotted. Once we had reached about the halfway mark of the hike, the group paused for a late 3pm lunch and to listen to Vanessa and Siobhan’s discussions, our final ones of the trip. The group talked first about the physical and emotional benefits of nature and shared stories of our own experienced benefits from the past week. We also all agreed that although our stress levels had been lower for most of the trip, each person had a definite threshold where the wilderness became non-beneficial for stress reduction. Siobhan then introduced us to the Seattle 2035 Plan, which details the city’s plans for various sectors under the assumption that Seattle’s population will continue to grow. We discussed what growth meant for green spaces in the city, and how a place can still hold value as a natural space without having to be the type of “untamed wilderness” that we were experiencing. Vanessa and Siobhan were both quick to point out that we often value wild, faraway nature over things like city parks especially when educating people about conservation, but in reality it is just, if not more, beneficial to advocate for exposure and protection of local nature.
The remainder of the hike back to Three Forks was long, and for me it might have been the most challenging part of the trip. We were all tired from a sleepless and stormy night, and the mileage of the day and stress of the trip was starting to wear on everyone’s mood. The last of our group stumbled into camp around 7pm marking nearly 10 hours of hiking.
That night after dinner, we all shared our favorite memories and lessons that we had learned from the trip. The word of the night was most definitely Gratitude, and it was very special to hear everyone share thanks for the people and good company, the land and the indigenous people who were it’s first occupants, and our non-human relatives who shared in this journey with us. We fell asleep to the sound of the same rushing river that had lulled us to sleep the first night of the trek, and there was something very comforting about the full-circle effect that I felt being back at the same campground. Looking back to day 1, it felt like both an eternity and a second ago.
During the second day of our journey, we were able to pause for a few moments of quiet solo reflection. We scattered ourselves amongst the huge trees of the old growth forest and sat on the cushy pillows of moss that carpeted the forest floor. Over the course of an emotional hour, I had a chance to reflect on the first couple days of the trip. These had been really hard days for me emotionally as I reckoned with letting go of the anxieties of my world back home, and attempting to fully immerse myself in the beautiful nature that surrounded us. This quiet hour was the first time I felt truly at peace amidst the chaos of the days prior, and there was something humbling about sitting beside creatures that have seen hundreds of years worth of life yet remain so stable. As silly as it sounds, in that moment I so wanted to be a tree as I envied their peace and resilience. I wrote a few haikus and drew some subpar sketches to start off the hour, but for the last half of our alone time, my mind wandered to a less structured poem. I didn’t really know where to start or end it, but I think it helps explain my thoughts and emotions during this time.
Silent, but awake.
Or I guess, not really silent.
The birds call out and the insects respond with a hum.
The river chimes in with whispers and stories,
miles of stories.
What’s missing are the sounds of mechanical modern life,
but I don’t really miss that.
This kind of silence
fills your mind.
Reflection: On the third night of the trip, our group reached the top of our first big climb: Cedar Lake. We were rewarded with frigid alpine waters fed by snow melt, and I was stunned by the cold when I first entered into the lake. I was joined by the rest of the group, all of whom had the common sense to exit the water after a quick dip, but despite the cold I felt an immense urge to stay. Looking back, I feel emotional as I remember this moment of serenity where the thoughts of the days prior exited my mind, and all I could think of was how grateful I am to be experiencing such beauty.
This trip was a big step outside of my comfort zone for me. I tend to be an internally anxious person and I’m pretty resistant to change, even when it’s a good change. So getting on a plane to Seattle, meeting a group of strangers, and leaving the comfort and familiarity of my daily routines for a whole 9 days was pretty terrifying, and to be honest, if someone had approached me with a way out of the trip on the morning of our first day, I probably would’ve taken it. But I think I can say with certainty that I’m so glad no one gave me that option. One thing that our group talked a lot about (particularly after days with big climbs) was how surprised we were at what we were all physically capable of, and I had a lot of those feelings too, especially after dealing with a lot of self-doubt over my personal ability to carry such a heavy pack over such a long distance. Although I think for me, my mental strength was more surprising than my body’s physical abilities during the trek. I think one of the biggest things I will take away from this experience is that I can do hard things, and that pushing myself to the edge of my comfort zone is rarely a mistake and usually a huge opportunity for growth.
Another thing that I wanted to reflect on was the experiences I had interacting with such an incredible group of people. I’m definitely an introvert by nature, and I usually have no problem making surface-level “friendly” connections with people, but being vulnerable and open with someone is hard for me to do unless it’s a friendship I’ve had for years. That all changed for me on this trip, and I’m not sure if it was due to the shared joy and pain of the trip, but regardless I am so thankful to have met the most kind, accepting, and encouraging group, and I will be forever grateful for the stories and diverse perspectives that were shared.
Throughout the course of our trip I heard a lot of ideas about what wilderness should or shouldn’t be, and I think at the end of the day, it’s okay if wilderness means something different to everyone. To me, wilderness will always be a place of remembrance for a time before the Anthropocene, and a glimpse into a life of the past. Some people feel critical of how wilderness areas have begun to feel like museums, but to me, there’s something beautiful about being an observer and an appreciator of hundreds of thousands of years of growth, change, stability, and life. It helps put into perspective our own insignificance, while igniting a desire to protect these places and their stories. There are relatively few places where I feel truly at peace, and being completely disconnected from everyday life and surrounded by nature certainly does the trick.
In our discussions, there was a fear brought up that if we place wilderness on a pedestal, it devalues the nature we have all around us, whether that be a local park or a tree outside our window. But if anything, I feel like being surrounded by “pure” wilderness has only made me more appreciative of the natural world as it’s intertwined with our modern one. I am so hopeful that others will be able to experience wilderness and come to their own conclusions about its significance, and I think national parks play an important role in allowing these spaces to remain relatively untouched by industry. However, if the goal is for wilderness to be a collective human experience, we need to figure out how to make inclusivity a priority so that people feel like these spaces are for them. Diversity initiatives are great on paper, but it takes a lot more than a multicultural pamphlet to make someone feel included. Maybe a good first step would be promoting classes like this one, or similar programs that offer the support of a structured trip into the backcountry for beginners and folks without historical access to these spaces.
Looking back, I think it’s safe to say that this will be my most memorable college class, especially amidst a far from normal past couple years and a lack of any “normal” college experiences given Covid. I’ll never forget falling asleep the first night to the stories of the rushing river, or lying across a log and staring up at the ancient trees; sitting in silence at the top of Cameron pass in awe of what we had done and the vastness of it all, and watching the most incredible sunset as the ferry trudged into the Seattle terminal, marking a melancholy return to civilization. I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world, and as I fall back into my everyday routines, I can’t help but wish I could do it all over again.