Sunset in Wonderland

It was a rare sunny warm October day in Mt. Rainier National Park on Tuesday (October 6th). When I saw the mild weather forecast, I knew I had to make one more trip to the Wonderland Trail this year. This time I accessed the trail from the southwest, and ran/hiked 7.4 miles to an area called Indian Bar. I dislike the name for both social and poetic reasons, but I was mostly able to distract myself from the lame name by enjoying the surrounding beauty. The trail climbed 4,700 feet in elevation, which was my biggest climb of the year. It was tough, and I went into it knowing that I would walk a lot of the uphill portions rather than run. Even hiking was a doozy! Once I emerged from the wooded four mile uphill grind into the pristine alpine meadows, every ache and gasp became worthy payment for the gift of the scenery.

The late afternoon sunlight washed the autumn-faded grasses in gold and lit the red leaves on low bushes. Minus one human-sighting near the trailhead, I had the wilderness to myself. That beautiful peaceful earthy-divine connection that only nature can provide penetrated my soul. My legs were tired, but it seemed a distant secondary concern while I journeyed through the splendor. I took pictures, I breathed in that [thin] fresh air. I ignored two helicopters and an airplane that rumbled overhead. My turnaround point at Indian Bar was two miles from where I turned around during my run to the Panhandle this summer. Slowly, I am seeing more of the Wonderland Trail!

The sinking sun and the late season painted the Wonderland in new rich colors. Eventually the sun disappeared behind the mountains and the light began fading fast. When the trail was to shadowed to see, I pulled on my headlamp and jogged the final four miles in its bobbing beam. It was a long descent, with ankle tweaks and plenty of careful walking over rough patches. When I emerged from the trees back at the parking area, I glanced up. Hello, stars! The Milky Way dusted across the black sky, pinned up by dozens of tiny bright stars. I stared until my neck screamed at me, then climbed into the car and ate my dinner (a particularly excellent batch of ham lentil soup in a thermos--very cozy). The 2 hour 15 minute drive home felt long, but I had an audiobook to pass the time.

Pictures in order:

Crossing Nickel Creek during the first mile.

It was a blue sky day.

Massive old trees wow me every time.

Possible the only semi-flat portion of trail during the first 4 miles.

Peek-a-boo, Tahoma!

Mt. Rainier popped in and out of view during the ascent.

Fall colors were showing, even if they weren't in the trees. It was fascinating how the landscape still looked autumnal, even without deciduous trees.

Sun and shadow: I LOVE those pine silhouettes!

TEXTURE.

Mt. Adams to the south.

UP. This trail was a beast.

Mt. Adams again. 

Tahoma/Rainier.

I had to add this picture in its chronological place, even though I chose it as my star intro picture.

Autumnal red. I think it's called vine maple, but I'm not sure.

As I descended 800 feet down to Indian Bar, the sun was low enough to hide behind the mountains and cast the view in gray.

I almost didn't go down because 800 feet descent in one mile is anguish whether you're going up or down, and I knew I had to do both. But I had to see what an Indian Bar was!

The 1940s hiker shelter added a rustic touch of civilization to the remote area.

The Ohanapecosh River's source is near Indian Bar. Apparently the river water flows from the Ohanapecosh Glacier on the slopes of Mt. Rainier. It was nifty to be so close to the source of a river I have followed on foot for so many miles over the past few weeks.

That's the Ohanapecosh River on the right.

This place seemed enchanted.

It's hard to see, but those skinny slashes in the distant rock are waterfalls heading toward the river. An enchanted wonderland for sure. Only intense willpower (and fading daylight) kept me from continuing along the trail to see what wonder came next.

I'm not sure I'd want to sleep on an 80-year-old sagging metal and wood slab hanging by chains.

One last look at Indian Bar.

UP again, even though I had climbed so far and so high on the way out, that final steep descent into Indian Bar had to be scaled first.

Mt. Adams was my companion on the way back, always hovering on the horizon.

When I crested the ridge, the sun was waiting for me. It gifted me with the most glorious molten gold light before finally sinking below the horizon for good.

A Shaina tree shadow.

I could weep at this view.

Goodnight, Tahoma. I love you forever.

Down, down, down on a skinny ridgeline trail.

I kept looking back and drinking in the light and shadows.

Headlamp view. 

Crossing Nickel Creek was a bit scarier in the dark, haha. I used the railing.

I had to get creative for my traditional trailhead triumph picture.

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Postscript:

I love the mountains. I love spending time alone in nature. In response to my wilderness adventures, many people I know and love pelt me with comments:

• "Aren't you scared?"
• "That's not safe!"
  
• "You're crazy!"
• "You're worrying us!"
• "Yikes!"
• "Looks pretty dangerous."
• "That is my worst nightmare."
• "I'm glad you're still alive."

One or two of these comments from one or two people likely wouldn't phase me, but lately I have felt burdened with defending myself to so many of the people I like and respect most. As a lifelong distance runner, I am accustomed to the "I don't know how/why you do it" type of commentary. I don't necessarily like it, but whatever, it's part of  the territory, and I mostly shrug and ignore it. I'm not going to stop running because some novices don't understand me! 

For some reason, however, it's much harder for me to swallow the solo trail run comments. Part of it is because I love trail running even more than I love normal running, and the closer something is to my heart, the harder it is to bear it being attacked repeatedly. It is sad to have my joy dismissed. It also feels more like these comments are attacking ME personally, and arg, back off! I am a responsible adult! I am an incredibly careful person. I prepare endlessly for my excursions. I carry a pack full of supplies. My husband doesn't stress about my trail running; he supports it. Even if it seems ridiculous and risky to many, I am not the only human who ever went into the woods alone! 

After running in the pitch dark woods for an hour on Tuesday night, I did decide that it was time to choose shorter trails to match the shorter days. The point is, it was MY decision.