On the Slopes of Rainier, Conditions Test Wonderland Hikers

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(This is Part Two in a series by reporter Alex Brown as he hikes the Wonderland Trail. Read the first story below.) 

As a drumbeat of rain pattered the tent Sunday morning, I hit the snooze button on my phone alarm and receded deeper into my damp sleeping bag. I looked over at my girlfriend Mandy, who asked if I wanted to stay in the tent an extra hour and wait for conditions to improve. I didn’t take much convincing.

A gray dawn gradually lightened the forest, but the rain was unrelenting. Begrudgingly, we packed up camp, tugged on our rain gear and started climbing. 

Our camp at Pyramid Creek sat on the southwest corner of Mount Rainier National Park, about a third of the way into our thru-hike of the 93-mile Wonderland Trail, which circles the volcano. We had three days — and about 60 miles — to complete our clockwise circuit. Rain or not, we had to hike.

It didn’t take long for the Wonderland to start ascending, and rivers of water ran down the trail as we climbed up. Soon, our lightweight rain jackets had been soaked through, and the base layers we were wearing underneath were as wet as if we’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. 

The downpour lifted as we climbed into a meadow, walking through its ruddy autumn colors. Across the way stood a National Park Service patrol cabin, the slopes behind coated with fresh snow, not that far above us. We walked up to the building, which was padlocked shut, but had a dry porch protected by an overhang. 

We quickly changed into dry clothes and spread our wet layers on the deck while we warmed up a hot meal. Warmer now, and with full bellies, we were starting to feel more optimistic. As we prepared to leave, though, every momentary break in the rain was quickly followed by a renewed burst of wet.

Another hiker walked up, seeking the same shelter. She was coming from the counterclockwise direction, so we talked about the conditions ahead.

“Protect your dry clothes like gold,” she said.

Finally, we decided there was nothing to do but press on. I was wearing my last dry base layer, but I knew that if I kept hiking in my soaked-through rain jacket, it would get soggy as well, and I’d have nothing left to sleep in. I groaned and pulled my wet layer back on, shivering.

Leaving the patrol cabin, we knew what we were in for. It was almost noon, and we’d only hiked three miles. We had 17 to go to reach our campsite. We’d have to hike fast to stay warm anyway.

After a steady descent, we pushed back up into our second of four big climbs of the day. The Wonderland features 22,000 feet of elevation gain — and, of course, an equal amount of descending. It’s never flat for very long. We climbed exposed rock up to Emerald Ridge, the wind and mists making the mountain seem like an apparition to the east. Lashed with rain, we kept moving, soaked to the bone, knowing we couldn’t dry off until we crawled into the tent that evening. 

At the top of the ridge, the trail carved through meadows that on a sunny day would be shimmering green with a picture-perfect view of Rainier. On this day, though, we didn’t linger, plunging back down into the trees and following the switchbacks to a crossing of the Puyallup River. 

This kind of hiking became familiar on the Wonderland. We’d descend a hillside thousands of feet to a low point carved by a river or creek. At the bottom, we’d cross the flow on a wide bar of rocks and sediment, brought down by the waters flowing from high above. Once across, we’d go right back into the woods and climb straight back up. 

Our next climb brought us to the top of a slope, where we found a rare patch of sunshine and took our first real break in miles. A small patch of cell service brought us messages from hiker friends — a reminder that the day marked one year since we’d finished our thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. We messaged them back and returned to our own hike, pulling on rain gear yet again as wet clouds rolled in. I spotted a patch of white on a far hillside, unsure if it was a rock or a mountain goat. 

“Hey, goat!” I shouted.

It flicked its tail, clearly acknowledging my shoutout. We climbed to the top of a pass, the rain turning to sleet, then back to rain as our elevation lowered again. Not much further ahead, I spotted another goat, this one even closer. I got my phone out to take a picture when Mandy caught my attention.



“Alex,” she said tersely. “Bear.”

I turned as a cub quietly made its way into the trees. We moved on, not waiting to find out where the mama bear was hiding. 

Our next descent was on slick, narrow trail, the muddy path overgrown by plants that were soaked in water. We picked our way down, pushing through wet leaves and branches, feeling like we were walking through a car wash. 

We climbed again, this time with our campsite waiting at the top of the slope. The longer we hiked, the further away it seemed to get. The rain picked up yet again, the trail a muddy mess. As we came around a corner, an elk went thundering down the slope. Finally, we made it to Golden Lakes, where we set up camp as it quickly grew dark, cooking dinner by headlamp in the few square feet of dry space in the vestibule of our tent.

By now, every article of clothing we had was at least somewhat damp, and our sleeping bags were holding plenty of water as well. Exhausted, we pulled on the driest layers we could find and crashed into slumber.

By morning, the skies had cleared and a glow over the mountains promised a golden sunrise. We made another long descent through forest lined with ferns, picking berries still covered with frost. We reached the basin where the trail crosses the Mowich River, another wide, rocky bed. On either side of the river, ancient trees soared toward the sky, wide trunks covered in moss. The forest floor was carpeted in a thick green as well. 

Midway through our next climb, shafts of sun started to show through the trees. Another hiker took advantage, setting all her soggy items alongside the trail in a small pocket of sun. We decided to press on, get the climb out of the way and find some open space at Mowich Lake to dry out our gear. By the time we got there, though, the lake was socked in with low-lying clouds, mist rising off the water. We took a gloomy lunch under the gray and moved along, hoping the afternoon would bring us at least enough sunshine to dry out our sleeping bags and clothes. 

Down we went again, hints of blue sky on the horizon and teases of sunlight on far hillsides. The trail eventually went back into deep forest, past waterfall after waterfall, following the path of Ipsut Creek. If the descent felt never-ending, it was because we knew the climb to follow would at least be its match.

We finally reached the Carbon River, and once across, started making our way up beside the glacier that marks its origin. The Carbon Glacier is massive, a sprawling white-brown behemoth that covers nearly six miles of the mountainside. We hiked up a long ridge of loose rocks overlooking the glacier, painstakingly climbing at about half of our normal hiking pace. By now, we knew there was no chance of the sky clearing, and we’d be camping in wet gear again.

When we stopped for water, we realized that our pace at this incline and the amount of miles we had remaining meant we’d be hiking after dark. We got out our headlamps so we’d be ready when nightfall came. Eventually, we went back into the forest, the rocky trail mercifully returning to dirt. Still, the steep trail kept our progress slow. 

As much as we like to romanticize hiking, to think of the beautiful sights, talk about being one with nature, sometimes it’s just about getting through. Sometimes it’s dark and cold and your clothes are wet and the mountainside keeps getting steeper and the fog is so thick you can feel water collecting on your arm. You don’t keep going because it’s fun. You keep going because you have no other option.

Finally, we reached camp, headlamps penetrating the mist at only a modest distance. We cooked up hot meals that helped revive us a little bit. Inside the tent, I flopped down in exhaustion, but my knees were throbbing so badly I couldn’t sleep. Mandy produced a pair of hand warmers that, tucked into my leggings, provided instant relief. Love is the little things.

Tuesday, our last day on the trail, dawned bright, and this time the light was not to be short-lived. We climbed cheerily toward the sun, the trail offering occasional flat spots to pace the climb. Our final day of hiking was only 12 miles, following 20-plus-mile hikes the two days before. We hoped, though, that this abbreviated stretch would finally offer us some views of Rainier.

Near the top of the ascent, the trees started to thin out, and nearby summits rose in full view. When we reached Skyscraper Pass, we turned and took in the summit of Rainier, towering behind us. We sat and basked in the sun, finally warming up. The day was so bright and clear we could see Glacier Peak and Mount Baker, more than 100 miles to the north. 

Quickly, the rain and cold, the long climbs and sore bodies, became a distant memory. We sat on the rocky ledge, eating candy bars and soaking up the full exposure. My car was only a few miles away, but suddenly we were in no hurry to complete the hike and get back to civilization. The coffee and pancakes and hot showers we’d been talking about for days could wait a little longer. 

Our final descent we took as a stroll, remaining at high exposure for awhile and constantly looking about at Rainier and the surrounding peaks. We circled a valley with slopes of the same autumn colors we’d seen elsewhere, reminding us that this bright, crisp day was one of the last flickers of summer on this mountain, the months and months of snow not far away.

We reached the car and began the long drive back to town. A few miles down the road, Mandy pulled out her map and started surveying other trails, looking for our next trip. Maybe we’ll hike the Northern Loop Trail. Maybe we’ll snowshoe to Camp Muir. First, though, we’ll get a beer.