Reporter Experiences Snowshoeing and More at Mount Rainier National Park

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Right on cue, as the temperature readout on my dashboard dipped to 32, wisps of snow began blowing across the road. As the road wound higher up the mountain slopes, a line of slow-moving cars formed up behind a cautious sedan. It was hard to get too impatient; a plodding pace isn’t so bad when it gives you more time to gawk at Mount Rainier. 

Last Saturday, I took off early for the national park, accompanied by fellow Chronicle newbie Katie Hayes. We rented snowshoes at Whittaker Mountaineering in Ashford, just outside the park. Eventually, the trickle of traffic led us to the Paradise area on Rainier’s south slope, at 5,400 feet still a winter playground deep into March.

We strapped on our snowshoes, swiveled bindings attached to a plastic deck, and began our climb from the parking lot. The trails were packed with weekenders, enjoying a morning of brilliant sunshine and clear views. A thoroughfare of tracks guided us through the snow, packed firm by scores of snowshoes and skis.

Snowshoeing isn’t much different than hiking, just more cumbersome. Teeth below the binding provide traction, and the platform keeps you from sinking into powdery conditions. It’s slow going, requiring a wider gait and slightly exaggerated steps. The hinged movement of the deck takes some getting used to. But given the alternative, where every step in boots brings the possibility of sinking in, the steady trudge is a decent trade-off. 

No signs marked the snowy trails, but a friendly trio of snowshoers pointed us toward our destination, the aptly if unoriginally named Panorama Point. We leapfrogged our new friends for awhile, trudging up cheerily, pausing now and then to take in the views and gulp down water. 

As we hiked north, Rainier’s towering flank dominated the skyline. Clouds slid over its slopes, lifted and returned, a windblown game of hide and seek. The steady sun overhead dazzled the snow; I’d return to the car with a mild sunburn. 

Up close, Rainier is every bit the landscape-dominating behemoth it is when viewed from a distance. The detail of proximity brings its scale into full realization, pockets of green where the treeline ends, hints of glowing blue teasing the massive glaciers beneath the seasonal snow. A few steep crags of rock protrude out, too sheer to be swallowed by a winter’s worth of storms. Even here, seemingly a stone’s throw from the summit, its massive hump looms nearly two vertical miles overhead.  

Before long, we were shedding layers, the steady uphill climbs delivering the heat of exertion. The path began to track east, zigzagging up a fast-rising slope to Panorama Point. We followed the switchbacks up, the tracks less firm here, taking our time to get solid footholds. A final push brought us to the top, 1,400 feet of climbing from where we’d left the car.



By the time we reached the overlook, Rainier was gone. Another cloud had moved in, so we sat on boulders and took lunch while we waited for our hard-earned vista to emerge from the mist. A fine snow started falling, just barely visible against the black of my jacket. I chowed down on a tortilla, then an apple. By the time I took my last bite, the hikers we’d seen hanging out nearby were just hazy silhouettes. We were enveloped on all sides, the nearby ridges dropping off into nothingness.

Deciding we wouldn’t be in for a view anytime soon, we started back down as the snow picked up. Flurries became a full-on whiteout, with visibility dropping to near 100 feet. The horizonless, featureless expanse of white was broken only by the intermittent outlines of other hikers. Suddenly, I was grateful for the crowds in the park; we’d have easy tracks to follow back out in the absence of other visual cues.

Progress was slow down the steep switchbacks, but our pace picked up as the incline became more gradual. We linked up with some other hikers and added to our convoy as we came across more. Everyone was glad to stick together amid the uncertainty of the conditions.

A few skiers emerged from the haze, zipping by and disappearing just as fast. If they had any doubts about finding their way down, they didn’t let on. As the snow drove us off the mountainside, we crossed paths with a few hardy souls heading up into the storm.

An older woman gave us a hearty greeting, her face plastered in a wide grin. A longtime park volunteer, Ann Marie was putting the rest of us to shame. 

“She’s 83,” said the middle-aged woman bringing up the rear in her trio. “We can’t keep up.”

As we neared the parking lot and lower elevation, the storm gradually abated. We reached the car with snow still clinging to our hair, but the drive down was smooth sailing — save for the timid hatchback that kept us at a snail’s pace all the way back to the park entrance.