There can be no more denying: the weather this summer is officially Sucky. Instead of the normal long stretches of balmy weather the sky has been gray and cloudy for months. Occasionally we'll get a sunny few days, but nobody trusts them any more. After a few days I'll break out the shorts and then, just as suspected, the clouds will roll back in. This doesn't make for very encouraging hiking weather.

Still, I'd promised myself that I'd get out into the woods this summer -- to spend some time in my own company, enjoying the solitude and solace and spirit of the forest. The weather wasn't going to cooperate, but I needed to get out there anyway. So, I took a Friday off from work and headed out to the woods for a 3-day weekend.

My first destination was a familiar one: Talapus Lake. The trail to the lake is easy, with a wide tread and gentle elevation. It would make for a nice gradual introduction to the more difficult stretches to come -- if there were any. The sky was clear as I strode through the forest. I got to the lake around noon and had some GORP.

From Talapus Lake I continued on into the woods, following the trail towards Ollalie Lake. The trail crossed a few large stretches of snow, but a deep trough of muddy footprints showed the right way to go. Before getting to Ollalie Lake I turned off onto the Pratt Lake trail and continued to climb up into the woods. The trail crossed a ridge above Ollalie Lake, giving a few views of Mt. Rainier, before beginning its descent down to my destination for the night.

The trail I was following led to a collection of small alpine lakes. I had originally planned to stay at Pratt Lake on the first night, but a 1000-odd foot descent down to the lake meant a 1000-foot ascent the next morning so I nixed that idea. Instead, I thought I'd continue on to Rainbow Lake, nestled with a few other lakes among a few small peaks about a mile further along the trail. I could then spend all of the next day exploring the peaks and the lakes and generally communing with nature. Or at least, that was the plan.

Patchy snow appeared on the ground again as I began my descent into the lake basin. After a few tries it managed to stick for good and I spent the last half-mile trudging through the thick white stuff. Hmmm... summer had been late this year, and it was even later up in the mountains. I wasn't really equipped for snow travel but the snow wasn't deep and the trail was easy to follow. I bypassed a turnoff to Island Lake and continued on to Rainbow Lake. I found a nice flat rock by the water and cooked up some hot dogs for dinner.

With my belly full of delicious meat by-products I turned my thoughts to camping. I was going to spend another night in the woods, alone, far from car and comfort. In the past (see Lessons 7 and 14), this has caused no small amount of consternation -- in fact, it has sometimes filled me with downright terror. That was one of the reasons I was making this trip: I had a fear of spending a night alone in the woods, and I wanted to conquer it.

I spent some time wandering in the snow, seeking a likely spot for my tent. Several of the designated camping areas were bare, so I picked a good candidate and put up my tent. I grabbed my food and did some more wandering in the snow, looking for a good configuration of trees to hang up the bag. The mosquitoes were starting to come out but they didn't seem to be as organized as their brethren at Lila Lake. Some bug spray and the occasional wild arm swing seemed to hold them at bay.

Bear-bagging my food was difficult, as usual. First, one must find a good tree. Tall, isolated, with clear branches. Then, find a rock or heavy stick to tie to the rope, and spend 15 minutes throwing and re-throwing the rope until it manages to magically wrap around the tree. Then, attach the bear bag and hoist it up. It never ends anywhere near as high as I pictured it would, but after a half an hour of struggling in the snow, I called it a night.

The sunset was beautiful, burning up the high clouds and mountains around me. I would have had an even better view if I'd wandered another half-mile north, where the basin dropped away to the west, but by the time I noticed it was too late. Instead, I zipped into my tent and the night began.

Miraculously, the terror did not sink in. My senses were certainly more heightened than usual -- but I'd classify feeling more as awareness than fear. Mentally, I had the right attitude: I'd eaten far away from my camp and had nothing that would attract a chipmunk, let alone a bear. Bears might come wandering through the lake basin, but they would want nothing to do with me. With that mantra running through my head, I settled in to sleep.

I woke up the next morning in a different world. The blue sky was gone and I was wrapped inside a mystical fairy land. (Pun intended, if you can find it.) The trees loomed eerily in the fog and a chill filled the morning air.

I had an entire day ahead of me but the weather quickly dampened my spirits. My shoes were also soaked from yesterday's trudging in the snow. The fog showed no signs of lifting so I abandoned my plan to ascend the three surrounding peaks and instead packed up camp and made tracks towards Mason Lake.

The hike took about an hour, and led me past another, un-named lake before dropping down to Mason. I arrived around 11 in the morning. Now what was I going to do? I spent some time taking pictures but the rain started coming down so I set up my tent and crawled in to read and waste the day away.

An hour or so later I crawled out again. The mist was still there, and I was bored. I wandered through the wood around the lake, taking photos, but the weather continued to drag my spirits down. What was I doing out there? Why had I trudged across miles of trail, over hills and snow, just to sit in my tent and read? I had deprived myself of the comforts of home -- in particular dryness, heat, and soft seats -- but in exchange for what? The anticipated spiritual healing never occurred.

I had often fantasized about spending hours by myself in the woods, meditating, drawing in the essence of the nature around me. Now here I was presented with the opportunity, and I was just plain bored. I felt like I was in some self-imposed exile. As evening arrived, I had lost all interest in camping at Mason Lake.

As I was cooking dinner, hope arrived! Two hikers came drifting down the trail from the direction I had come. We were only about 2 miles from the Mason Lake trailhead, but I was parked about 5 miles away at the Talapus Lake trailhead. If these two hikers were heading out on the Mason Lake trail I'd join them, ask for a ride back to my car, and be revelling in the comforts of home later that night! Unfortunately, my excitement faded as I saw them set their tent. It looks like I was stuck with another night in the woods.

The night passed uneventfully. I awoke the next morning to find the sky clear -- but Mother Nature must have noticed that I was up because she quickly turned on the fog machine. The mist continued to roll around as I ate breakfast, packed up my stuff, and began hiking back towards Rainbow Lake.

My boots were still thoroughly soaked, inside and out, but the hiking was actually a lot of fun. I climbed back up to Rainbow Lake and continued on through the snow. At the junction with the Island Lake trail I took a detour and headed out to Island Lake. It was clear when I got there, but once again the mist arrived shortly after I did.

I had a sausage-cheese-and-pita lunch (at 9 am) and then headed back to the main trail and up out of the lake basin. The climb was a bit steep in places but soon I found myself on the gently descending trail overlooking Ollalie Lake. The weather was nice and I and my hiking poles got into a nice rhythm. I stopped to chat with a few hikers on the way up and, with one, spent some time bemoaning the lack of water resistance in my boots. It was definitely time for a new pair -- not the "yuppie specials" that I was wearing, as the guy I met called them. I offered some advice about the trail ahead and continued down towards the lower lakes.

The trail continued to descend and I continued to walk with good rhythm. Hiking poles are wonderful when walking down a trail -- they help to control the descent and eliminate a lot of jarring steps. After a while, though, I found that my footsteps and pole-plants were getting less certain. Was I tired? Hungry? Thirsty? Hard to say -- but somehow, my balance felt a little bit off.

This was demonstrated quite dramatically at a creek crossing just about Talapus Lake. Two rounded logs led across the creek. Both were wet from the night's rain. I could see that they were slippery, so I approached the crossing with some caution and tried to make good use of my poles. I took a few steps then suddenly my front foot slid forward and I tumbled backwards. I landed on my back in the shallow creek, with cold water rushing over my boots and butt. To add insult to injury, I couldn't get up! The weight of the backpack and my awkward position left me stuck in the water for a good 10 seconds. I finally managed to unturtle myself, checked to make sure that nobody saw my graceless traverse, and continued on to the lake.

I got to Talapus Lake around noon and took a break. The lake was crowded -- its elevation and proximity make it a good family camping destination -- but I managed to find a spot to take off my shoes and read for a while. The sun was shining and the air was pleasantly warmer at this altitude. Across the lake, one member of a scout troop found great pleasure in yelling the word "ECHO" across the water, over and over again. After ten minutes of it I thought up some rather colorful responses to yell back but managed to restrain myself.

After about an hour I was ready to go. My boots were still soaked, especially after my adventure in the creek, so I decided to try hiking in my Teva sandals. They worked pretty well -- except for the few wet sections where it was hard to avoid the mud squishing between my toes. The trail back to the car was very crowded -- almost like rush hour. I was going at a quick pace and a few times I got stuck behind large caravans of slower hikers. I was able to get back into my rhythm once I was passed them, though, and I enjoyed the hike back to the car.

It seems like I've got the mechanics of hiking down pat. I now carry a very light pack and I'm comfortable with all my equipment. I've stopped carrying around huge amounts of water. I know which food to take, and I know how to take a shit in the woods. But as this hike indicated, something is still missing...

The spirituality of being in the woods was lost on me this time around, and I really believe that's an important aspect of being on a hike -- especially an unchallenging one like that upon which I had just embarked. Getting a grasp on that spirituality when I'm bored, wet, and cold is going to take a bit more learning. As I wrote when I first discovered the wilderness: "Hiking is the perfect blend of hurt and healing -- for body, mind, and soul." Somehow this hike had provided nothing for the latter two.

On a more upbeat note, I beat my fear of the woods! Or most of it, at least. A few clinging tendrils of doubt persisted on my next hike, as you shall see...