Renewal Within Mt. Rainier

Dec 1

In November, at the end of my workweek, I had the opportunity to explore Washington State. What started as a straightforward drive turned into a four-hour detour through winding roads, where every turn offered something unexpected—a hidden café, a quiet hiking trail, and the realization that rushing wouldn’t get me anywhere faster. So, I slowed down in ways I rarely do, and by the time I arrived at my hotel, the sun had been asleep for hours and I was ready to join it.

I woke before sunrise, quickly pulled on my winter pants, and pushed my feet into hiking boots before meeting my tour group. During the two-hour drive, I got to know my 12 hiking companions. They came from all over the U.S., as well as Australia, Spain, and Denmark. Some traveled for work, like myself, while others were on vacation. As we slowed to a stop, the noise in the van quieted, and we entered Mt. Rainier National Park.

The deep greens and golden yellows lined the streets, and the higher we climbed, the more frequently we saw snow shimmering on the trees and paths. Our first adventure was a series of hikes through a mighty forest. The rainy weather created a gloomy sky, but with each crunch of ice and snow beneath my feet, the forest felt increasingly magical. Enchanted.

We walked through towering trees, where the sky struggled to peek through the dense canopy. We stopped often to take photos, learn about the park’s history, and admire the world around us.

I fell behind my group briefly, captivated by a centuries-old fallen tree, from which a new tree had sprouted. I wasn’t sure why I lingered so long—perhaps it was the decay and renewal mirroring my life in the past six months of loss and quiet rebuilding. Pain, it seemed, wasn’t an ending but a bridge to something new—a process as natural and inevitable as the shifting seasons around me.

As we continued through the Douglas firs and other deciduous trees towering hundreds of feet above, I handed my camera to a new friend and asked her to take a picture of me hugging a tree—a request from my mother. I felt the rough surface of the bark beneath my fingers, its thick grooves and crevices telling a story of patience and strength. As I embraced the tree, I whispered, “This is from my mother.”

Soon after, we climbed back into the shuttle and ascended even higher into the park. The rain turned to flurries, and where golden yellows had gleamed, we now saw the snowy peaks of the Tatoosh Mountain Range—a winter wonderland.

Our guide, Susan, handed out snowshoes and hiking poles, showing us how to fasten them. Once ready, we felt awkward as we began climbing a steep path, like children learning to walk all over again. The trail was blanketed with fresh snow from a recent storm, and I wondered what secrets were kept silenced under the ice and cold.

Everywhere I turned was a vast expanse of trees and snow. The gray sky began to reveal hints of blue, and occasionally, the sun would sneak a peek. We crossed a narrow bridge, stepping carefully to avoid falling into the icy river below, before throwing our bags down and collapsing into the snow for a picnic of quiche and spinach provided by our guide.

Just as we finished eating, Susan jumped up and shouted, “Quick, hurry! This is what we’ve been waiting for!” In seconds, the clouds lifted briefly above Mt. Rainier, revealing the dark lava rock and blue-hued glaciers beneath a glimmering blanket of snow. I marveled at the sight.

I was in awe—the mountain, alive yet asleep, seemed to hold its breath under the weight of ice and snow. Each bubbling stream below felt like a whisper from the fire deep within. This duality reminded me that nothing in life is truly static.

In those moments, I reflected on how blessed I was—something I often realize during my adventures. Yet this time, it felt different (although I say this often).

On the way back down, I focused on my senses—the way the wind caressed my face, chilling my nose and cheeks; the steadfastness of the towering trees; and the laughter and exclamations of wonder from my companions.

With each hike that followed, I noticed the little things: the mushrooms clinging to the sides of trees and fallen logs, the waterfalls that surged despite the icy cold. I felt the icy chill of snow and let the smell of pine linger in my nostrils.

At our final stop overlooking cascading waterfalls, my heart swelled with gratitude and thudded with exertion, my lips curved into a smile, and my eyes watered slightly as we took a group photo. We stood before a small waterfall overlooking the Tatoosh Mountains—a moment of triumph and connection after seven hours of hiking in freezing temperatures. Each of us had come to the mountain for different reasons, but by the end of the day, it felt like we were all part of the same journey.

The drive back was long, slowed by traffic. Yet I felt renewed, as though, like the trees, every moment leading to this had been a test of my patience and strength. Life is fickle, but like Mt. Rainier, we have a fiery heat pulsing through our bodies. And although weathered by time, we can endure—and we will. 🏔️❄️🌲