Heather Park

The cold came early to Port Angeles.  Temperatures are reliably moderate, but Thanksgiving week-end brought record cold and snow.  It was nineteen degrees on a clear and cold morning when I set out for Heather Park in Olympic National Park.  Heather Park is known for bright blankets of wildflowers in July and although it is the last day of November and my first trip to Heather Park, I know mountains shine just as bright in the winter.

I awake at sea level and a short 15 minute drive later I’m at 2,100 feet at the Heart O’ the Hills entrance to Olympic. Having left my hiking boots in the car overnight, they offer no warmth as I take my first steps on the trail. Several inches of snow crunch under foot and it is the only sound I hear on this most quiet and still morning.  Deep green colors of Sword ferns and Salal plants reach through the frosty snow and won’t let you forget that this is still a rainforest. 

The trail is steep and never relents; a thousand feet for every mile.  The highest crowns of tall Western Red Cedars and Douglas Firs are out of sight and make the steep terrain seem even more of a struggle, but every switchback and every cascading creek pulls your mind along.  “Here, around this corner, a little farther, I think the top is near….” At about 4,700 feet, the snow is two feet deep and I am thinking: “Why are my snowshoes in my storage locker?”  Gray Jays gather to stare and wonder about me as well.

The trees start to get smaller and the views become tremendous.  Looking down the valley, all the way to the bottom and across the resting sea is a crystal clear view of Mount Baker and on a day like this, the completely snow covered volcano reflects every bit of sunshine and towers on the horizon.  At the edges of Heather Park, small stands of sub-alpine firs are completely buried in snow and become bright white spires amongst the black outcropping of rocky ridges.

There is no hiding your presence in the winter world of snow.  Little feet are everywhere. I can see where a Snowshoe Hare has been nibbling the tops of small trees that can’t normally be reached without snow.  Nearby are the tracks of where a Douglas Squirrel was digging for a well hidden cache of pine cones.  The tiny tracks of voles and mice, with the occasional hint of a tail dragging in the snow, reveal their trails from one small shelter den to the next.  Even the faint tracks of a grouse were seen.  But it was the stretch of that grouse’s wing that left the most beautiful imprint of all with the artful wisp of the edges of flight feathers imprinting the top layer of sparkling snowflakes.  

The top, the summit, the end is only the halfway point. It is always nice to have a destination, to have a goal, but it is truly the journey that is the most rewarding of all and it is time to head home again.