Why we climb

"Somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery of why we climb." 
– Greg Child  

BELLINGHAM, Wash. – It started innocently enough.  I was visiting Meghan and Eric in Bellingham, and I was eager to do some hiking.

After all, life in the Northwest is not complete without an occasional hike.  And for good reason. The views are spectacular, the nature all around.  It sustains the soul.

The march up.

The plan was, on Day 2 of my visit, that we’d hike up to Oyster Dome, a rock outcropping overlooking the oyster beds of Samish Bay.  Meghan described it as a medium-level hike … something I’d be able to accomplish, I thought. I try to keep in shape even with my job, which binds me to a computer managing staff missives, phone calls, spreadsheets and frequent emails from honest foreigners who just found thousands of unclaimed dollars and want to share.

And Oyster Dome?  Well, it sounded darn good – very Northwestern.  Not that I’m a fan of oysters.  I don’t think.  But fresh, inviting, invigorating … a challenge.

So that morning, I woke up early at the hotel and drove a quick mile to the McDonald’s. Sure, I’m in the healthy Northwest, but not being a vegetarian I figured a sausage biscuit would carry me through the morning.  And hotel food was too expensive anyway.

Well fortified, I was ready. Meghan and Eric picked me up, and we headed south through Fairhaven and on to Chuckanut Drive.

California may have its Highway 1 and Colorado its Fall River Road, but Washington State has its Chuckanut.  And “Drive” does it a disservice.

Early postcard of Chuckanut Drive.

It’s a fabulous two-lane highway that’s actually State Route 11.  It was born in 1895, and it skirts between the Chuckanut Mountains on the east and Bellingham and Samish bays on the west.  The route is narrow; like Highway 1, the driver must heed the road vs. the scenery or risk becoming part of the scenery. But the views are spectacular.

Our destination was a middling point along Chuckanut … a part of the road that crosses the Pacific Northwest Trail.

Low clouds along the trail.

If the trail sounds grand, it is, stretching more than 1,100 miles from the Pacific Ocean inland to the Continental Divide.  Or more specifically, from Cape Alava on the coast, just south of the U.S.-Canadian border, to Glacier National Park in the Rocky Mountains.

Our job seemed simple … to hike a mere 3-plus miles up the trail to the Dome – considered the “pearl” of the Chuckanut Mountains – to view the San Juan Islands to the west. Meghan had packed some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; we figured we’d arrive there by lunchtime, break those out, and we'd eat them while admiring the view.

And so we began.

Now, the logical person knows that a trail starting at sea level but quickly reaching mountaintops must, out of necessity, go up.

And certainly any hiker knows “up.”

But I’m more acquainted with the Midwestern “up,” which contrasts sharply with the Northwestern “up.”

Up at home is climbing the Flint Hills in Kansas, which barely rise above their own tall grass. I’ve climbed taller ladders.

Here, “up” is … well … why elevators were built.

Not that I wasn’t up for it.  I was, and we quickly marched skyward with Eric in the lead.

I won’t spend words describing the lush, green landscape; I’ve done that previously.  Just know that it is lush and green. Your envy meter would be off the charts if you saw how green.

A rare level spot.

Instead, I’ll mention four things:

-       The genius of the switchback.  I’m betting that early man, born with not much of a brain, thought the best way up a steep hill was straight up. The ol’ beeline. But at some point someone smarter invented the first switchback … the zig-zag trail style that allows you to climb mountains at reasonable grades.  Switchbacks require patience, of course. But that’s a virtue, so it’s all good.

-       The mountain goats among us.  By about my 10^th switchback, I was feeling the sweat and huffing and puffing a bit, too.  My guides, Eric and Meghan, seemed nonchalant and unaffected. Oh, I kept up, pretty much.  But I marveled not just at the two of them but at the number of trail runners who would zip by us at full gallop, deftly dodging rocks and roots while hardly breathing. “Inhuman,” I mumbled. But very polite.

-       Trail dogs … of all sizes. Then there’s the other class of hiker … the dog. I love dogs, so I appreciated the entertainment. But don’t assume hikers who bring their dogs take a page from an L.L. Bean catalog. Sure, there were Labradors and Goldens. But also pugs, poodles and a least one small-fry Chihuahua. That Taco Bell guy hopped down the trail like Pooh’s Tigger with a belly full of jumping beans.

-       Oh God, quad!  There is a muscle group that sits just above your knees called the quadriceps. Typically they aren’t tested much, although I use the gym to try to keep mine ready and able for most situations. Ha. After two hours of “up” we at last reached the Dome, and my quads burned hotter than the devil’s underwear. I was afraid they’d melt … lock into place once we plopped down on the Dome, and Meghan and Eric would have to roll me down the trail, rocks, roots and all.  It didn’t happen, though.  I credit the jelly in the peanut butter sandwich.  

So Greg Child, the Australian born mountaineer, suggests there’s some epiphany that hits between the bottom of the climb and the summit explaining why we do the darn thing.

At last we make it.

He’s right.  About halfway up, when I wondered what I’d gotten myself in to, the sweat flowing, the quads quaking, the lungs like a squeeze box playing ol’ timey tunes, it hit me.  This is why we climb … why we test our mettle, endure the pain, shed 5 gallons of water in just two hours.  It’s just so obvious.

It’s because at some point, at some time, just around that one final bend, we’ll finally reach it, our reason for being, the pinnacle of purpose ….

Lunch.

Just kidding, although the sandwich made me smile.

No, I think you do it because you realize how precious is that ability to climb steep hills, to finally reach summits and cliffs and a visual splendor that so many of us won’t, or can’t, ever see. We know our time on Earth is limited.  You do this while you can.

It was an exquisite moment, and now, looking back, I wonder if I gave it enough focus and attention.  

Because we saw clouds … not above us but below, at our feet, a soft, cottony blanket wrapping the San Juans, and Samish Bay below them. We were like angels.  Hardly innocent, but imagining what it must be like for those with halos to step so lightly.

Indeed, this is where angels come to dance.

With that, we began our descent.  And me?  Self-satisfied and newly confident, I welcomed those coming up-trail with greetings and encouragement.

To see pictures from the trip up, plus a side hike to Lilly Lake, click here!