The Next Best Place

Excerpt: The Wild

It’s official. I have decided not to hike on Washington Pass. If you read this, or by the time you read this, it won’t matter that I’m using real places names because Washington Pass, (i.e. Highway 20, Gateway to the North Cascades), has been discovered. If you take a drive today from Seattle and head over Highway 20, you’ll take your place in line with a thousand motorhomes, camper vans, Harley Davidson motorcyclists, and a million SUVs, Priuses, and Subarus with bikes and Thules strapped to their rooftops.

You’ll be amazed by the scenery. It is spectacular. You’ll stop at the Washington Pass Overlook, or somewhere along the top near Liberty Bell spires and get out of your car. You’ll breathe in the cool mountain air. The peaks, exploding around you will, glow in the afternoon light. You’ll think you’ve found paradise. And you have…along with a million other people.

It may seem strange but although I grew up here I never hiked on Washington Pass until I was an adult. Actually, until I had small children. Growing up, my dad always grumbled about Washington Pass. “Too many people,” he’d say, shaking his head. He refused to set foot on Highway 20 north of Mazama. So, having never been there, except for driving over the pass to Seattle, I was oblivious to the ease and bounty of Washington Pass. Instead of a six-mile slog and a 4,000-foot climb to see a glimpse of white peaks or an alpine flower, you get out of your car and you’re already there: views of alpine meadows, glacier lilies and snowfields right from the highway. Which is part of the problem.

The first time I went for a hike on the pass, we had just moved back from New Zealand. Mia and Annika were two and five respectively, and I was determined to fill our summer with enriching hikes and educational forays into the woods. I brought along our plant identification guide, journals to document our nature experience, and baggies of Cheerios and raisins. As it turned out, the Cheerios and raisins spilled before we left the trailhead and Mia dumped her water in the first half mile. By the time we made it to Cutthroat Lake, the girls were tired, hungry and thirsty.

“This isn’t lunch, Mommy!” Annika wailed when she looked in her pack.

But I was hooked. As a solo mother with two kids I could do this. Washington Pass became our playground. We hiked every trail so many times we got to know them by heart. I was reading Last Child in the Woods that summer, which quieted my inclination to gripe about all the people. A firm believer in nature-deficit disorder, I was determined to get my kids into nature, and the fact that a hundred thousand other people were doing the same thing, was—well, I tolerated it.

The truth was, we lived up Libby Creek and had a little more nature than we could handle. That summer a cougar ate our beloved cat while we screamed hysterically from the living room window. Bears routinely rambled through the property, and the previous week, a bobcat had surprised me on our porch at 7 a.m. While I loved our property, I was more worried about walking down to the pond than hiking eight miles on Washington Pass. We were surrounded by nature so deep and wild, I worried about letting the girls play in the yard.

So, Washington Pass became one of our sacred summer routines. Once a week we’d grab our packs and a favorite book and head to Mazama. I got better at lunches. Once we started stopping at the Mazama Store, we never looked back. Instead of cheese cubes and raisins, we stocked up on croissants and Danishes. I even got something called the Figgy Piggy, a homemade Danish filled with fig jam and bacon bits. Excellent with a double tall Americano. I never shirked on goods from the Mazama store. They became my primary bargaining tool to get the girls to go with me. They could pick out whatever they wanted. Black velvet, cream cheese cupcake? Sure. A $5 slice of olive oil cake? You bet. Over the years we came to associate hikes on Washington Pass with the best baked goods you can buy east of the Cascades. Every hike was a success.

Until the summer of 2019. Last summer, the girls and I decided to hike to Blue Lake. Of all the hikes on the pass, this had been my last choice, simply because it was the most popular. Everyone hiked Blue Lake. My friends routinely trail ran it before spinning class at the gym. Their kids were running it before they hit fifth grade. It was obnoxious, so we stayed away. When I finally hiked it with the girls, I realized why it was the number-one-most-popular trail on Highway 20. It’s so easy, it’s cheap. In less than three miles you get the best alpine views and a crystal clear, glacial lake bordered by the backside of Liberty Bell spires, which are arguably some of the most awesome rock configurations on the planet. So yes. Blue Lake is cool. It is also popular. And a hike that you can do with children. So be forewarned.

When we got to the trailhead, there were 53 cars in the parking lot. We counted them. There were another 43 vehicles parked along the highway. I counted those, too because I was mad and had already decided to call the park service to complain. My attitude didn’t bode well for our afternoon, but we persevered. We had vanilla-almond Danishes in our backpack. It couldn’t be too bad.

“Okay, girls. Let’s just do this. It’ll be fun.”

Annika’s eyebrows curved down dangerously. Her bottom lip protruded into its most fierce pout. Her eyes glared. Annika hated people on trails. She strapped on her running shoes and silently took off. So much for mother-daughter bonding.

I sighed and glanced at Mia, who flipped our dog, Pepper’s leash lethargically. Already I could see the discontent brewing on her forehead.
“Let’s go. Quick, before that family gets out of their car.” I turned away and hurried up the trail. The only way to hike with Mia was to ignore the grumbling.

We hustled through the woods. Old growth cedars and delicate green ferns lined the trail. Woodpeckers drilled in the canopy, and camp robbers called above our heads. Sunlight filtered through the trees, landing in patches of yellow along the forest floor. Behind us, a toddler’s wail pierced the air. Adult voices shouted. A dog barked. I glanced back. Mia was trailing behind, messing with Pepper. A half Papillon, half Chihuahua mix, Pepper resembled a hairy fruit bat the size of a cat. Pepper was not in the mood to hike either. She kept diving off the trail to sniff various roots and needle-covered holes.

“Pick it up, Mia,” I snapped. “Faster.”
Mia gave me a withering look and pushed past. I watched as her long, brown legs disappeared up the trail, her blond ponytail bouncing with rage.

Anger was one of her few motivators.

Alone, I tried to speed walk. It was hot. Sweat cooled the back of my neck. I laced my fingers behind my pack to still its walloping as I walked. I was carrying all the water, the plant guide, Mia’s paint set, and Annika’s book. As I settled into a steady pace, I passed the first group of people coming down.

“Hello,” I intoned politely, stepping to the side.

The couple, a guy in his early 30s and a girl in her 20s brushed by without looking up. Earbuds trailed from their ears. I realized they couldn’t hear me. I don’t think they saw me, either.

I heard the next group before I saw them. A pack of families clustered together with half a dozen kids, trekking poles, packs, and a pair of black Labrador retrievers. The women were talking about running Green Lake, while the men discussed the pros and cons of a new software they were using at work. I knew this because their conversation took place over a quarter mile of trail, and their voices floated through the forest like a megaphone. Music blared from their kids’ iPods. By the time I stepped aside and gave them a nod, I felt like I knew them on a first name basis. Having heard about Molly’s running shoes for the last five minutes, I almost suggested she get a new pair.

Next came a group of elderly hikers. They wore sunhats with flaps covering their ears and enormous smiles. “Hello!” They waved cheerfully.
“Hello.” Stepping aside, I smelled sunscreen and Old Spice aftershave. I hoped I smelled as good. I was starting to sweat in earnest as I picked up my pace to an awkward jog. No matter how fast I hurried, I couldn’t catch up with Annika or Mia. They must be really mad.

By the time I broke out into the meadows below the lake, the sun blazed down in a sweltering 90- plus degrees. Why hadn’t I brought my swimsuit? We usually found a private spot and jumped in in our underwear, but I could tell that wasn’t going to happen today. Huffing up the last incline, I jerked to a halt. Before me stood a shaggy, white mountain goat. He was young, probably an adolescent. His sides heaved wildly. His eyes rolled. Just beyond the goat crouched a father and son, taking pictures.

“Here, Tyler!” The dad maneuvered his way closer to the goat. “Let’s get a selfie.”

Trapped between me and the father-son duo, the goat paused. Close on my heels, a German couple who had been gaining on me for the past mile, now pushed past, cameras whirring. They exclaimed eagerly, stretching out their hands to pet the goat.

The goat stamped his feet and snorted.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I said.

Eyes rolling, the goat shifted his feet. Slowly, I tried to back away, as another family hurried up behind me.

“A GOAT!” one of the kids screamed.

“Wow, that’s so cool,” the parents yelled. “Get a picture, Hannah!”

The goat turned to bolt, but surrounded by a dozen people, he had nowhere to go. He lowered his head and turned to one of the dogs who was barking furiously.

I shook my head. I couldn’t watch. Fuming, I darted into the trees and made my way around the crowd and the goat to find the girls.

The girls had fled past the picnic site, packed with people, to the farthest point down the lake.

“Did you see that, Mom?” Annika’s faced was flushed. “That poor goat! He didn’t know what to do.”

Mia clutched Pepper, tears rolling down her cheeks. “It wasn’t his fault. Those people should have left him alone.”

Shrugging off my pack, I collapsed onto a rock. “I know, girls. I know.” I didn’t know what to say. I was trembling, too. There must have been close to 50 people back there. The goat was confused. I shook my head.

“Why don’t people know to leave animals alone?” Mia stomped her foot. “People are so stupid!”

Annika stood, poised to run back for a fight. “Mom, we should do something.”

I sighed. From across the lake we heard Beyonce blaring from bad speakers. Someone was playing their iPod for all of us to hear.

* * * *

The North Cascades National Park was created in 1968, shortly after Congress passed the Wilderness Act of 1964. That same year saw the establishment of the half-million-acre Pasayten Wilderness, and 10 years later, the Stephen Matther and Lake Chelan Sawtooth Wilderness areas. The total acres of U.S. Forest Service, National Park Service, and designated wilderness area means the Methow is surrounded by 3.6 million acres of public land. While this seems like a lot of space it’s a tiny fraction of the area taken up by urban centers along Puget Sound.

Having a PhD in tourism and anthropology, I’ve spent most of my life studying the impacts of tourism in remote areas. I’ve studied tourism in the Himalayas and the Mount Everest region, Ladakh, New Zealand and Hawaii. Maybe I study human impact because it helps me cope with the fact that by 2050 there will be over 15 billion people on the planet. Intellectually, I know we must share our wild spaces with other people. I know that in order to preserve natural habitat, people must care about the wild. But sitting there at Blue Lake, my thoughts echoed Mia’s.

“Why are people so stupid?”

I don’t think people mean to be obtuse. We’re animals, following the lead of those around us. If 15 people start taking selfies with a mountain goat, why not? What’s wrong with letting your kids play music at a high mountain lake?
When I related this story to a coworker a few weeks later, she said, “Most of those kids don’t get to be outside. Maybe they’re just having fun and letting off steam.”

I thought about this for a long time, and after months of pondering, my only response was: Because it’s wrong.

My father was an avid outdoorsman. He grew up on a mink farm in Oregon and moved to Washington to escape what he considered “the mess” of Portland. My mother’s roots were even more rural, having spent her childhood on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. She attended a one-room schoolhouse with her sister before they moved West. I don’t think my parents ever told me not to yell in the woods. It was just something you would never do. When we got outside, we whispered. When we hiked, we didn’t talk because we were listening. There was a lot to hear outside. Wind in the trees. The crack of a branch. Footsteps. Birds calling. My dad took me hunting every fall. We learned to be quiet. When you sit on a ridgetop before the sun rises, there’s a certain hush to the land. Everything feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Even the birds who started singing hours ago fall quiet at the exact moment the sun slips over the horizon. You only know this because you’re not talking. You’re being still.

Being still in nature gives you a sense of your place in the world. Listening to the wind, to a creek, the ocean or birds in the canopy, you feel yourself becoming less significant. The worries and narratives in your head quiet down. The planet is bigger than you. The whole magnificent world is living, breathing and dying all around you.

Experiencing nature as part of the animal kingdom is what we’ve been doing for most of our six million years of evolution—until about October 3, 2001 when the first iPod came out. Since then, kids have been plugged into devices as though their lives depended on it. I told my daughters when they were little that screens would rot their brains. Literally. They believed me. If they went to a friend’s house and had to watch a movie, Annika would come home crying because her brain had rotted that day.

I eased up over the years. My daughters are custodians of their own minds. Lately Mia spends most of her days on Tik Tok, but I cling to the hope that all those afternoons in the woods whispering and listening will one day flower into a sense of her place in nature.
Which brings me back to Blue Lake. The girls and I sat for a couple hours, listening to screams and the splash of bodies hitting the water. We munched unhappily on our pastries. Mia did a watercolor sketch of the lake. We tried not to think about the confused goat and all the people who seemed hell bent on destroying our afternoon with their presence. When we finally gathered our things and started back around the lake, I was sure the goat would be gone. I was hoping the people might be, too.

As we pushed our way through the shrubby spruce trees, we stopped short. The goat stood poised in front of a crowd of people. This time, his nostrils flared and spittle flew from his panting mouth. His head swayed drunkenly from side to side. I wondered if he was suffering heat stroke or a panic attack. He was totally freaked out.

The crowd of hikers cheered happily. One little girl picked a handful of grass.

“It’s okay, Sweetie,” her dad pushed her towards the goat. “You can feed him! He’s friendly.”

The girl walked up to the goat. He stamped his feet and lowered his head. He ran at her a few feet, then stopped.

“Get your kid!” I yelled, automatically reaching out to grab the girl.

The dad looked at me. “Isn’t it cool? He’s not afraid.”

“Actually, it isn’t cool.” I was trembling. “There’s something wrong with a goat who walks up to a crowd of fifty people. Can’t you see how confused he is?”

“Oh.” The man glanced at his other kids. He lowered his camera. “Emma, maybe don’t feed the goat.”

He took her hand and pulled her away.

“Girls, come on.” I glanced at Annika and Mia. They looked on the edge of tears. “Let’s go.”

We hurried past the goat and the crowd. People stared as if we were crazy. Didn’t we want a selfie with the goat?

* * * *

Mountain goats are native to the North Cascades. At one time their population totaled over 10,000 but hunting over the last century decimated their numbers. Today, there are fewer than 3,000, 725 of which live on the Olympic Peninsula. Traditionally, mountain goats never lived in the Olympics.

They were introduced in the 1920s for hunting. While mineral deposits in the Cascades provide the salt they crave, there are no such deposits in the Olympics. Over time, the peninsula goat population has lost its fear of humans and grown aggressive. They’re attracted to salt from human sweat and urine. After several attacks on dogs and humans, the National Park Service decided to relocate part of the goat population. Since 2018, 275 goats have been relocated, most of them to our corner of the North Cascades.

When I called the park service later that afternoon, the ranger I spoke with confirmed that indeed, they had just relocated seven goats near Blue Lake.

“Was it a young male?” she asked.

“I think so. He looked about a year old.”

“I’m not surprised. He just arrived last week. I heard he was charging dogs up there.”

I didn’t fault the goat, but rather the drastically uninformed public about how to treat a wild animal. “I think you need signs or something telling people to stay clear of animals,” I said. “And maybe close the parking lot once it’s full. There were 43 cars along the highway. It’s a liability.”

“I know.” The ranger sighed. “We don’t have the funding. It’s an absolute mess.”

Wild animals who become habituated to humans are always a problem. It’s not their fault. It’s ours. Todd often tells us the story of when he was working in the Arctic and one of the guys fed the Arctic foxes. One mother fox grew so habituated she stopped hunting and taught her cubs to beg for scraps. One day, when the man reached out to give her a bone, she bit him and ripped his hand to shreds. The guy lost his job and the fox was killed. Her cubs died because they’d never learned to hunt and be wild.

There are hundreds of stories about humans interacting with wild animals. From toddlers being raised by wolves to people like the grizzly guy who lived with (and was killed by) grizzlies in Alaska. We humans want to believe we have a connection with wild animals. And we do. But the connection is fragile, and depends on us understanding that in order to survive, they have to be wild. It took thousands of years to domesticate a few species on the planet. Out of millions of mammals, only 14 species have been successfully domesticated. They now depend on humans for survival. Once an animal is tamed, it can’t go back.

I think about this in a larger sense. Our wild places are being domesticated. We’re losing them through people and everything we bring with us—our ignorance, our chatter, our litter. Instead of listening when we’re outside, we bring iPods so we can hear music. Maybe we even download a movie so we can watch a screen instead of the night sky. We bring friends, so we won’t be alone. We bring our phones and cameras to capture every moment so we can share it on Facebook or Instagram to document that we got “out” over the weekend. Sadly, we didn’t get out. We didn’t get out of ourselves one bit.

I know I’m the last generation who grew up without the Internet. I know my childhood was different than my children’s or their children’s will be. I know its cliché to rue technology when it enables my own lifestyle and my ability to live in a beautiful place where I can work remotely. And I know I’m part of the problem. My presence in the mountains is no better than anyone else’s.

But I’d like to think we can do better. I’d like to think that we could train our kids to value solitude and silence, to grow their spirits as well as their minds. Most indigenous cultures had some kind of coming-of-age ritual, whether a walk-about or a vision quest. Granted, as a mother, the thought freaks me out. But what if we could let go of the illusion of control our technology gives us? What if we left our phones and our iPods behind when we went to the mountains? We can do better at keeping places wild. We can do better at keeping animals wild too.

When we got home from Blue Lake last summer, we sat in our car for a minute. There was silence. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Annika glared out the window. Mia was asleep. One of our summer routines had come to an end. It wasn’t so much the end of our day hikes, but the sense that something else had ended. We felt it. The Methow had lost something. Maybe it was becoming habituated to the selfies and Thules and recreational gear. Like all creatures, once places lose their wild, they never get it back.