Head in the Clouds: Backpacking in the Buckhorn Wilderness

Dates Hiked: 5/23/20-5/24/20

On May 22, after nearly two months of being closed, Olympic National Forest officially opened their trailheads back up to visitors. Alex and I hadn’t left the few mile radius outside our apartment since early March and were looking forward to finally heading to the mountains again. However, we were also wary of crowds and of minimizing our impact on smaller communities that we would pass on our way. We took a few precautions to be extra vigilant during our journey. We left Seattle with a full tank of gas and everything we would need for the couple hour trip to the trailhead. We didn’t stop once on the way to or from the trailhead. We also decided that if the trailhead had more than ten cars when we arrived we would turn around and head right back home. We were pleasantly surprised to find that only five cars were at the trailhead when we arrived, so we pulled in and begin lacing up our shoes.

We began our hike in a cold, early morning rain. I had watched the forecast closely in the preceding days and both days of our planned hike looked like they would be partly cloudy or overcast. The rain was unexpected, although rain is never a surprise in the Olympics; it’s always a looming possibility. I pulled my rain jacket hood up tight and fell into step behind Alex. Being able to walk through a forest again, to hear the soft patter of raindrops on the leaves and smell the sweet earthy soil felt like a weight being lifted from my chest. Suddenly I could breathe deeply and quiet my mind and thoughts.

After a couple hours of hiking we finally broke out of the forest and were graced with our first views of the surrounding mountains. Many of the peaks were shrouded in clouds and fog, but what we could see was spectacular. Jagged, snowy mountains filled the sky.

A couple more hours later and we finally made it to Marmot Pass, which offers sprawling views of the Olympics on a clear day. Unfortunately, clouds stubbornly clung to the mountainsides and obscured most of the views. We decided to stop for lunch. Between bites of peanut butter bagels and sips of just-filtered stream water, we talked about our plan. The forecast, it seemed, had been overly optimistic and we might not get to see anything other than a white wall. However, after a brief discussion we decided that we had come out to experience nature again, even if that meant we wouldn’t get any mountain views. The point of this trip was not views, but a reunion with nature.

We finished up lunch and began the steep ascent to Buckhorn Mountain. From Marmot Pass the trail gains nearly 1000’ in just over half a mile. I hadn’t worked out over quarantine nearly as much as I should have and this section was tough, but one foot after the other we slowly made our way upward, toward Buckhorn Mountain. Unfortunately, the visibility was so poor that we couldn’t see more than 15' in any direction. This was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it meant I couldn’t see how far we still had to climb (quite a bit), and a curse because it meant we couldn’t see anything at all and the views weren’t able to distract me from my aching legs.

After a few hundred vertical feet of steep, rocky terrain the trail finally mellowed out on a ridge a couple hundred feet below the true summit of Buckhorn Mountain. This was where we were going to spend the night. We searched for a flat spot among the rocks and found a tent site. Although it seemed impossible, the visibility was deteriorating. We had seen not even a hint of glow from the sun nor the faintest thinning of the fog. At 1pm we climbed into the tent and waited for the clouds to break. And waited. And waited. Hours passed and we saw nothing but white in all directions. There were a few promising moments when the sun shined brighter, the fog lifted slightly and our visibility rose from 15’ to 100’ but each time, just as quickly as the veil lifted, it was dropped again.

We made dinner in a cloud. I had hoped that we would be able to enjoy our dinner with a beautiful view, but instead fog danced by as we ate, leaving our jackets and hair damp as it passed. After dinner we returned to the tent. Only a few hours remained before sunset and it was becoming increasingly likely that the clouds would not lift, yet still, every few minutes I poked my head out of the tent to see if the clouds had shifted. Each time I was disappointed.

At around 8pm, just one hour before sunset, I popped my head out of the tent to check on the cloud status and catapulted to my feet at the view. Mt. Rainier looked like it was floating in thin air, just starting to glow in the golden hour light. I ran out of the tent without even bothering to put on shoes, I was so certain the moment would be fleeting. However, as I stood outside of the tent, snapping photos of the lone summit in the sky, the neighboring peaks also began to appear. One by one, the clouds seemed to be slipping off of them, settling into the valleys far below.

Alex and I scrambled up Buckhorn Mountain, barely stopping to catch our breath on the way. Around us the clouds sank even lower and revealed an archipelago of mountain summits. The scene was unlike anything I had ever witnessed in the mountains. I turned in circles, unsure of which direction to look; there were 360 degrees of jaw-dropping views.

There was no vibrant sunset, no transition of warm hues in the evening sky, the horizon was still blocked by clouds preventing any sunlight from shining through. But, this sunset didn’t need to be colorful to be beautiful. The landscape was drenched in a spectrum of blues and purples. After the light drained from the sky Alex and I reluctantly began to head down from our lofty vantage point on Buckhorn Mountain and retreated to the tent.

Not more than ten minutes after we got into the tent a light rain began to fall. The pitter-patter of soft raindrops kept us company throughout the night.

Sunrise was at 5:20, so we set our alarms for 4:45am—an altogether too early hour—to give us time to find a spot to watch the show. We were happy to find that the light trill of rain on the tent had ceased in the early hours of morning. Outside the tent there were high clouds, but everything else was mostly clear. All the clouds in the valleys had dissipated and we could finally see the surrounding peaks in their entirety. The views stretched from on for miles in all directions.

For sunrise we decided to backtrack and head toward a knoll on the trail, just above our camp area instead of heading back up Buckhorn Mountain. As we watched the high clouds turn pink during golden hour I couldn’t help but wonder how I had never been to this spot yet. It was a challenging hike, 14 miles round-trip with 4,600’ of elevation gain, but the views were well worth the effort.

We stayed up on the knoll for the entirety of sunrise, watching the snowy mountains turn from a deep blue to pink and orange before finally transitioning to bright white in the light of day. After the sun fully rose we returned to the tent to make breakfast and pack up. The sky grew more overcast as the morning wore on, and we were eager to hit the trail and be back in the shelter of the forest before any rain began.

The hike out was relatively uneventful, we ran into two groups hiking in, but other than that the trail was empty. It started to rain just as we neared the trailhead but it was only a drizzle, not enough to warrant digging our rain jackets out of our bag.

After just over three hours of hiking we were back at the car. We were exhausted, but elated. The hike was tough, especially with our unconditioned legs, and while we may have spent a majority of the time in the clouds, those moments when the clouds finally lifted made all of the cold, wet, foggy moments more than worth it!