Mt. Tam

After spending a couple days trudging around San Francisco -- including one epic 20-mile walking day -- I needed to get out of the city.

I set my sites on Mt. Tamalpais. It's the tallest peak near San Francisco, peeking out above the Golden Gate Bridge. It's in the California Coastal Range -- San Francisco on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other.

I drove around Mt. Tam State Park looking for the trailhead for a while. Eventually, I met some elderly hikers who told me where to park and where to start the hike.

The trail began on a paved road that quickly became poorly maintained dirt. The road weaves its way to West Point Inn, a rustic lodge reachable only by hiking. It's a great spot with beautiful views of San Francisco and the ocean.

I hiked past the inn to the summit of Mt. Tam. It's a little bit of a letdown because you can drive right to just a few feet below the summit via a beautiful paved road.

I wanted my legs to do the work, though. Still, I met a number of tourists who'd driven. That's always a bit of a downer.

The summit was cloudy -- as is common, but the cover parted enough in spots for me to get a full view of the beautiful terrain around me. That area of the country is awfully hard to beat. And Mt. Tam is the perfect physical escape from the great big city of San Francisco.


The details:
Mt. Tamalpais via Pantoll Road and West Point Inn
Location: About 5 miles north of Mill Valley, Calif.
Length: 6 miles
Beginning elevation: 1,950 feet
Peak elevation: 2,574 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2

Hiking buddies

It's been a rough year with the divorce, the move and all that. The two things this blog is about -- hiking and beer -- have helped get me through. My love for both have given me something to concentrate on when everything else has fallen apart.

But, as is the case in most things, it's the people associated with the activities that are most special. So here's a roll call of folks who have helped me get through. They're chiefly my hiking but also my drinking buddies.

I've known Leif Sidwell since I was 4. We've been fast friends ever since. He's always there for me -- no matter the problem or time. I've probably spent more time hiking with him than anyone else. The best trip was last summer when we spent seven days in the wild near Gunnison, Colo. It was awesome -- not nearly as awesome as Leif's beard at the time. After I move to Colorado this summer, I'm sure we'll be hauling each other around the backcountry and up 14ers. Can't wait.

Chuck Rowling has been one of my best friends since middle school. When I separated from my wife and quit my job in January, Chuck insisted I come spend a month with him in Tacoma, Wash. We went on some epic hikes -- on the Olympic Peninsula, in the caves of Mount St. Helens, on the Oregon Coast, on the flanks of Mt. Rainier. Like Leif, he's been a steadfast friend through the bad times, and I'm extremely thankful for it. I've vowed to climb Rainier, and I hope to haul Chuck up with me.

Dustin Stover -- along with Leif and Chuck -- has been a best friend since high school. Our hiking stretches back to high school excursions on the South Loup River north of Kearney. We were able to trudge around together again in Los Angeles this spring when we hiked in the hills of northwest L.A. It was an odd but cool experience. I wouldn't expect anything less from Dusty.

Josh Nichols and I have been on some epic hiking experiences. We went to college together and worked at the Daily Nebraskan student newspaper, but our friendship blossomed when I convinced him to take a reporting gig at the Grand Junction Free Press. There, we climbed our first -- and second -- 14ers together, we endured a waterless hike to see the arches near Grand Junction and we scaled Crags Crest on the Grand Mesa. I spent two weeks with him and his awesome wife KP in Montana on my road trip this winter. They showed me some cool spots up there, too.

I met Cullen Purser by chance. I'd been assigned to write a story about his furniture-making prowess. We quickly became friends, and Cullen graciously showed me many of the off-the-path spots in western Colorado. My favorite excursion with him was last fall when we backpacked on the flanks of Mount Sneffels near Ouray, Colo. I took the usual backpacking stuff. He took a coat and an umbrella. That's hardcore. He's been a great friend beyond that, always willing to listen and give honest advice. Plus he's let me sleep in his shed many nights.

(Special thanks to Jennifer Conner, Katie Perkins Nichols and Jeannine Purser for putting up with me and letting me abduct their husbands for adventures in the wild over the years. Your patience -- and friendship -- is much appreciated.)

Terrible Tilly

Sometimes, good trips go bad in a hurry.

My friend Chuck and I decided to take a trip to the Oregon Coast one weekend in early February. We knew it would be rainy, but, heck, that's Oregon. We left late on a Friday night after a dissertation meeting Chuck had at the University of Washington.

We jetted down I-5 through southern Washington and into Oregon. We eventually made it to Cape Lookout State Park near Tillamook, Ore., around midnight. We found a camping spot in an eerily vacant portion of the campground. We set up the tent in the rain, pounded a few Deschutes and Widmer Brothers beers and went to sleep. The crashing waves of the Pacific lulled us to sleep.

We awoke to the sound of a vehicle driving up, the slamming of its door and the crunching of boots on gravel.

"Good morning," a serious voice said. "I'm ranger John Johnson. I'm here to inform you that you're camped in a part of the campground that is closed. You're too close to the dunes. Waves have been known to crash over them and flood this section of the campground."

It was 7 a.m. He gave us two hours to get out of there. So we hurried. We grabbed some coffee and Tillamook cheese and drove a couple hours to Tillamook Head, which guidebooks dub as the quintessential Oregon Coast hike.

Things started out well. The beach was beautiful -- it's where "Goonies" was filmed. We trudged up up a steep cliff lined with lush trees and overlooking an especially gnarly part of the coast. We eventually emerged at a cool campground with wooded structures, walked past an old World War II bunker and peered over a huge cliff. There, in the distance, was Terrible Tilly. It's an iconic Oregon lighthouse that got it's name because it endures some of the worst sea storms in the U.S.

Most people stop there and turnaround. But we decided to trudge further through the forest to a place called Tillamook Head. We happily hiked. At one point a huge tree had fallen on the trail and we had to trek a quarter-mile out of the way to get around it.

As the trail got worse, a couple trail runners blazed past us, burning through the trees. We started to descend the trail. Then it disappeared in a mess of mud, fallen trees and mist. We trudged around for a good half hour or more. Then we were thoroughly lost. We thought the trail was a loop, and we desperately wanted to find the way back.

We never did. In fact, we found a different trail that took us further from our car. We didn't stick on it long. We eventually found the original trail and hiked back the way we came. Chuck and I didn't talk much. We were tired. We were hungry. We were pissed. And the rain never let up.

We got to that fallen tree. Instead of walking around, we climbed over the huge splitters and dangled over a 500-foot drop to the ocean. We made it fine, but it was scary.

We eventually made it back to the car, downed some Gatorade and ate the cheese. Our original plan called for us to camp that night. Instead we drove to Portland, drank a lot of beer at a Deschutes Public House in Portland and slept in our car in a Portland State University parking lot.

All in all, it was pretty miserable. But, as more time gets between then and now, the adventure seems sweeter. We're both glad we did it.


The details:
Tillamook Head
Location: About 5 miles north of Cannon Beach, Ore.
Length: 4 miles (or 6 if you get lost)
Beginning elevation: 20 feet
Peak elevation: 1,010 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2, worse if you get lost

Hoh!

Here's how I pictured Washington: Green from all the rain, lots of mountains that aren't quite as dramatic as the Rockies and rugged beaches.

What I didn't picture was mossy trees in a huge North American rain forest. But that's what I saw a whole lot of -- especially on the Olympic Peninsula's Hoh Rain Forest.

The place is surreal. Even in February, it was lush, green and humid. Hundreds of elk darted in and out of the trees as my friend Chuck and I walked along the muddy dirt trail. The Hoh River babbled mere feet from us.

Gorgeous waterfalls trickled down from the Olympic Mountains. Huge trees had fallen decades ago and stretched sometimes 100 feet along the trail. Their massive roots curled 20 feet into the air.

The 17-mile trail eventually leads to Mt. Olympus. We didn't follow it nearly that far. Instead, we stopped at 5-mile Island -- a rocky piece of land jutting out into the river.

The trail itself is a good adventure. We had to jump creeks at certain points and crawl over those big downed trees. Even though the trail wasn't too steep, it's still a strenuous 10-mile haul.

The best part: The trip back to Seattle takes you through Olympia, where you can eat at Old School Pizzeria.

The details:
Hoh Rainforest Trail, from the visitor center to 5-mile Island
Location: About 20 miles southeast of Forks, Wash.
Length: 10 miles
Beginning elevation: 200 feet
Peak elevation: 700 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2

Flatlanding

Here's something I never thought I'd say: I've been running a lot.

Please note I said I've been running. I am not a runner. There's a big distinction in that.

Runners love running. They get off on the pain, trucking along roads, monitoring their heart rate.

I hate running. Even though I've logged 75 miles in the past six weeks, I still hate it. I dread putting on the Asics I bought on sale for $30. I have trouble breathing at the start. My stomach cramps up often. My legs get tired. I rely heavily on Sufjan Stevens, Ben Gibbard and Britt Daniel to sing me through.

But I keep doing it. Why? A few reasons.

Mostly, I want to be in good shape when I move to Colorado this summer. I want to be able to better climb 14ers and more easily haul backpacks into remote sections of the Rockies.

Also, my family has a pretty wicked history of heart disease. I'd like to beat that.

And -- who am I kidding? -- as a guy recently separated from his wife, I'd like to be more appealing to women. I'd like to make my gut recede as quickly as my hairline.

After hiking a whole lot on my West Coast swing, I was in pretty good shape. I didn't want it to waste away, so when I came back to Nebraska, I began running. It started with a 3-mile run on my 30th birthday in March. It's advanced to an 8-mile run today. I clipped it off in 74 minutes. That's 9:15 pace, which won't win any races but isn't shameful either.

Aside from the physical benefits, running has made me appreciate and connect with the flat land surrounding the home where I grew up. I run along mostly gravel and minimum-maintenance roads. Part of my usual trek along U Road south of Kearney runs along the Oregon Trail. Earlier this spring, I ran near Sandhill Cranes that majestically migrate to south-central Nebraska every year.

Don't get me wrong, I love mountains. I'll take a drastic, dramatic landscape over Nebraska's every time. But when it comes to running, flat rules. Plus the rigidly gridded road system makes measuring miles really easy. The dirt roads are laid out exactly a mile from each other.

A note on the picture: It was taken by my son. When he's with me, he and my dad usually jump in Papa's pickup and come hassle me.

I love that picture -- the weathered pick-up bed, the sentinel telephone poles, the startlingly flat fields and me actually doing something I never thought I'd regularly do.


The details:
Kearney County gravel road gallop
Location: About 5 miles south of Kearney, Nebr., on Hwy 44
Length: 8 miles
Beginning elevation: 2,150 feet
Peak elevation: 2,150 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 1, depending on the wind

King of the mountains

Mt. Rainier is an incredible sight. At 14,411 feet, it towers over Washington. It explodes from sea level and on clear days dominates the horizon.

I was fortunate enough to snowshoe on its flanks on one of those clear days in February. The experience easily ranked at or near the top of my favorite treks on my West Coast swing. And it left me infatuated with getting on top of Rainier sometime in the near future.

My friend Chuck -- a University of Washington-Tacoma political communications professor -- had never been snowshoeing before. And I really wanted to mess around on Rainier. So we chose a popular and beautiful trail for an excursion.

Reflection and Louise lakes -- two pristine mountain ponds -- are nestled in the ridges and trees to the southeast of Mt. Rainier, or Mount Tahoma, as the natives call it.

The trail started out steep just beyond a warming hut at the Narada Falls parking lot. The traverse along a sheer, exposed face had Chuck and I wondering about avalanches and our own stamina. Both worries were moot.

The trail gained a ridge with jaw-dropping views of Rainier. Seeing the mountain pop out from behind snow-covered pines almost took my breath away. It's a cliche, but it's true.

We followed the ridge to another steep section. At its crest, it quickly dove into a narrow ridge filled with more tall pines. After a short romp, the trees opened to reveal Reflection Lake. Rugged peaks circled the lake.

Another short trek would have taken us to Louise Lake, but it was late in the day, and we played it safe. The trek back to the car revealed more amazing views of Rainier.

It truly is king of the mountains in that region. And it looms large in my mind and on my list of peaks I want to summit.

The details:
Reflection Lakes via Mazama Ridge
Location: Near Mt. Rainier, 8 miles northeast of Longmire, Wash.
Length: 5 miles
Beginning elevation: 4,500 feet
Peak elevation: 5,100 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2

Super Sedona

Sedona, Ariz., is one of those places I'd heard about forever but never visited. I was curious what I'd find. I'd heard that the hiking is amazing, that hippies love the place because of its vortex energy and that rich people have taken it over and made it Arizona's Aspen.

After driving from LA to Flagstaff, Ariz., and crashing on some North Arizona University basketball players' couch, I drove down to Sedona to check it out.

I was highly impressed.

The place reminds me of a more wide-sweeping and beautiful version of Grand Junction, Colo. Red rock spires and mesas pop out of the desert surroundings. It's dramatic.

After stopping at the Sedona visitor's center, I settled on a 5.5-mile hike that cuts through valleys and over mesas in the northern part of Sedona.

Because I got an early start, I beat a lot of the tourists to the trail. So I hiked more or less alone along the red-dirt trails. The path swerved through pinon and juniper trees. Large cacti covered the ground in spots.

The hike followed three trails: Cibola Pass (a standard-looking trail), Soldier Pass (basically a jeep trail) and Brins Mesa (another standard trail). The loop was fairly easy. The end of Soldier Pass boasted some steep sections (which two sports-bra-wearing female trail runners had no trouble taking in swift strides).

It needs to be noted I hike this trail in mid-March. So it was chilly. In the summer, it could be dangerous. The surrounding desert is hot and dry. Without ample water and smart clothing choices, you could find yourself frying.

All in all, though, Sedona shouldn't be missed. The scenery is spectacular, and I reckon you could hike there for years and not find all of the amazing trails.



The details:
Cibola Pass, Soldier Pass, Brins Mesa loop
Location: About 2 miles north of Sedona, Ariz., at the Jordan Road parking lot.
Length: 5.5 miles
Beginning elevation: 4,500 feet
Peak elevation: 5,300 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2

My son on the summit

I remember long ago when one of my friend's parents led us on a hike through Nebraska's Halsey forest. It was a Cub Scout outing, and the event very much fit the scouting mission.

But I hated the hike. It was long and hot. I cursed the parent for pushing me further and completing it.

The memory rushed back last week when leading my 4-year-old son on his first Colorado summit bid. When pitching a spring break roadtrip to Colorado and Utah, I told Rye we'd climb some mountains. He seemed excited.

As we drove from my friend Leif's Boulder apartment to the base of Mt. Sanitas, Rye squealed: "The mountains are so cool. Colorado is the best place in the world." He even said he wished his hometown of Omaha had mountains.

When we started hiking, he ran up the steep stair-like trail. He squirmed out on rock overhangs. He moved those little legs like pistons.

About an hour into the hike, things changed. He had tripped over a rock and hurt his hands. His legs were tired. The wind was getting colder. "I hate this mountain," he said. He begged to turn around. He had come to curse me like I had that Cub Scout parent.

So I picked him up and slung him on my back. I trudged up the steep, rocky trail with my son on my back for the last half mile. Eventually, we reached the top. I got the summit high. It always feels amazing to get to the top. I was even more stoked to have my son with me.

Rye didn't feel the same way. Look at the pictures. He was tired and in pain. He didn't even want to smile for the cameras. I gave him a granola bar and some apple juice. Then I started to carry him down the steep stretches.

Eventually, though, he perked up. He squirmed down onto the trail and jumped off small rocks. He ran down steep patches. He joked that we'd left his beloved bankie at the top of the mountain, and we'd have to go down to get it.

Maybe the granola bar and juice pumped up his blood sugar. Maybe he was elated to be going down the mountain instead of up, toward quesadillas at Qdoba instead of exposed, windy mountain peaks.

Or maybe -- just maybe -- he's got a little mountaineer inside him. Maybe he'll be like his dad, hating hikes as a youngster but loving them as a man.

The details:
Mt. Sanitas
Location: On the western edge of Boulder, Colo., beginning at Sunshine Canyon
Length: 3 miles
Beginning elevation: 5,506 feet
Peak elevation: 6,863 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2 (4, with a 45-pound 4-year-old on your back)

Urban exploring

I gotta admit part of me dreaded visiting LA. I don't really like big cities. I certainly don't like plastic people. I absolutely hate gridlock traffic.

I encountered all that. But my friend Dustin, a larder manager at the swank Tavern, showed me a cool oasis of nature in the urban jungle.

We hiked a couple trails at Will Rogers State Historical Park . The trail begins just off Sunset Boulevard near Santa Monica. Many parts of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" have been filmed in the area. But those scenes focus on the restaurants and multimillion-dollar houses in the area.

The trail itself is a very easy walk, culminating at Inspiration Point. The view is inspiring, with nice looks at Malibu, Santa Monica, the Pacific Ocean, downtown LA and the mountains in the distance.

To extend the trip, we meandered on a more secluded path for what seemed like hours. It wound near a creek and through suburban neighborhoods. It was odd being in such a huge city but walking on a border with nature.

I guess that's the beauty of the West. Civilization connects with still-wild lands. I never thought I'd see that dichotomy in LA.

The details:
Inspiration Point
Location: Will Rogers State Historical Park, near Sunset and Evans in Pacific Palisades, Calif.
Length: 2 miles (can be extended with other trails)
Beginning elevation: 350 feet
Peak elevation: 750 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 1

Beneath the Bixby Canyon Bridge

"I descended a dusty gravel ridge beneath the Bixby Canyon Bridge. Until I eventually arrived at the place where your soul had died." --Ben Gibbard in the Death Cab for Cutie song "Bixby Canyon Bridge."

Of all the places I knew I'd visit on my journey through the West, I most anticipated seeing Bixby Bridge. It spans a creek and inlet of the Pacific Ocean in one of the most beautiful stretches of California's Big Sur coast.

But it also plays a key role in Jack Kerouac's book "Big Sur." He retreated to a cabin beneath the bridge to escape the stress of growing fame -- a result of his smash hit novel, "On the Road." He didn't find the solace he wanted. In the throes of severe alcoholism, Kerouac had a mental breakdown at the cabin. He died about a decade later.

"Big Sur," in my mind, is much better than "On the Road." It's rawer, real and better written.

The book -- and the bridge -- have become an inspiration for many artists. Death Cab's Ben Gibbard is chief among them. Gibbard went to the cabin to try to channel his inner Jack, an important influence on Gibbard. But Gibbard -- like Kerouac -- found nothing at the cabin beneath the bridge, which he explains in "Bixby Canyon Bridge." (Why he added the "Canyon" to the title, I don't know.)

Anyway, the book, a recent documentary about it ("One Fast Move or I'm Gone") and the film's soundtrack recorded by Gibbard and Son Volt's Jay Farrar inspired me to do my own exploring beneath the bridge. On a glorious California day, I drove to the bridge, hopped out of my Honda Civic with a copy of "Big Sur" in my pocket and intending to descend that dusty gravel ridge.

It wasn't that easy. The ridge is actually a poorly maintained road. All of the property along it is guarded by gates. So if you want to get beneath the bridge, you actually have to down-climb steep rock walls closer to the bridge.

I poked my head over the cliffs, trying to decide how to get down. I meandered a while, too scared to try any of them. Then I ran into four 20-somethings from Riverside, Calif. They were on their own quest for Jack's ghost. We coaxed each other to try to descend the 500 or so feet down to the water.

We cut a steep path through bushes and along dusty paths -- run-walking toward the lush green trees below. I never would have tried it alone. After slipping, sliding and fretting about poison oak and ticks, we finally made it.

The creek ran high from the spring rains. The trees glowed green for the same reason. Violent crashing waves provided a far-off soundtrack. It was exactly like Kerouac had described in the early chapters of the book.

We followed a trail toward the ocean. We eventually passed an old, rusted car that had fallen from the bridge decades before. It, too, plays a key part in the book.

Then we saw the ocean, the spot where Kerouac penned the poem "Sea" that concludes "Big Sur." We rolled up our pants, ditched our socks and shoes and pranced through the sand and gravel-floor creek. At one point, marooned against some rocks, a huge wave smashed us and coated our lips in salt water.

We then followed the creek away from the ocean and into the trees. We knew Kerouac's cabin was somewhere in that direction. Where the trail crossed the creek, we rigged makeshift bridges of fallen trees.

Eventually, though, the creek drank our trail. We had to turn back, having not found Jack's cabin.

Still, we could feel the writer. We were in the place where his soul had, in fact, died.

Getting back up the parking lot was a chore. We free climbed a very steep rock face. It was scary and difficult.

But each pause in the climb provided incredible views of the Pacific. And Kerouac stayed constantly on my mind.

Later that night, after climbing another mountain further south of the bridge, I opened a bottle of wine and read "Big Sur" b the fire ring. I finished the book there in the campground, jotting down thoughts, memories and feelings from my climb and my life.

Unlike Gibbard, I felt I was closer to some kind of truth. Because of Jack. Because of Big Sur. Because I was there, and I'd done it.


The details:
Bixby Bridge
Location: California's Big Sur Coast, 15 miles south of Carmel
Length: 2ish miles
Beginning elevation: 500 feet (descending to sea level)
Peak elevation: 500 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 4

Tick walk

Big Sur is a pretty special place (look for another post on that soon), but I have to admit my journey up Mt. Manuel in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park was anything but awesome.

It's a 10.5-mile slog that covers about a 3,300-foot elevation gain across some really beautiful terrain. But guidebooks warn to be wary of two things: poison oak and ticks. Well, I avoided one.

A couple miles into the tough hike, I felt a stinging on my back. I reached under my shirt and discovered what felt like a zit that needed to be badly popped. So I reached back to pop it -- and pulled out a red tick. I freaked out and threw it to the ground before I had time to see if its head was still attached to its body.

For the next 8 miles, I was super paranoid about ticks. Whenever I walked near some timber or branches on the trail (which was often because it wasn't very well maintained) I would wipe down every inch of my clothes, check my pack and search my hat for the little critters. A few times, a couple would be crawling up my pant legs or hanging out on my pack.

Aside from the tick stress, the hike was just plain hard -- steep, long and lonely. And it had a bunch of false summits. In fact, what appears to be the summit at the end really isn't. You have to hike another quarter-mile to a rather unspectacular summit. But the summit medallion was there, and that means you've reached your goal. I was stoked to see it.


I was also stoked to see great views of the Santa Lucia mountains, the Point Sur lighthouse and the beautiful Pacific Ocean.

Turns out, I must have got the head out of my back when I ripped the tick away. It stung for a few days, and I was highly paranoid about getting Lyme disease -- especially since I'm uninsured. But I'm fine now, a couple weeks later.

All in all, it's a beautiful hike. But it's a trial -- both in steepness and in creepy crawlers.

The details:
Trail name: Mt. Manuel
Location: Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park
Length: 10.5 miles
Beginning elevation: 300 feet
Peak elevation: 3,3800 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 3 (5 if you count the ticks)

Long haul through tall trees

I've always wanted to visit the Redwood forests in California. When I planned the swing through the West, I knew I'd stop there.

I didn't know I'd bite off an 11.6-mile hike through them. That's a long distance to hike by yourself, but I'm very glad I did it.

Many experts note that the Miner's Ridge-James Irvin Trail hike is the most essential in the Redwoods. It starts at the Prairie Creek Redwood State Park south of Klamath, Calif., stretches about 5 miles to the Pacific Ocean along Miner's Trail. It then jogs along the ocean for 2 miles before cutting through a dense fern growth -- Fern Canyon -- and heading back to the visitor center along the Irvin trail for about 4.6 miles.

The hike isn't too bad in terms of difficulty. It's fairly level with only a few steep parts. But over nearly 12 miles, those steep parts add up.

What it lacks in technical difficulty, the trail makes up for in diverse scenery. The beginning features towering, old-growth Redwoods. The ocean offers exactly what you'd expect from the Northern California coast -- violent waves smashing into gnarly rocks. The Irvine Trail is all about ferns. They cling to walls, fill every valley and grow almost waist high.

I didn't start to get tired until the last three miles or so. But the key is to keep the feet moving.

With the beautiful scenery, that's not too hard to do. I just worry I'll wreck my neck staring up at those 300-foot trees.


The details:
Trail name: Miner's Ridge Trail and James Irvine Trail
Location: Prairie Creek Redwood State Park, 15 miles south of Klamath, Calif.
Length: 11.6 miles
Beginning elevation: 100 feet
Peak elevation: 750 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2

Hiking in the dark

The description of Ape Cave had me seriously interested: The 1.3-mile lava tube on the flanks of Mount St. Helens is completely dark, full of huge boulder stacks and remains a constant 42 degrees year-round.

In short, it sounded like an odd, scary, exciting experience. It didn't disappoint.

The drive to St. Helens was incredible. The road hugged a variety of reservoirs that glowed emerald on a rare clear February day. Gaps in the trees revealed sweeping views of St. Helens. It was easy to see how its peak had been blown off by its eruption 30 years ago. Still, it's a commanding, dominating presence, dwarfed only by the ghost-like peaks of Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams on the horizon.

The entrance to the cave is just a big hole in the lava-rock ground. A staircase descends in the darkness. The Forest Service recommends bringing three sources of light -- standard headlamps, a strong flashlight and a gas lantern. Between my friend Chuck and I, we brought two headlamps and one weakish flashlight. Probably not the smartest approach, but we got by OK.

Initially, though, the darkness was unsettling. The headlamps certainly didn't light up the large dark cave. In some spots the cave was 80 feet wide and 20 feet high. In other spots it was 4 feet wide and 6 feet high.

The trail -- uneven from the spiky lava -- regularly ran into stacks of boulders. The hardened lava stacks stretched 10 to 12 feet in the air and required some pretty careful climbing. Dripping water didn't help footing much either. At one point, we had to scale an 8-foot, sheer lava wall. There were plenty of handholds, though, and it wasn't too bad.

The trail revealed one skylight, that made for a welcomed reprieve from the darkness. The trail emerged at another large hole in the lava rock. A 12-foot ladder led to the light.

A beautiful 1.3 mile, above-ground return trip featured views of St. Helens, large fields of lava boulders and a trail of gray ash. All in all, it was an unusual and memorable hike.


The details:
Trail name: Ape Cave
Location: 12 miles northeast of Cougar, Wash., in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.
Length: 2.6 mile roundtrip (1.3 underground, 1.3 above. Shorter routes are available.)
Beginning elevation: 2,115 feet
Peak elevation: 2,115 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2

Mt. Zion

On a rare clear February day in Washington, I climbed Mt. Zion. It's worth the steep climb, as long as you have a stomach for sheer drop-offs.


The details:
Trail name: Mt. Zion
Location: 8 miles northwest of Quilcene, Wash., in the Olympic National Forest
Length: 4.6 mile roundtrip (including exploration of the rocky ridge just beyond the true summit)
Beginning elevation: 2,974 feet
Peak elevation: 4,274 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 2