Snowshoeing on Mt. Rainier

              Exactly one week after we were soaking up the warmth on a Hawaiian beach, John and I stood 5400 feet above sea level, enjoying the sunshine again, but this time it was reflected by snow. Time had slid by so quickly, that suddenly it was Spring, and we hadn’t broken in the snowshoes we’d gotten for Christmas. We figured we’d better get up to Mt. Rainier before the snow melted and the wildflowers bloomed. 

               After a morning spent running errands, we rummaged through our winter gear and loaded the car.  I cut the tags off the snowboard pants and jacket that I’d gotten on sale and rooted around for gloves and a hat. It would be ridiculous to snowshoe with my purse, so I stuck my driver’s license, cell phone, I-pod, and some cash into a Vera Bradley wristlet, a quilted wallet, and tossed it into the backpack we were taking. We filled up water bottles, and since we were in a hurry, decided against packing a meal, we’d buy lunch along the way. And, we were off like a herd of turtles!

               There’s a quaint inn and restaurant fairly close to the gate at Mt. Rainier, in Ashford, that we usually stop at on the way home. But since we’d gotten off to such a late start, John suggested we stop and eat on the way up instead. I agreed. We were both hungry, and would need fuel for snowshoeing. I sent the kids a text message that we were eating at the Copper Creek Inn on our way up the mountain. Sarah answered that she was jealous.

The food was excellent as usual, proven by the fact that when the waitress put a Calzone and French Dip sandwich in front of us, we were both sure that we’d only be able to eat half of what was there. Then we cleaned our plates. Our waitress asked if we wanted some of their famous pie. Our bellies were so full we told her that maybe we’d stop on the way down.

               Our Camry climbed up Mt. Rainier non-stop to Paradise. That’s where we suited up and strapped the snowshoes on. It was a glorious, clear, bright, sunny day. Good thing we remembered to bring our sunglasses. We headed up the trail. The new snowshoes were great, much better than the ones we used to rent from G.I. Joes. It didn’t take long for it to become obvious that I didn’t really need the snow pants and jacket, after all, it was about 50 degrees, and I was getting a good work out.  

               Although we should’ve guessed it, we were surprised at how crowded it was up there. The gorgeous weather had attracted lots of others enjoying what could be a last shot at winter. We snowshoed past a Boy Scout troop busy pelting each other with snowballs. They ceased fire to let us through. On a ridge above us a group practiced sliding down the slope, rolling, and using their pick axes to stop. A German couple asked us to take their picture. We chatted with a friendly group from Louisiana.

We didn’t get as far as we’d gone on previous treks. After about a half a mile, we turned around and trudged back. Other than trying to figure out how to lock the telescoping poles that came with the snowshoes, and a few blisters, it was a perfect day.

Back in the car, coasting down the mountain over wild rivers and through brooding forests, we decided to skip the pie at The Copper Creek Inn. We whizzed on by.

Twenty minutes later, I Iooked for my I-pod in that compact, wristlet wallet. It wasn’t in the backpack or any jacket pockets.  I didn’t remember putting it in the trunk, but we pulled over and John called my phone while I listened with my head hovering over the trunk. Silence.

The last time I remembered seeing it was when I texted Sarah. We backtracked to the Copper Creek Inn, hoping that’s where it was, hoping it wasn’t up at Paradise in the snow somewhere. In my mind I tried to remember exactly what I’d jammed in the wristlet when we left home. How much cash had I taken? Was my debit card in there?

               When we walked back into the restaurant, the waitresses greeted me with big smiles. “Hey, we found your phone! And we really like your wallet, it’s so cute!” I thanked them, relieved that they’d found it with nothing missing, and glad that we hadn’t gotten all the way home before we realized it was lost.  

               Then one of the twenty-somethings said, “Yeah, we looked at your contacts and called ‘Home,’ and ‘Mom and Dad.’ You always call the parents because they’ll know how to find you.”

               I bit my lip, “You know, my parents are in Hawaii.”

               She smiled, “Well, we thought so, because their answer machine said, ‘Aloha!’” Then she asked, “Hey, would you like some pie after all?”

               We asked her to box up two slices to take home, but when she told us it was still warm, we parked ourselves on stools at the counter. Freshly baked, warm blackberry pie and cold vanilla ice cream after a day snowshoeing—it doesn’t get much better than that!

               When we got home, I called my parents and explained. It’s been a very long time since someone called them about me. They were glad that there was a happy ending, and amazed that in the space of one week we’d gone from the balmy beaches of Hawaii to the snowy mountaintops of Washington.

Laura Keolanui Stark is planning the next field trip. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.