Point Defiance Park: An Outer Loop Forest Hike in Tacoma

A red-barked madrona tree along the Outer Loop at Point Defiance Park, framed against the Puget Sound backdrop on an overcast winter morning.

POINT DEFIANCE PARK, TACOMA, WA:

My early morning drive to Point Defiance Park felt familiar in the dark, and full of promise. I rolled down the window and let the crisp air fill my lungs, waiting on the kind of clear sunrise that comes rarely enough here this time of year. Each step along the Outer Loop was a chance to take in the morning, a forest still full of life despite the recent rain. Birdsong moved through the trees, and nettles brushed soft underfoot. This was a ritual of gratitude as much as a hike, time to sit with my “trail-thought” while the forest closed in around me. The turns of the path read like small metaphors, each one a chance to reflect, a reminder of the peace that sits in the ordinary moments we tend to overlook.

As I walked, gratitude settled in, especially for the musical artists who turn their own sorrows into beautiful songs. The stillness of the drive let me think about how these writers move through their grief and shape it into something that reaches the rest of us. Their songs are a light in the dark moments, an invitation to share in their vulnerability. I find solace in lyrics that echo my own loss and longing, a reminder that we all draw from the same well of human feeling. Each note on the way to the trail felt like a companion, carrying me through my own heartache. Out here in the woods, I could feel how music and hiking meet, both making room to face and honor what we feel.

Looking back on the hike, I recognized the comfort that sad songs bring, even as I wrestled with my own tangled emotions. The calm of the woods was the right place to sort through my thoughts on vulnerability and the power of tears. As I walked, Elton John’s “Sad Songs (Say So Much)” played in my mind, a reminder of the understanding shared between artist and listener. Each lyric landed, showing the beauty in what we all carry of loss. It became clear that letting ourselves feel sadness is not a weakness. It is part of the work. The hike ended with a fresh appreciation for how nature, music, and reflection sit together, a reminder that we are never really alone in our struggles.

The Journey…

As the sun came up over the Cascades, I set out on the Outer Loop of Point Defiance Park, the air crisp at 40 degrees. Despite the heavy rain that had flooded much of Western Washington, the trail felt alive. I could hear birds filling the forest, their songs mixing with the distant chatter of the nearby zoo. The path was soft dirt scattered with pine cones, nettles brushing underfoot. I exhaled and felt calm as I started, an easy walk drawn out by everything around me. It was a morning that promised quiet, inviting me to explore every corner of this urban park, a reminder that natural beauty often sits just beyond our doorsteps. Yes, near where the three little birds were pitched.

Looking around, I saw what the rain had left behind. A good-sized tree lay freshly fallen across the trail, a mark of how much force the storm carried. As I stepped around it, I felt a strange kinship with the forest, both of us having weathered the elements. I lost track of time in the first mile, which took about a half-hour, a reminder that speed isn’t always the goal. I stopped often to take photos, each pause a chance to hold a moment still. The trail wound easily, crossing roads now and then where joggers and cyclists sped by. It struck me how we all shared this place, each of us finding our own solace in the park, each on our own path.

The feel of it shifted as I walked under a canopy of moss-laden branches, the light mist beading overhead like an umbrella. I laughed at the warning signs along the way, “Danger: Unstable Cliffs,” and thought about how they might apply off the trail too. Sometimes we need those reminders. The ferns, which I used to walk past without a thought, had grown on me this year, their fronds moving in the breeze. I took in the smells: fresh earth, wet foliage, the salt of the marine air. There was no need for grand views or waterfalls today. The forest itself was the prize, a still place for reflection and gratitude.

Gratitude…

This week, I am grateful for the musical artists who bare their souls in beautiful sad songs. Driving through the stillness of the early morning, on roads shared by a few other early souls, I thought about how these writers move through their own grief and turn it into something that lasts. They take their private wounds and shape them into songs that reach us, inviting us to share in their vulnerability. It is as if they are lighting a path through the dark, guiding us through our own loss and longing. Their music becomes a safe place, somewhere we can face our grief without fear, knowing we are not alone.

What strikes me most is how these artists let us take on their pain and make it our own. As I drove the winding roads, turning over my own thoughts and memories, their lyrics rode along with me. Each note offered solace, each verse a reminder that our experiences, personal as they are, belong to something larger we all share. In that early morning hour, I thought about the bonds we build through shared struggle, and how music becomes a bridge between us. It is a tender exchange, one that turns sadness into something beautiful, letting us rewrite our stories with every listen.

Reflections…

This morning’s hike was one of those good ones, a welcome from nature that felt like an old friend. As I stepped onto the trail, the air was crisp, and the soft rustle of leaves sat behind the deeper thoughts turning over in my mind. It was a clean, still setting, the right place to sit with something I had been chewing on this week: why do sad songs bring me comfort? I have been wrestling with whether this pull toward melancholy is a healthy way to feel my emotions or whether it just stalls my growth. The calm of the woods felt like the right place to work it out.

For most of my life, I took a stoic approach to emotion. Crying wasn’t something I did often. It just wasn’t in my range. Lately, though, I have found myself tearing up in private moments, often set off by music, or even a moving scene in a film, a thread I may pick up on a future hike. With music, that vulnerability feels both freeing and unsettling. Walking the trail, I realized there is real power in letting those tears come. It is almost as if I am finding a part of myself I had tucked away, and this week’s “trail-thought” felt like the right place to look at it.

Further along the path, Elton John’s “Sad Songs (Say So Much)” echoed in my mind. The title alone is a reminder of how music can hold complicated feelings. I remembered when the song first came out in the mid-80s. I didn’t really grasp its depth back then. Now, sitting with the lyric, “If someone else is suffering enough to write it down / When every single word makes sense,” it lands. Artists share their wounds, and in doing so they invite us into their healing. That connection through shared experience helps us find solace in our own struggles, and makes the walk a little less lonely.

Loss is a tangle of emotions, often hard to put into words. Yet sad songs have a way of cutting through all of it with something simple and true. Take BJ Barham’s “The Unfortunate Kind.” His lyrics about watching someone fade away speak straight to my own grief. It helps to know I am not alone in this, that others feel the weight of loss the way I do. Tears come with those moments, but so does an unexpected comfort. There is an understanding between the artist and the listener that makes the ache feel a little lighter, a reminder that showing sadness is not weakness. It is where vulnerability and strength meet.

Listening to sad songs is also a kind of self-compassion. It is a reminder that it is okay to feel sad, to honor those feelings instead of pushing them down. I have wondered whether this is unhealthy, but the research points the other way. Sitting with sad music can help you work through grief more fully rather than bottling it up. Further along, Emily James’ “Song For Bryan” came to mind, a good example of how we bend a song’s themes to fit our own story. Her lyrics about complicated love echo my own thoughts on relationships and the fear of drifting apart while still holding the memories close. As I walked, the rhythm of the trail matched the rhythm of the songs, an easy back and forth of wandering and reflection.

As I came back to the trailhead, gratitude washed over me, for the beauty around me and for the healing that music brings. Sad songs don’t solve anything, but they are a balm, a reminder that it is okay to feel deeply and to sit with the whole tangle of it. In those moments I feel seen, understood, part of a wider group of listeners who have walked similar paths. The comfort these songs give isn’t only in my head. It helps me actually work through what I feel. I came home with a fresh appreciation for how nature, music, and my own inner life run together. The path continues.

-Ken