Kalama Falls: A Waterfall Hike near Mount St. Helens

The trail itself asked very little of me. It was gentle and green in every direction, and quieter than I expected, apart from the birds and the water I kept listening for. Moss covered nearly everything, but the mountain nearby made the story more complicated than a pretty forest. The trail gave me two waterfalls, a detour I’m glad I took, and a reminder of how long it takes the land to heal after something so big, and how it heals anyway. By the time I was back at the car, I had more than I came for.

Kalama Falls

The trail itself asked very little of me. It was gentle and green in every direction, and quieter than I expected, apart from the birds and the water I kept listening for. Moss covered nearly everything, but the mountain nearby made the story more complicated than a pretty forest. The trail gave me two waterfalls, a detour I’m glad I took, and a reminder of how long it takes for landscape to heal after something so big, and how it heals anyway. By the time I was back at the car, I had more than I came for.

My trail-thought this morning was about the rare moments when everything lines up, when curiosity and creativity meet and my routine finally loosens its grip. I’ve had a few of them. I’ve never been able to make one happen on command, and they rarely fit inside a busy week. When they do come, it’s usually far from my desk, often when I’m tired and the view is big. On this trail, I started to understand what they ask of me instead.

The Journey…

I started for Kalama Falls just as the sun was coming up, and the cold found my fingertips right away. I had only packed my fingerless gloves, which seemed like a fine idea until I saw 31 degrees. By 7 AM, I had my boots laced and about seven miles of trail ahead of me in the Merrill Lake Wildlife Area. There’s no real parking lot. I pulled over on the side of the road and found the trailhead by a glove someone had placed on a small tree to mark it, which I appreciated more than whoever left it will ever know. The trail was in good shape, soft underfoot for most of the way, with the occasional fallen tree to step over and a few muddy patches to work around. Moss covered everything, the ground, the logs, the branches overhead, in more shades of green than I could count. It reminded me of the rainforest.

Farther in, the forest was mostly birdsong, wind moving through the trees, and the rhythm of my own footsteps, and I kept listening for water. Just over a mile in, I heard it. The roar of the first tier of Kalama Falls pulled me off the main trail, and I followed it down to a clear pool at the base of the falls. The mist was cold on my face, and I stood there longer than I needed to, glad I had taken the detour. When I climbed back to the main trail, I started noticing what the moss had been covering. Nearly half a century after the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens, the scars were still there if I looked for them, and so was everything that had grown back over them. Life had taken its time, but it had come back, and it showed no sign of leaving.

The trail brought me out at the top of the second tier first, and a series of switchbacks took me down to its base. This one was bigger than the first, the water dropping hard into another pool, and I stopped to take it in. Standing at the bottom of all that moving water, I felt small, and at the same time more connected than I had all week. It’s a strange pairing, and I’ve stopped trying to explain it. On the way back, I passed a fellow hiker, then a couple of forest service volunteers out on the trail. We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. There’s an unspoken understanding between people who are out early on a cold morning for no better reason than to see something like this, and it showed up in a few nods.

By the time I finished, I felt a kind of peace that’s hard to describe and easy to recognize. The morning had climbed from 31 degrees into the low 40s, and the forest smelled of moss and damp dirt. Ferns brushed against my legs on the way out, and I let my hand run along a few of the trees as I passed. Seven miles and about three hours had given my body some work and my mind somewhere to wander, and that combination is the one I keep coming back for. Walking back to my car on the side of the road, I was grateful for the whole morning, cold fingers included. These are the mornings that leave me more rested than when I started, which never quite makes sense until I’m standing at the car again.

Gratitude…

The air was crisp and the roads were still dark when I left for Kalama Falls this morning. These early drives are where I make time for gratitude, and I didn’t get far before the morning tested it. I-5 South was closed for road work, which sent me winding along the backroads through DuPont instead. Detours like that can be frustrating. Over time, I’ve come to see them as part of the trip rather than a delay in it, which is easier to believe on some mornings than others. Then the fog came in, thick enough to wrap around the car and slow everything down, and I let it. There wasn’t much to see past the headlights, which left plenty of room to listen.

I was listening to Theo of Golden, a book that had come to me twice this week, from two different friends, almost at the same time. Two copies of the same book from two people who hadn’t planned it felt like more than coincidence. It was a humbling reminder that I’m seen and appreciated, and it touched me more than either of them probably knows. In the story, Theo uncovers the stories behind the portraits hanging on the walls of a local coffeehouse, one person at a time. On those foggy backroads, I found myself thinking about the people around me, and how much it matters to recognize and thank them. By the time the fog started to thin, the drive felt less like getting to a trailhead and more like time spent with two friends who weren’t in the car.

I reached the trailhead just as the first light came over the horizon, and the morning already felt full. The hike was still ahead of me, but the warmth from that drive came along with me. Two friends had thought of me in the same week, without knowing about each other, and that small coincidence had carried me through the fog and down every unplanned backroad. It reminded me why I make these drives in the first place: to connect with the world, to think about the gift of friendship, and to honor the people who make my life what it is. Gestures like theirs tend to arrive when I least expect them, and they light up more of a day than the people giving them probably realize.

Reflections…

The sun was coming up as I started down the trail this morning, turning the deep blue sky gold, and my mind drifted toward a trail-thought I’ve been circling for a while: those rare moments when everything seems to line up. They don’t come often. When they do, they pull me out of my routine and wake up a kind of curiosity about what my life is actually for. I think of them as the crossroads between curiosity and creativity, the place where the ordinary fades and I can finally see what’s around me. They take a little courage, too, because that’s usually when I start questioning things I stopped questioning a long time ago, and I’d rather notice that than look away from it.

I’ve had moments like that on harder hikes, when exhaustion and a big view arrive at the same time. It’s disarming, physically and emotionally. Standing there, I can see my routines more clearly than I can from inside them, and I can see how much of my attention the daily hustle takes from what matters. Going through the motions isn’t the same as living, and the feelings that make me feel most alive are worth staying with. That’s usually when I make myself a promise to go looking for these moments more often, and on purpose. I usually mean it at the time. They feed something in me that a full calendar never quite reaches, no matter how well I’ve planned it.

Looking back on those moments, I’ve learned that staying open to curiosity and creativity matters more than I used to think. When I fully take in the world around me, I get honest about how I spend my time, and ideas start to come without my forcing them. I can name some of the times it’s happened. A few came while I was listening to live music. Others came on long drives, when my mind could wander freely with nothing else asking for it. None of them were planned. Each one knocked me out of my routine, and each one reminded me how important it is to break those patterns now and then, and to give myself permission to explore, create, and grow.

But I also know these moments can’t be forced. They show up in the open spaces, where I’ve given myself room to breathe and think. This morning made it clear how much those spaces are worth protecting. Many of my clearest thoughts come in the gaps between everything else, and they almost never fit inside a 15-minute block on a calendar. A quarter hour is enough to finish a task, but rarely enough to finish a thought. They need room and time. It’s only when I step all the way out of my routine that the good things start to come. That’s the challenge I keep running into: finding real, uninterrupted stretches of time for reflection, in places that actually make room for curiosity and creativity.

Just over a mile in this morning, the sound of water had pulled me off the main trail, and that unplanned turn gave me the first tier of the falls. By the end of the hike, I had made myself a commitment to protect both space and time. Time gets richer when I go looking for the things that stay with me: a new trail, live music, a long drive, the slow pace of a nine-inning baseball game, even pulling weeds. What they share is that they let my mind wander and keep me curious. If I keep making room for reflection and welcome a little change, I can build a life where moments of clarity have a place to land. The path continues.

-Ken