BUCKHORN WILDERNESS, OLYMPIC NATIONAL PARK, WA:
The morning air, a crisp 38 degrees, hit me as I stepped out of my car at the trailhead, the world still in darkness that would remain for at least another hour. The sound of rushing water provided a soundtrack for today’s adventure, and I felt a familiar excitement, another hike, another chance to get lost in thought. The first step is always the hardest, but the quiet anticipation pushed me forward, this morning with a headlamp. What awaited me on the mountain today? I could feel the gravity of the moment with reflections on gratitude and the intimate tie between this journey and the questions that had been circling my mind. I was ready to dive deep, both into the wilderness and into myself.
As I climbed, I let my thoughts wander, pondering my appreciation for nature’s steadfastness. It was a comfort to know that the rhythm of the world would continue, unaffected by my worries or any attempts to control it. Those thoughts accompanied me, mingling with the scent of the crisp mountain air and the lingering chill of early morning. Each switchback revealed a little more of the unfolding day, and with each breath, I could feel the weight of my uncertainties lighten just a bit. There was something profound in that moment of recognition, a feeling that I was exactly where I needed to be, allowing nature to guide my thoughts while I searched for clarity.
Reaching the summit ridge, I understood that this hike wasn’t just about reaching the peak, it was an invitation to reflect on the deeper currents flowing through my life. I found myself wrestling with the idea of “living in flow,” the tension between surrender and intention and the paradox it presented. The mountains stood as silent witnesses to my reflections, reminding me that true strength comes in acceptance, not avoidance. For the first time, it felt like I was beginning to grasp that my path didn’t have to be a battle against the current; it could be “in flow” with it. As I looked out over the vastness, I wondered how often I missed the magic of the moment by rushing ahead, and I felt a quiet resolve to embrace the flow, wherever it might lead.
The Journey…
The air at the trailhead was 38 degrees when I stepped out of my car at 4:45 AM. The sound of rushing water from somewhere in the dark met me before I even had my boots laced. It was about a 45-minute haul up dirt roads to get here, strategically hitting nearly every pot hole, which likely contributed to my flat and new set of tires before returning home…I digress. Starting in the under the dark sky, where start were neatly placed, felt right, like I was getting away with something. My headlamp illuminated a small space in the shadows, catching the deep green of the mossy beds and the steep trail-side that marked the beginning of the Buckhorn Wilderness. For the first mile or so, it was just the rhythm of my own breathing and the steady climb through the initial switchbacks. I could feel the elevation gain in my legs almost immediately, a message that Mount Townsend wasn’t going to give me a break anytime soon. Today I would work for every step. As the canopy of old-growth firs, hemlocks and cedars thinned, the black sky started to soften into a deep blue that could only be distinguished by the naked eye. I passed Rhododendrons along the path, our state flower just waiting for its turn to wake up, and I found myself wondering why we sometimes feel the need to rush toward the light when there is so much clarity to be found in the quiet just before it.
By the time I hit the second set of switchbacks, the sun had finally cleared the horizon. It was just after 6 AM, and the trail was playing a game of peek-a-boo with the forest, ducking into the shade and then popping back out onto the mountainside. Every time I emerged, the light was a little stronger, eventually hitting the steep landscape with that specific golden glow that makes everything look a bit more permanent. There were still patches of snow clinging to the shadows, remnants of a winter that isn’t quite ready to call it quits. After I passed Camp Windy, I paused to look east. Seeing the Cascades catch that first bit of heat, while the valley floor was still tucked in, felt like being let in on a secret. An eagle was perched on a cliffside nest nearby, just watching the world and enjoying the golden early morning rays. He didn’t move, and neither did I for a minute. It’s funny how we spend so much of our lives trying to fill the space around us with noise, but up there, the silence was so heavy it felt like a physical presence. It wasn’t an empty kind of quiet; it was the kind that actually lets you hear yourself think.
The summit ridge opened up like a different world, vast and exposed, and a familiar melody played in the back of my mind…something about the hills being alive. Slowing turning with 360-degree views made me feel both incredibly small and entirely connected. To the east, the big players were all lined up—Baker, Glacier, Rainier, Adams, and St. Helens, and even a couple peaks in Canada; while the Olympics stood rugged and jagged to the west. I sat on a rock at the north peak, the only soul on the mountain this early morning, and just let the scale of it all sink in. But the real moment came as I started heading back south along the ridge. The wind picked up, and right there, maybe thirty feet away, a cold air funnel introduced itself across the ridge. It was like a miniature tornado, spinning with a life of its own. It headed straight for me and passed right through my body. In that second, the timing of it hit me: the early alarm, the long drive, every slow step up the switchbacks…it all led to me being in that exact square foot of space at that exact second. It felt less like a coincidence and more like an invitation, or perhaps a connection. At any rate, it invigorated my spirit for something larger than myself. I finished the day back in Quilcene with a burger and a brew, still feeling that mountain chill in my bones, thinking about how often we miss the magic because we’re too worried about the pace. Home would come soon enough.
Gratitude…
I was up and out at 4 AM, in the kind of dark that feels settled in rather than passing through. Having stayed in Quilcene the night before shortened the drive, but it didn’t make it feel any less removed. Highway 101 gave way quickly to Big Quilcene River Road, and before long I was climbing into that quiet stretch of dirt, rocks, and potholes where the road narrowed just enough to remind me that I was not in charge. I stopped trying to outmaneuver it and let my car ease along at its own pace, tires finding their way through dips and ruts I couldn’t fully see. There wasn’t much to look at yet, just the suggestion of the mountainside and trees pressing in on each side and the faint sound of water somewhere below. I reached the trailhead well before sunrise, the engine ticking as it cooled, while the world still held its breath.
Somewhere in that slow climb, I caught myself thinking about why this place, or places like it, keep pulling me back. It wasn’t just the beauty this time, or the usual sense of escape. It felt more like recognition and appreciation. Nature has become something steady in my life, something that doesn’t shift with my mood or ask anything of me in return. There’s a kind of quiet authority in that. I’ve spent enough time trying to make sense of things that don’t line up, trying to predict emotions or outcomes that don’t want to be predicted. Out here, none of that seems required or even relevant. The river keeps moving whether I understand it or not. The seasons turn without checking in. There’s something grounding in knowing that whatever I’m carrying doesn’t change the rhythm of any of it. It’s not a feeling of insignificance as much as a connection with raw and unfiltered honesty, where empathy is not even in the conversation. It just is.
I’ve started to see that consistency as its own kind of guidance. Not in a way that hands me answers, but in the way it puts things in scale. Sitting there in the dark, I felt small in a way that didn’t sting. More like a reminder that whatever feels heavy probably isn’t meant to be held as tightly as I hold it. Nature doesn’t fix anything for me, but it strips things down enough that I can see what matters and what doesn’t. There’s a generosity in that, even if it’s not trying to give anything at all. I thought for a moment about what I offer back, and nothing came to mind that felt equal. But maybe that’s not the point. It doesn’t keep score. It just keeps showing up, the same and different all at once, and somehow that’s been enough. I’m grateful for the role natures plays in my life, even if it doesn’t acknowledge it, and that’s the point.
Reflections…
I spent a good part of today wrestling with the idea of “living in flow,” trying to figure out if I’ve been misinterpreting the whole concept from Taoism. This was today’s trail-thought. There’s this tension between the Taoist notion of Wu Wei, that effortless action, and my own drive to actually steer my life somewhere meaningful, somewhere in line with my values and puropse. At first glance, it almost feels like an invitation to be a bystander, to just roll over and let the world’s whims decide my direction for the sake of avoiding friction. After all, that is one way to “go with the flow”. But as I pondered the concept, watching the way the light shifted through the trees and grew in intensity with every switchback, It started to settle in. It’s not about being soft; it’s about a different kind of strength that doesn’t need to make a scene. It wasn’t about finding the path of least resistance just to avoid resistance, but finding the path that goes with the natural order, the one that “flows,” just as a ray from the sun can find its way through a thick forest, only to land on a single flower from 93 million miles away.
I kept coming back to the difference between being a leaf on a river and being the water itself. A leaf is passive; it’s just a passenger, completely at the mercy of the current. But the water is something else. It doesn’t fight the boulders in the river bed or try to argue them out of existence. It accepts the rock for exactly what it is and finds the path around it without losing its momentum, all without complaining or seeking empathetic ears. I considered that passivity is simply a lack of response, a kind of ignorance, while true acceptance is a sharp, clear-eyed recognition of reality. I aspire to be more like the water, acknowledging the boulders in my life and simply moving past them, without regard, disappointment, or even consideration for the disruption. This feels right, rather than being the leaf that just gets trapped in an eddy.
It made me think about the times I’ve confused avoidance with being “chill.” If I’m on the ascent of a long trek and ignore the darkening sky, I’m not living in flow; I’m just being reckless. Mindfulness seems to require a much deeper engagement, a willingness to actually feel the conditions, consider the alternatives, and find the flow, so I can make a sound decision, one that is inline with my values and purpose. It’s the same with intuition. When I’m disconnected from myself, I’m just drifting in the fog with no clarity on what I actually want. Many times I’ve referred to the journey and destination. In reality, a journey with no meaning or purpose is hardly a journey. But when I’m tuned-in, that inner voice acts like a well-seasoned guide. “Living in flow” doesn’t mean I’m not working; it means I’m working in harmony with my own nature instead of fighting it every step of the way.
I returned to the trailhead feeling grounded, with another piece of the puzzle, in a way to move forward, one that is “in flow” with the nature of all things. Guiding my destiny doesn’t have to mean constantly swimming upstream, exhausting myself against the natural tilt of the world. It’s about being intentionality and driven by my values and virtues, but doing it in a way that leverages the energy that already exists. I’m realizing that being easy-going isn’t about giving up or giving in to what anyone else wants from me. It’s about having the quiet confidence to swim downstream, using the flow of life to get me where I’m supposed to go. There’s a certain power in that kind of alignment, a way of being both the navigator and the current at the same time. the path continues.
-Ken
- Buckhorn Wilderness, Olympic National Park, WA
- 47° 51′ 22.14″ -123° 2′ 8.484″
- 10.5 miles | 3,311 ft elevation gain | ~6 hours
- Sunrise: 6 AM, 38-49 degrees, clear
Musings 