Mt. Muller peaks high above lake crescent in the Northern
Olympic Peninsula, but its trailhead is hidden in the woods, down an
unobtrusive gravel road. A large signpost
required 5$ for a day use permit and when I parked, the box offering maps was
empty. The only help was a basic sketch of the trail with mile marks and a sign
marked “trail” pointing into the undergrowth.
I made a quick note of some trail markers, packed myself a lunch, and
waded in. According to the trailhead,
the loop was 13 miles with a peak elevation of 3745 feet.
Mt. Muller’s first couple hundred feet was a wet forest of
lichen-covered trees and tiny single leafed clovers growing across the ground
like umbrellas across restaurant patios after a rain. The air was cool and I kept my windbreaker on
for the first mile. As I hiked, my
walking stick marked the tattoo of my steps: “mush, thump, clack” as it struck
moss, dirt, and rock. I wondered how the
equestrians using the trail managed on the soft loam that was hardly wider than
a deer trail. Winding higher, I passed
back and forth up switchbacks and the miles crept by with the steady pace of a
slug sliding down a leaf. By mile 3 of
the steep climb, I was wondering if the trailblazers had been measuring only
straightaways because I felt like it had been at least twice the distance. At the 4-mile mark, the trees began to thin
and the earth dried. Bumblebees buzzed
around, thanking me for using my face to knock down every spider’s web across
the trail. The sun peeked through the
trees and the path became ruddy, with a mulched texture of rotting redwood
branches and leaves.
At the peak
of the first mountain, trees parted and I saw that the trail continued along,
tracing the spine of the mountain. I
climbed higher, noticing that the horse tracks I had followed up the mountain
continued over fallen logs and across winding segments of the trail with
nothing but a precipice to the right.
The rider must have been fearless and the horse stupid because half the
tracks seemed to skirt the edge. I
stopped at the peak, enjoying my sandwich and looking out over the mountains to
the east, their snowy caps just visible under a dense cloud ceiling. A light wind shook the trees around me, but
the clouds were open above and the sun dried a rock enough for me to sit.
On the way back down, I passed through similar
terraces. Just along the fringe of
darker Redwood groves, a forest of Christmas pines traced their branches across
my arms. Morning dew weighed heavy on
their needles and I came away with damp patches soaked through the light shirt
I wore. As the trail traced down the
mountain I saw an abandoned ski lift on another ridge cut through the dense
forest and every mile or two, I followed numbered wooden markers hammered into
trees. The last three miles were along a flat, marshy creek that I followed,
jumping over muddy horse prints and the occasional fallen tree. Patches of clover folded their leaves down in
places where the sunlight had broken through the trees. It was just past two and I could tell that
the sun was bright outside my gloomy canopy.
The whole loop with a stop for lunch had taken me 4.5 hours.
 |
| A quick detour to see Fout's house |
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