Leif Nesheim

The view from atop Mount Townsend is one of the best in the Olympic Mountains. To the east, the Cascades are visible on the horizon from Mount Rainier to Mount Baker. Northward, the deep blue of the Strait of Juan de Fuca threads around the peninsula and San Juan Islands. West, the snow-capped peaks of the Olympics loom tantalizingly close.

There are two trailheads, an upper and a lower. I started from the upper and shaved a mile off the
hike. The well-maintained trail switchbacks upward in a steady climb at a 20-percent grade through a fir and hemlock forest with a dense understory of rhododendron. I've hiked this trail with the flowers blossoming in a profusion of pink blooms but on my latest foray, only a handful of flower buds were showing a hint of rosy color — they looked like little, pink-tipped pine cones. They should blossom into full splendor later this month.

Eventually the trees grew smaller and the trail opened into a magnificent meadow with a view of Buckhorn Mountain ahead and the valley swooping down to the east. A roof of white clouds covered the horizon, rolling right up to the nearby mountain and stretching to the distance. It seemed as if one could walk to Mount Rainier — which peeked above the clouds from afar — atop a cotton carpet.

The panoply of wildflowers that blossom in later months hadn't fully bloomed, though a handful of crimson paintbrush, little yellow flowers and bluebells colored the meadow grass. The somnolent buzz of bees filled the warm, summer air. The fresh scent of pine and wildflowers perfumed the air with a heady mix.

A rush of falling water from a pair of pretty waterfalls — the bigger of the two obscured by trees — provided a serene auditory accompaniment. The smaller was first visible from far below but neared with each switchback until the trail climbed above it.

Uphill, uphill

And still the trail climbed. Near Camp Windy, where I had planned to camp and make a day foray to the peak, patches of late-melting snow began to appear. My dog, Dodge, frolicked in the snow, the first he's experienced deeper than a dusting. He slid off one large pile, disappearing into the brush below before bounding back for more.

The snow was deepest around Camp Windy, located in a forested area near a pair of swampy melt-water lakes. I didn't see the lakes and the snow was deep enough to cause other hikers to head back for fear of losing the trail. Dodge and I plodded on, though I was rethinking my decision to hike in sandals with each toe-numbing step.

The trail fork to Silver Lakes/Mount Townsend is easy to miss. The sign is small and above eye level, and the trail to the mountaintop angles sharply back and up. The start of a new snow pile made it even harder to notice, as the obstacle tends to draw attention.

Past the junction, the Mount Townsend Trail continues its ascent around switchbacks that give great views of the canal. There are several more snowy areas to traverse but nothing particularly difficult.

I passed several hikers on their way down before reaching the saddle; the main trail heads up toward the summit, another goes to a viewpoint straight ahead. Soon after, be sure to take a way trail to the summit — the views are spectacular.

The Brothers and Mount Mystery loom to the southwest. Mount Constance, Warrior Peak and the Needles poke their craggy heads beyond the ridges to the west and Elk and Blue mountains lie beyond Tyler Peak to the northwest. Several hikers lounged and enjoyed the expansive view alongside Dodge and me. Often the peak is socked in with clouds, as it was on my last visits. This time it was gloriously clear, warm and with a gentle breeze whistling over the peaks.

Peeking atop the peak

We snacked on jerky before heading along the ridge top toward the trail, which skirts the top of the ridge. We followed the trail, which cuts through the heather, to another short spur leading to the former fire tower on Mount Townsend's north peak.

I found a belt bag forgotten by another hiker and was deciding whether to open it to look for ID when the hiker returned for her missing bag.

I chose a patch of ground devoid of plants near the second summit to pitch my tent. There is no water, so I filled my black, bear-proof canister with snow and set it on dark basalt rocks in the sun to melt — not only did it keep my sausage and cheese cool until dinner but it was ready to drink the following morning.

As the afternoon wore on, Dodge and I were the only ones left on the peak. The cloud cover below drifted away, leaving a faint haze on the north and east horizons. Mountain birds chirruped while the light breeze wafted and a waterfall echoed faintly from the valley below. Slowly the twinkling yellow lights of the Seattle and Puget Sound metropolis flickered to life and the moon rose, large and orange above the city — a jack-o'-lantern with mountains for teeth. Venus glittered in the west and the stars began to twinkle as we fell asleep waiting for the return hike.

Leif Nesheim is an award-winning hiking columnist, former Gazette reporter and editor/general manager of The Vidette in Montesano. He can be reached at lnesheim@hotmail.com.