Richard Olmer

Last week, friends and I decided to pay a visit to Lake Angeles. If I never had felt the magic and the mystery of this place, I would have come face to face with it on this trip.

It was a fantastic morning with bright sunshine reflecting off the snowy mountain peaks, the air was crisp and the sky was clear. Despite the coolness of the morning, the walking soon had us shedding layers of clothing.

Lake Angeles is a walk often ignored because it is too close, too crowded and too difficult.

The trailhead sign says that it is 3.7 miles to the lake, a perfect distance for a day hike. The sign, of course, doesn't say that the entire 3.7 miles is uphill.



A little snow

The tops of all of the trees were covered with snow. Soon we noticed snow on tree trunks; then there was a light coating of powder on the trail.

The depth of the powder increased as slowly we climbed upward: an inch,

2 inches, 4 inches, a foot. After two miles, the snow began to deepen. Luckily, someone else had used the trail during the past few days and it was easy to negotiate, even with 2 feet of snow.

Then we began to encounter some drifts and deeper snow. By the time the snow depth reached 3 feet, the trail was beginning to get a little difficult. Obviously new drifting snow had covered the friendly footsteps we were following.

By the time we reached the markers that indicated there was not much farther to go, the snow was about

4 feet deep. This walk no longer was great fun; it was beautiful, but it was hard work.



Footprints walk away

The sky was still a beautiful blue with only a few scattered clouds. We now could see the mountain peaks that hung above the lake. We encountered one disadvantage: The footsteps we had been following didn't turn toward the lake; they followed the path up to Hurricane Ridge.

It was a shame our absent leader hadn't asked us where we wanted to go. Well, we had made it to our destination ... even if we couldn't see it.

As we stood there admiring the peaks around us and our accomplishment this day, I looked down and saw a pool of blue light where my walking stick had made a hole in the snow. It was kind of like the blue light you see at a nuclear power plant when you look down into the water with the control rods for the reactor.

Blue light glowed in every hole we had made in the snow.



A face of God?

It was kind of magical. I mean, it should be dark down there ... shouldn't it?

We had a good feeling about making it up there, in spite of the snow and the extra effort. On the other hand, there was a feeling that we really weren't supposed to be here - a sense that we were trespassing.

Perhaps we were unable to see the lake because it did not wish to be seen in its white cocoon. Perhaps man is not meant to see blue light in holes in snow.

On this day, this place was not the same place that I had seen before. I did not see the towering rock faces that always reminded me of a cathedral. Instead of seeing the lake, I was shown a parlor trick ... blue light.

"Here, take this. Go. Come back after I have rested, when I am ready to accept visitors."

And so we retraced our steps, quietly. On our way, we discussed what we had seen.

We had been here before and had been awed. This day we felt subdued. Our strength had been taken from us and we had no words to say what we had seen. We had seen a different face of God ... more mysterious, powerful, aloof.

Perhaps God had shared a secret with us. Perhaps someday each of us will unwind its meaning.



Richard Olmer can be reached at columnists@sequimgazette.com.