Aging: Climbing a mountain, chasing a high

In the early 1990s, when I lived in an apartment on Olympia's west side, I loved looking west to the southern peaks of the Olympics. You had a great view of them from Budd Inlet over the marina when walking along East Bay Drive. The Olympics felt immense, yet very close, making sense of the "gateway" term often used to describe Thurston County.

Indeed, a few more years in the Olympia-Lacey area provided all the priming I needed to get me ready to leave the crowds and hustle off the Interstate 5 corridor and head toward the promise of a slower, more nature-focused life in what I call the "vast lane" of the southern Olympic mountains in Mason County, USA.

There was a transition time, the late 1990s, when I worked and stayed in Thurston County, but I spent most of my free time exploring the Olympics. I had a 1986 Honda Accord hatchback and I trusted that thing to take me on every logging road I could find. I cobbled together a decent sleeping bag, tent, and pots and pans for camping, and learned to drive around and explore each new bend in the road.

Each trail in the forest was a new adventure, and I took in everything I could with my senses, practically memorizing each distinct feature and landscape. I fell in love with moss, mushrooms and fog. I tasted the essence of adventure, reawakening that wild contagion known among teenage boys, an excitement sparking your nerves when you came upon a waterfall, swimming hole, a cliff to climb or rope swing over a bend in the river.

Everything was new and endless, too. Add to that the moment I was shown my first chanterelle, and I will admit here and now that I never cared again about my "career" in advertising and marketing - simply pennies in a piggy bank until I could learn the ways of the forest and earn my living doing that.

Old cowboys never die

Today I experience a great deal of sadness centered around the pre-eminent fact that I have explored most of the trails in and around Mason County, and the youthful spark of finding something "new" out there barely flickers as I get older, more cautious, and less able to pull off the ol' feats o' glory.

I know it is the proud way of the American male to deny such things, to just buck up, shut up and pay my taxes. But I am a whiner, a wanker, a writer and not the kind of guy who "fights" cancer and all that heroic horse-spit.

"Coach, I can't throw the fastball anymore," is what I'm saying.

I'm entering the twilight state, active only so much as going for groceries or finding my table at the restaurant. Going against my own code, I find I now prefer to stay in my car and use the drive-up lane for coffee and banking.

Stories and memories now occupy the greater part of my being; my livelihood and future usefulness depend on my ability to move around in the warehouse of my mind, and, like an Amazon employee on his fifth 5-Hour Energy drink, to quickly box up a tale to meet my next deadline.

Here's another

Readers in their 40s and older might recall that Lacey was once home to the area's principal shopping mall, South Sound Shopping Center. The center, which opened in 1966, stood across Sleater Kinney Road from what was to be (and still is) a Fred Meyer grocery store.

Up until the 2000s, the area was not fully developed between the mall and Fred Meyer. The Starbucks, Applebee's and other small stores that now hug Sleater Kinney were not there. In their place were scattered berms of grass.

For years, starting in the 1970s, every third of July was marked by a fairly boisterous Independence Day fireworks show, with rockets launching from South Sound Center to burst over Interstate 5. Crowds gathered on those berms, bringing picnic meals, sodas, lawn chairs, blankets, even baby cribs. As skies darkened the anticipation would build. Children ran by, waving sparklers, and the air carried a gunpowder smell.

I remember being in the crowd, sitting on the grass for a few of those celebrations. It was easygoing, joyous fun, a bit like crowding in the back of a pickup at a drive-in movie show. Even the adults would ham it up, joining the kids with exaggerated "ooohs" and "aaahs" when a rocket ripped the sky.

Above the bursts

On July 3 one summer, I'm guessing 1996 or 1997, I found myself on top of Mount Ellinor, enjoying a late afternoon view. I had climbed the 5,920-foot peak alone and was still relishing the joy of my second summit.

With shadows growing longer, I hiked down to the upper trailhead where my car was the last. In no hurry, I veered my Honda onto a lower logging road that hugged the sheer cliffs of the mountain's eastern face. Barely gone a minute, I hit the brakes to stare at the sudden sight of a gorgeous, ponytail waterfall tumbling into a pocket grotto. It roared right past my window.

The falls called me to explore. I parked and walked the road leading past them, now toward a series of wide, flat ledges perched 3,000 feet above Hood Canal and the flatlands beyond. Each rock shelf was perfect for camping.

Filled with wonder, I asked myself how come I didn't know about this place? Charred fire rings told me others had spent nights here. Each bend in the road seemed blessed with another breathtaking view (similar to this week's photo, yet higher).

In the east, Mount Rainier loomed like a white-capped wave. I sat on a log, watching her snowy face blush orange-pink as the sun angled lower. The horizon edged pink, then slipped under shadow.

Somewhere out toward Tacoma a firework rocket puffed in the sky. A few minutes later another exploded over Union, then another, with its bang distant and delayed.

This was going to be awesome, fireworks a half-mile high! I tried building a small fire, but did not have enough paper and kindling. Sitting in the dark turned out to be just fine as somewhere toward Lakewood, sherbet smears of color erupted low in the sky. Lacey kicked in, not with individual bursts at this distance, but a glow of shifting colors that reflected off towering columns of smoke.

It stayed very quiet up there. I don't remember if I could hear Lacey's grand finale or not. I remember the night air getting cold on my bare arms and a very peculiar, bittersweet feeling as I stood up and walked back to my car.

I felt far apart from life down there - the "ooohs" and "aaahs" of the crowd - and now following some kind of mysterious call, bits of Morse code the mountains were sending, a breadcrumb trail leading me on.

■ Mark Woytowich is a writer, photographer, video producer and author of "Where Waterfalls and Wild Things Are." He lives in Potlatch with his wife, Linda. His "On the Go" column appears every other week in the Journal. Reach him at his website, http://www.wherewaterfallsare.com, or by email at

[email protected].