Mount Ellinor

Mount Washington from Mount Ellinor

6.2 miles round trip, 3300 feet elevation gain
Difficulty: Moderate-strenuous
Access: Decent gravel road to trailhead, Northwest Forest Pass required

Mount Ellinor is the southeastern anchor of the Olympic Mountains and thus provides outstanding views of both the interior of the Olympic Mountains and the southern Puget Sound area. Ellinor is a popular hike not only during the summer, but also during the spring: after avalanche danger calms down, a fairly straightforward winter route allows those with sufficient snow hiking equipment and experience to access the summit. The hike packs a pretty substantial elevation gain, but those in good shape will find the summit panorama more than worth it: although not easy, this is still one of the easiest hikes to a craggy summit in the Olympic Mountains.

I've hiked this trail twice, once in early April in a year with below-average snowpack and the second time in late May in a year with above-average snowpack; the conditions were very similar both times. My first visit was on a partly cloudy but mostly beautiful April day, setting out from Seattle with a group of four friends. We took I-5 south to Olympia, then US 101 north from Olympia to Hoodsport. At Hoodsport, just past the IGA, we turned left onto Route 119, or Lake Cushman Road; we followed the at times windy road to a T-intersection. Here, we turned right onto an unpaved road, following the sign towards Mt. Ellinor; after following this road for about two miles, we turned left onto the NF-2419, a gravel road that departed sharply to the left and headed uphill. We followed this road until we came to the lower trailhead for Mount Ellinor, where we parked.

The trail set off from the south side of the road (the left side of the road from the direction of approach), climbing immediately through forest to a ridge. The first mile and a half of the hike consisted of a steady but fairly gentle climb through the forest along the ridge, with some stretches of old growth with fairly large trees. The trail is mostly dirt, not too rocky, and generally pleasant hiking through this section.

Forest on the lower trail

At one point along the lower trail, the forest opened up slightly to the north, offering initial views of both Mount Ellinor, our destination, and Mount Washington, a taller neighbor. This view also looked out over a tract of land that had been clearcut in recent years.

Mount Washington from the lower trail

Soon after passing by the small view, the trail came off of the ridge and began cutting north and climbing through switchbacks up the side of Mount Ellinor. At this point, we ran into our first snow of the hike, which was not surprisingly for April. We donned our microspikes to get more traction on the slippery ground.

About a mile and a half from the trailhead, the lower trail came to a junction with the upper trail, which departs from a higher elevation trailhead. Summer hikers may prefer the upper trailhead to cut out distance and elevation gain; hikers in other seasons will usually find that they must use the lower trailhead due to snow on the road at higher elevations. After joining the upper trail, the combined Mount Ellinor trail switchbacked aggressively up a ridge, then veered north into a small clearing at the foot of an avalanche chute. Here, the summer routes and the winter routes diverged: the summer trail, an established route, tackled the slopes to the northwest, but was completely covered in snow and was impossible to follow in April. We instead followed the winter route, which was simply to ascend up a steep gully towards an alpine bowl between Ellinor and Washington.

The winter route presents numerous dangers, so it's important to have the ability to assess conditions and decide whether or not the route is safe and doable. The main fact to note here is that the winter route ascends an avalanche chute: if there appears to be any chance of an avalanche, it's best to leave the rest of the ascent for another day. If avalanche danger is low, it's important to figure out what gear is best suited to existing snow conditions. We were able to successfully tackle (although not without some struggle) the slope with poles and microspikes. However, icier conditions might have demanded an ice ax and crampons, while substantially softer snow would have required snowshoes. The snow was still fairly soft, so we postholed quite often, but we were able to make slow but steady progress upslope.

As we ascended along the avalanche chute, views started opening up to the south. We could see Lake Cushman and the lower southern peaks of the Olympics; Mount Rainier came in and out of our field of view.

View towards the lower peaks of the southern Olympics

The full ascent along the chute took the good part of an hour: from bottom to top, we climbed about 1000 feet in about half a mile. As we ascended, many hikers who were on their way down glissaded rapidly past us.

Winter route

The long chute finally ended after a final steep snow climb that was perhaps as steep as 40 degrees. Emerging at the top of the chute, we found ourselves in a snowy bowl, surrounded by craggy rock. The bootpath led to the left up to a false summit, so we followed the footprints. Views out from the bowl encompassed Mount Rainier, the southern lobes of Puget Sound, and many of the lower summits of the southern Olympics.

Mount Rainier viewed from the climb up the winter route

At the false summit, we realized that we were still a final climb away from the true summit, which was still coated in deep snow.

Summit of Mount Ellinor

A final uphill push put us at Ellinor's summit. The view into the Olympics from the summit of Ellinor is nearly indescribable. Layers upon layers of jagged peaks filled the view, each coated high up with the winter's snow and lower down with the dense evergreen rain forests in this rainiest place in the continental United States.

View into the Olympics

The rocky massif of Mount Washington, which lay to our northeast, drifted in and out of the scattered clouds. Farther north, the snowy peaks of The Brothers and Mount Jupiter, the Olympic sentinels visible from Seattle, formed the eastern front of the range. Yet most remarkable in the view into the interior Olympics was a distant sighting of Mount Olympus itself, crowned in glaciers, locked in forever-ice.

Mount Olympus from the summit of Ellinor

The views out to the Puget Sound were equally impressive: the many arms of the southern Sound gave more depth to our perception of the lowlands. Rainier, Adams, and St. Helens rose above the horizon, seemingly floating atop the hazy mass of lower peaks.

Ascending the chute up the winter route was a tiring and difficult challenge, but descending was fast and exhilarating. Since the day was fairly warm and sunny, the snow was soft enough for safely glissading in such steep terrain. We took two short glissades to descend from the summit to the top of the chute, then launched ourselves down the glissade chute that had already been carved out in the gully through which we had ascended. In less than two minutes, we had descended one thousand feet, probably exceeding over 10 miles per hour at some points in our slide down.

If you plan to glissade, be sure to monitor conditions when you come up and make sure you have all the necessary equipment to glissade safely. In icier conditions, an ice axe is absolutely essential; later in the season, when the snow is further melted, rocks may make the glissade much more dangerous.

Lake Cushman and the glissade chute down the winter route

The glissade ended in a run-out on a flatter, snowy field. We emptied out the snow that had found its way into our clothes and into unexpected areas of our body and descended back to the trailhead, driving back to Seattle in time for dinner.

Ryan Mountain

Pinto Basin and Little San Bernardino Mountains from Ryan Mountain 

3 miles, 1100 feet round trip
Difficulty: Easy-moderate
Access: Paved road, $20 entrance fee for Joshua Tree National Park

Ryan Mountain sits near the heart of California's Joshua Tree National Park, offering hikers a bird's eye view not only of the park's distinctive Mojave and Colorado desert ecosystems but also, seemingly, of all the vast expanses of desert of Southern California. An added bonus is that this airy viewpoint is not difficult to reach: most hikers in reasonably okay shape who bring plenty of water will be able to reach this summit. It is an unmissable hike for any visitor to the park.

Joshua Tree National Park encompasses mountains, mines, and two distinctive desert ecosystems. The Colorado Desert, or the low desert, forms the eastern half of the park and contains none of the park's namesake yucca; instead, the drier and hotter landscape is dominated by cholla cactus, ocotillo, and creosote. The Mojave Desert, or high desert, is home to the Joshua Tree, a yucca named for its outstretched arms which reminded early Mormon settlers of the Biblical Joshua praying. Ryan Mountain lies within the Mojave Desert, but is situated close enough to the boundary between the two to offer sweeping views of both areas. The mountain is easily recognizable from most of the park: it towers over the flat Mojave Desert, towering over the forests of Joshua Trees found along the Park Boulevard.

Ryan Mountain amidst the Joshua Trees, seen from Keys View Road

I hiked this trail on a crisp, clear November day on a day visit to Joshua Tree. The trailhead is accessible either by driving in via the Park Boulevard from Twentynine Palms or Joshua Tree, or by driving in from the Pinto Basin Road from the park's southern entrance. Accessing either approach from the Los Angeles metropolitan area requires following I-10 east into Coachella Valley. Most visitors come by the Park Boulevard from Joshua Tree, which is the fastest route; I came from the Pinto Basin Road, which is far less traveled but undeservedly so. The Pinto Basin is quite a remarkable landscape and it's certainly worth the extra time to drive in from the south to explore the rest of the park. When I reached the junction between the Pinto Basin Road and the Park Boulevard, I turned left on the Park Boulevard in the direction of Joshua Tree rather than Twentynine Palms, and followed the road until I reached the trailhead for Ryan Mountain, which from this direction was on the left side of the road.

Heading south from the parking area, the trail immediately began climbing up the slopes of Ryan Mountain, passing some large rocks near the trailhead. The trail soon began to climb along the west face of the mountain, ascending up the side of the slope with views of the flat desert to the west of Ryan Mountain and of the Wonderland of Rocks, the fascinating jumble of monzogranite in the northwest of the park. The hike was quite popular, with heavy traffic going both ways, so I was glad that the trail was fairly wide as it traversed Ryan Mountain's slopes.

Wonderland of Rocks and the forest of Joshua Trees

As I ascended along the trail, there were consistent good views to the right. Huge rock buttresses on the west side of Ryan Mountain framed a view of the high desert and of Mount San Jacinto and San Gorgonio Peaks, which peeked out over the Little San Bernardino Mountains.

Mojave desert from Ryan Mountain

As the trail climbed along the side of Ryan Mountain, it began curving to the left into a gully. The views shrunk away and I began focusing on my local environs: the desert slopes were dotted with creosote and yucca. As the trail winded its way up the gully and began to approach the summit ridge, views reappeared of Queen Mountain to the north.

Queen Mountain and the ravine approach to Ryan Mountain

The hike ended with a final push uphill along the broad ridge back of Ryan Mountain up to its summit. The wide dirt trail here cut through the low-lying desert vegetation with newly opened views to the east of part of the Mojave Desert and the Pinto Basin in the distance.

Approaching the summit

In just over a half hour's hiking from the trailhead, I arrived at the summit, which was marked by a large and growing pile of rocks. The 360-degree panorama was stunning: it felt as if I could see the entirety of Joshua Tree National Park from the summit (which is nearly true!). Both the Colorado and the Mojave Deserts were visible, as were the two tallest peaks in Southern California, Gorgonio and San Jacinto. Cholla and yucca decorated the mountain's flat top.

San Jacinto and San Gorgonio Peaks from Ryan Mountain

One particularly impressive part of the view was of the Pinto Basin to the east. Although hard to tell from ground level, from Ryan Mountain I was able to make out the gentle slope of the basin.

Pinto Basin

Although there aren't many hiking trails in Pinto Basin, it is a fascinating place to drive through: it's a good place to see the spindly-armed ocotillo and the fluffy-looking but deadly sticky cholla. I highly recommend that you include a stop in Pinto Basin in any trip to Joshua Tree.

Cholla Cactus Garden in the Pinto Basin

After enjoying the views from the top for a while, I returned the trailhead by the way I came.

Mount Jupiter

Duckabush drainage viewed from atop Mount Jupiter

14.5 miles round trip, 4700 feet elevation gain
Difficulty: Strenuous
Access: No pass required; rough gravel road to trailhead.

Mount Jupiter's distinct eastern position along the Olympic Mountains allows hikers who make the long trek to its summit the chance to see both the many lobes of the Puget Sound and the interior Olympic Peaks that rise above the Dosewallips and Duckabush valleys. From the summit, there are sweeping views of the Olympic peaks, including rare close-ups of both The Brothers and Mount Constance; on a clear day, it's possible to see across the Sound to Seattle and all five of Washington State's Cascade volcanoes. The incredible summit panorama is accessed by a long hike that follows Mount Jupiter's long ridge through forests of rhododendron that bloom in the late spring and early summer.

This hike is tough. The distance and elevation gain aren't the only factors here: the trail is dry, overgrown, and potentially hot depending on the weather. While much of the ridge walk is in the forest, the final mile and a half of the hike that features much of the elevation gain is out in the open on the mountain's southern slopes, making the ascent an oven on a hot day. It's necessary to carry sufficient water for 14 miles of hiking and 4700 feet of elevation gain because there are literally no water sources. While the trail is overall often overgrown, it's substantially more of a problem in the final ascent, as trees and rhododendron in that stretch of trail often cover the trail entirely when the trail is negotiating steep drop-offs. Which brings up another potential issue: those afraid of heights likely won't deal well with the narrow trail and substantial drop-offs at the end of the hike.

I hiked this trail on a sizzling June Sunday, when temperatures in Seattle topped 90 degrees. It takes roughly the same amount of time to access the trailhead from Seattle by going around the Sound entirely, taking the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, or taking a ferry; either way, you'll need to get onto US 101 along the Hood Canal to access the trailhead. I arrived from the north: from Quilcene, I took US 101 south past Brinnon and Dosewallips State Park to the turnoff on the right for the Mount Jupiter Road. The road quickly turned to gravel as I followed it a little ways up the Duckabush Valley before it made a few steep switchbacks up the lower slopes of Jupiter Ridge. The road was rutted in places and quite steep here- it would have been useful to have a four-wheel drive but the sedan I was driving made it through okay. At an unsigned fork in the road after the switchbacks, I took the left fork, which headed uphill and passed by a gate where the road is occasionally closed. I followed that road another 2.5 miles to the marked trailhead on the left side of the road. Parking was limited to wide spots on the side of a spur road. While doable with a small car, having a four-wheel drive on this road certainly wouldn't hurt.

The hike began in the middle of a recovering clearcut; the first mile of the trail traverses privately-held lumber land. The status of the forests in the first mile of the hike are thus very much subject to change; by the time you read this, there may not be forest where there was forest when I hiked. The first couple hundred yards through the recovering cut had views of the Hood Canal, Mount Rainier, and Seattle. Small trees had popped up and the recovering slopes were populated with lupine and paintbrush. As I hiked, the two-peaked massif of the Brothers came into view to the southwest. The trail made a steady ascent through the lumber property.

Seattle in morning light from the trailhead

The trail then alternated between young second-growth forest and recovering clearcut three more times before it entered a very recent clearcut, which could not have been more than a year old at the time when I hiked; here, the soil was still intact but almost nothing was alive. While some might find that the devestation of the clearcut detracts from the experience, I found it interesting to see the effects of cutting. This cut also provided a bit of view up the Duckabush valley and the first view of Mount Jupiter, far in the distance.

Clearcut

The Brothers and Mount Jupiter viewed from the clearcut

At the far end of this last clearcut, the trail reentered the forest and passed from private land into Olympic National Forest. Here, the trail also leveled out, staying relatively flat for the next mile or so as it traversed the south slope of Rhodie Mountain. Rhodie Mountain is appropriately named: many blooming rhododendrons filled its slopes, populating the trail through the forest with numerous clusters of pink and white blooms.

Rhododendrons

At the west end of Rhodie Mountain, the trail embarked on a set of short ascents and descents as it either climbed or circled around numerous small knolls on Jupiter Ridge. A few of these ascents were more extended and brought the trail higher up as I hiked west along the ridge. A little over four miles into the hike, an outcrop to the left of the trail offered a nice view of the Duckabush valley and the Brothers, the first good view of the hike.

View from outcrop along Jupiter Ridge

Past this viewpoint, the trail climbed steadily up the next few bumps in the ridge, passing the boundary for The Brothers Wilderness at about five miles. From here, the trail continued steeply onwards, quickly gaining elevation as it continued through the rhododendron-filled woods.

Entering The Brothers Wilderness

At about 5.5 miles, the trail started becoming seriously overgrown. As I hiked through a saddle on the ridge, the trail was nearly obscured by the undergrowth and by the rhododendrons that extended their branches into the path. The trail followed the south side of the next knoll and soon broke out of the forest into the rocky upper slopes of Mount Jupiter.

On the exposed slopes, the trail was narrower and steeper, with some eroded sections and other sections blocked by vegetation in such a way that I was forced to work my way somewhat precariously around to not tumble off the mountain's south slope. There was also a decent scattering of blooming wildflowers: I spotted scattered growths of Indian paintbrush, phlox, and beargrass.

Beargrass

Phlox

The open slopes were hot and steep, making for tough hiking, but made up for it with stunning views to the south of the Duckabush drainage. The Brothers now seemed just a stone's throw away across the valley; as I ascended, Mount Washington came into view further south.

The Brothers and Mount Washington and the trail to the summit of Jupiter

After an earnest climb through switchbacks, the trail popped out on a knoll along the ridgeline that offered the first open view to the north. From this vantage point, I could look back along the ridge that I had hiked in along and see the many bumps I had traversed. To the north, one of the Jupiter Lakes was nestled in a basin far below. The peaks of the Dosewallips and Quilcene drainages appeared to the north and the summit of Jupiter itself appeared directly west. Snow still covered much of the northern aspect of the mountain, but the trail itself stayed snow-free through the summit.

Jupiter Lakes

The last few hundred yards of the trail felt tortuous under the hot sun. I reached false summit after false summit, convinced each time that the rock ahead of me was about to be the last. Yet the summit was ever further on, requiring set after set of switchbacks. I'm not sure if it was the heat, the long approach, or just the fact that the last mile was quite steep: I felt drained in the last push to the top.

Jupiter summit and Mount Constance

I had more or less no company on the trail unless the last few hundred yards, when two hikers passed me on the final switchback push to the summit. On arriving at the summit and spending some time there, I soon saw more or less all of the three other groups that chose to start the hike early that day, which was nearly everyone I saw on the mountain that day. It's hard to find such a spectacular location in the Pacific Northwest during such spectacular weather without having to deal with hordes of other people, so this was a refreshing change.

The view to the west was dominated by the Olympic peaks. Most prominent were Mount Washington far to the south, The Brothers close in, Mount Anderson directly to the west, and Mount Constance to the north; countless other snowbound peaks defined the valleys of the Duckabush and Dosewallips rivers. The view is unsurprisingly good, considering Mount Jupiter's prominence and the peak's former role as the site of a fire lookout.

Dosewallips valley

The Hood Canal and the other arms of the Puget Sound lay to the east. The day was clear enough to spot many features in the lowlands around the sound: I could see the Seattle skyline, SeaTac Airport, the Boeing plant at Paine Field, and the cliffs at the southern end of Whidbey Island.

Puget Sound

The Cascades rose from behind the Sound. All five volcanoes were visible, although a bit of haze to the south made St. Helens and Adams fainter than their sister volcanoes. Baker shared the North Cascades skyline with Shuksan and Glacier Peak was attended by Three Fingers, Sloan, and the other Mountain Loop summits. Rainier was its usual self, rising regally to the southeast.

Glacier Peak and Sloan Peak

Mount Rainier

After enjoying the views for about an hour, I decided that the heat really was too much and made my way back to the trailhead along the same path I came on, hiking for a total of about nine hours.

Mount Jupiter is an excellent hike for those who have explored some more accessible summits in the Olympics such as Ellinor or Townsend and want to try something more difficult with a less often seen view. It's an appropriate hike for fit hikers who can handle a tough summit push after a five mile approach along a dry, hot ridge. It's not an ideal or even a reasonable hike for hikers new to the Olympics or anyone who hasn't had a decent amount of prior hiking experience.

San Gabriel Peak

View of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean at sunset from San Gabriel Peak

4 miles round trip, 1150 feet elevation gain
Difficulty: Easy-moderate
Access: Paved road to trailhead, $30 annual or $5 one-day Adventure Pass required. Mount Wilson Road is narrow and winding and maybe not recommended for trailers and RVs.

The San Gabriel Range rises abruptly from the plains of the Los Angeles Basin, quickly transitioning from sea level to over 10,000 feet at Mount Baldy. This vertical relief makes the San Gabriels a particularly dramatic mountain range. One of the greatest viewpoints of the range is also easily accessible: it's only a short hike of less than 2 miles each way to the summit of San Gabriel Peak from the Mount Wilson Road. San Gabriel Peak is the second highest point in the front range of the San Gabriel Range and offers a sweeping view of the range along with the entire Los Angeles metropolis and the Pacific Ocean. This hike fits the bill for anyone seeking maximum views for just a slight challenge. The hike described here visits not just San Gabriel Peak, but also neighboring Mount Disappointment, which adds just an extra half mile round trip but provides a slightly different view.

I hiked this trail on a November day, just a little while after some storms had dusted the higher peaks around Los Angeles with snow. I drove to the trailhead from West Los Angeles, taking I-10 east to downtown, then skirting to the west of downtown on Route 110 north, connecting to I-5 north, then taking Route 2 north towards Glendale and La Canada Flintridge. After passing the Verdugos, I merged onto I-210 east from Route 2 and then left on the first exit on I-210 for Route 2 heading north at La Canada Flintridge. Coming out, I turned left and headed north on the Angeles Crest Highway. I followed the windy mountain road uphill to the junction with the Angeles Forest Highway; here I stayed to the right and continued onward to the junction with the Mount Wilson Road at Red Box Gap. I turned right and followed the Mount Wilson Road uphill to the trailhead at Eaton Saddle, where there was parking on both sides of the road.

I put up my parking pass and then started hiking down the gated Mount Lowe Road, which headed off to the west (off to the right side of Mount Wilson Road). The road cut across the open slopes of San Gabriel Peak, offering immediate views of rocky Mount Markham and the endless grid of the Los Angeles suburbs near Pasadena. The trail itself- having been a former road- was quite wide and still in decent shape, which made for easy hiking with just a slight elevation gain.

View of the city from Mount Lowe Road

The south slope of San Gabriel Peak became increasingly sheer: at one point, the rocky face of the mountain was steep enough that the road circumvented that segment by a tunnel. The Mueller Tunnel was dark and a little damp but was short enough to not require a flashlight.

Mueller Tunnel

Soon after passing through the tunnel, at about two-thirds of a mile from the trailhead, the road arrived at Markham Saddle, nestled between San Gabriel Peak and the sharp form of Mount Markham. A water tank lay off to the right of the trail at the gap; I walked past the tank and the gap itself to find the trail to San Gabriel Peak itself, which was unmarked and branched off to the right just past the saddle. I followed this much narrower trail to the right and began a stiffer ascent up a set of switchbacks that led to the slopes of the mountain above the saddle. From this vantage point, I had a remarkable view of Mounts Markham and Lowe and Eaton Canyon down below. The trail itself cut through a barren slope that had burned just a few years earlier in the 2009 Station Fire. After the initial switchback ascent, the trail began cutting north along San Gabriel Peak's west face, ascending as it headed towards the gap between San Gabriel Peak and Mount Disappointment. The trail was quite narrow and eroded in places, so be mindful if you're uncomfortable with heights.

San Gabriel Peak Trail

Once the trail reached the saddle between San Gabriel and Disappointment, I chose to visit the lower peak of Mount Disappointment first. I took the left fork at the saddle and quickly came to a helipad and then a fire road. I followed the left switchback of the fire road uphill to the summit of Mount Disappointment. Small patches of snow remained in shady areas near the peak: snow had apparently reached this fairly low elevation already.

In a way, the summit of Mount Disappointment lives down to its name. Disappointment is not a wilderness peak: it's a mountain capped with numerous communications towers, with many views obscured by a fence protecting the towers at the true summit. However, the views are still quite good, and by walking around the fenced-off towers, I was able to piece together a 360-degree view of the area. The most notable section of the view was to the west: There was a direct view down to Red Box Gap and out to Strawberry Peak, the tallest peak in the front range of the San Gabriels. This part of the view wasn't visible from San Gabriel Peak, since from that angle it's blocked by Mount Disappointment.

Strawberry Peak and the Front Range from Mount Disappointment

The pyramid of San Gabriel Peak itself dominated the view to the east; I could also see snow-coated Mount Baldy and the other high peaks of the back range. I stayed at the summit for about half an hour and had no company, even on a holiday weekend.

San Gabriel Peak from Mount Disappointment

I returned via fire road to the saddle between San Gabriel and Disappointment. This time, I went straight across the gap and began heading uphill on the trail that climbed San Gabriel Peak. The trail switchbacked and climbed aggressively up the mountain. Sections of the trail were fairly narrow or eroded and steep, making for occasionally uncomfortable hiking. In addition to the excellent views outward towards Los Angeles, the plentiful succulents on the mountain slope made the trail quite scenic.

Succulents along the way to San Gabriel Peak

A final push brought me to the summit, about half a mile from the saddle between the two peaks. The summit has a 360-degree view, but it's necessary to walk around a bit to see all parts of the view, due to the plentiful vegetation.

Mount Wilson Observatory was visible just to the east: the collection of domes and towers was built atop of the next mountain down due to the clear skies of the past. Light pollution and smog now render the summit of Mount Wilson a less excellent site for astronomy than before, but they haven't erased Mount Wilson Observatory's place in the history of science. The observatory's Hooker Telescope was once the largest in the world and was used by Edwin Hubble to show that the universe was expanding, an observation that was key to formulating the Big Bang theory.

Mount Wilson Observatory from San Gabriel Peak

The Three Saints were visible to the east. In the distance, the peaks of Mount San Jacinto and San Gorgonio Peak rose above the horizon. These two peaks, the tallest in their ranges, have some of the greatest prominence of any mountains in the lower 48; San Jacinto rises over 8,300 feet directly from San Gorgonio Pass. Closer in, the snowcapped summit of Mount San Antonio- better known as Mount Baldy- glowed in the light of the setting sun.

Mount Baldy

The rest of the view was equally impressive. The north was dominated by the higher peaks of the San Gabriel back range, while the lower peaks of the front range stretched off to the west. To the south, I could see a large portion of the endless sprawl of Los Angeles and its attendant suburbs; far beyond, I could make out Palos Verdes and Santa Catalina. To the west, the sun set over the Pacific Ocean as the evening lights in San Fernando Valley began to glimmer.

The San Gabriels from San Gabriel Peak

Sunset on the Pacific Ocean

Dusk on the San Fernando Valley

I stayed at the summit for nearly an hour, taking in the view until sunset. At dusk, I retraced my steps back to the trailhead. There's much to recommend about this hike: the view at the summit and the surroundings visited along the trail itself were both excellent, and the trail is just enough uphill to make it seem like an actual summit hike while simultaneously being short enough that most reasonably fit people can finish it.

Hanford White Bluffs- North Slope

The Hanford Reach of the Columbia River

6.5 miles round trip, 530 feet elevation gain
Difficulty: Easy-moderate; some route-finding is necessary
Access: No pass needed. Good gravel road to trailhead.

Hanford. For half a century, the name of this remote corner of the Washington desert was associated with the nuclear bomb. The Manhattan Project chose this desolate site as the place to generate plutonium for the bombs detonated at Trinity and Nagasaki. Today, the connotations of death and decay have yet to fade: leaking nuclear waste and widespread contamination has made the area inside the Department of Energy site the most contaminated Superfund site in the nation. Yet amidst this decay, the Hanford Reach of the Columbia River, a great bend in the Northwest's mightiest river, is a landscape of life. The secrecy around the bomb and the Hanford site allowed this corner of the Columbia Basin to escape farming and retain its wild sagebrush character and also ensured that this last free-flowing stretch of the Columbia in the United States remained undammed. The end of the Cold War heralded the end of weapons production at Hanford. During his last year in office, President Bill Clinton used the Antiquities Act to declare a portion of the Hanford Site's sagebrush country as the Hanford Reach National Monument and transferred it to the jurisdiction of the US Fish and Wildlife Service.

The White Bluffs North Slope hike explores a cliff-lined stretch of the Columbia in the Hanford Reach National Monument and visits some of the greatest wilderness sand dunes in Washington State. The hike has minimal elevation gain and thus is not physically difficult to hike; however, the trail does peter out at the first set of sand dunes, about two miles from start; accessing the second set of dunes near the White Bluffs requires some basic navigational skills. Additionally, the trailhead is not marked at all and can be a little difficult to locate. Most hikers will find the trip interesting enough for the sand dunes and the views of the river, but those interested in history or ecology can gain a particular appreciation for this hike due to its distinguishing characteristics in those aspects.

I hiked White Bluffs on a stormy day. Flood watches and warnings had been posted all over Western Washington, so I decided to try my luck on the east side of the Cascades. The storm followed me into the desert, though undoubtedly the brief light rain during my hike was trivial compared to the two inches of precipitation at Snoqualmie Pass that day. I followed I-90 east from Seattle across the pass and past Cle Elum and Ellensburg. After crossing the Columbia River at Vantage, I took the first exit after the bridge for State Route 26. I followed Route 26 south briefly before taking the right fork for Route 243 south when Route 26 began to climb up the columnar basalt cliffs and away from the river. I followed 243 south along the Columbia River past Wapanum Dam and Sentinel Gap to Mattawa; here, I turned left onto Road 24 and followed it east through the irrigated farmland at the foot of the Saddle Mountains. I continued on Road 24 until it met up with State Route 24 (how confusing!); I turned left here and followed Route 24 east for at least another 10 miles until I came to the junction with a gated gravel road leading into the Wahluke Unit of the Hanford Reach National Monument. I turned right onto this road; the gate is open until sundown every day. As I followed the gravel road south, a sudden blast of wind from the storm rolled a tumbleweed across the road. While this might be a common desert sight, I was shocked and a little thrilled to have seen such an iconic sight of the western desert. I followed the gravel road until it came to a four-way intersection. Here, I turned right to head towards White Bluffs landing. After the turn, the road became paved once more. The paved road headed west over the flat Wahluke Slope before descending down a gully cut into the White Bluffs to a small level area near a boat landing. The trailhead was at a small gravel spur road on the right side of the paved road reached right after coming out of the gully. If you reach the boat launch, you've driven too far.

The Washington Trails Association website indicates that a Discover Pass is needed to park at the trailhead: however, this is incorrect. The trailhead lies on land operated by the US Fish and Wildlife Service and not the State of Washington; additionally, there isn't much of a "trailhead parking area" to speak of anyway.

The trail heads north from the parking area, directly towards the White Bluffs. It immediately climbed up a lower set of bluffs and brought the first views of the Columbia.

Ascending White Bluffs

A few hundred yards past the trailhead, the trail started a second climb that brought it to the top of the second set of bluffs, placing the trail maybe two hundred feet above the river. The trail continued skirting the top of the bluffs for the next two miles, providing consistently good views of the free-flowing river and a large island that split the river in the Reach. A part of the Hanford Site came into view when I turned and looked back- the remnants of the F reactor lay to the south. It was easy to see how the bomb could've been kept a secret throughout its development in this empty landscape.

White Bluffs at Hanford

The views of the river were made all the more impressive by the fact that in the Hanford Reach, the Columbia River flows. At face value, this seems like nothing special: after all, rivers flow. But within the borders of the United States, the Hanford Reach is the only place the Columbia River flows, the only place where the great river of the Northwest is not slackwater. From the Bonneville Dam at the beginning of the tidal Columbia to the upper reaches of Franklin Delano Roosevelt Lake at the Canadian border, every section of the Columbia River is dammed save this stretch between the Priest Rapids Dam near Sentinel Gap and the McNary Dam near the confluence with the Snake. The siren song of cheap hydroelectric power proved too strong to save any part of the Columbia River besides the stretch kept off-limits by a secretive Manhattan Project site.

The cheap and plentiful hydropower birthed Hanford in the first place. The unprecedented electrical output of the Grand Coulee Dam provided the energy necessary for plutonium enrichment at Hanford. During the war, the populace of the towns of White Bluffs and Hanford were relocated and a wide perimeter of sagebrush around the site's nuclear reactors was put in place to maintain secrecy. This perimeter remained through the end of the Cold War: even as the rest of the Columbia Basin turned into a network of dams, irrigation canals, and reclaimed agricultural fields, the land around Hanford remained sagebrush and sand. Inadequately rigorous disposal of nuclear and chemical waste during plutonium production turned the west bank of the Columbia into a toxic Superfund site. Luckily, the waste problem has been largely localized to the Hanford Site side of the river, leaving the Wahluke Slope on the east side as a haven for wildlife. Today, the Hanford Site remains largely off-limits to visitors except on guided tours operated by the Department of Energy and the National Park Service.

The contrast was striking: on the other side of the river, a symbol of death and decay, on this side of river, a quiet, unassuming sagebrush wilderness full of life, saved only because of the secrecy necessary for the Faustian creation across the river. Salmon swam in the river below and Canada geese glided silently above the Columbia.

Birds in flight at Hanford

About two miles into the hike, the trail died out as I approached the first sand dune on the hike. The first complex of sand dunes was rather small, though the dune itself was still at least 40 or 50 feet tall. As I climbed the dune, my feet alternatingly sinking into sand slope, I saw in wonder the 30-mile-per-hour winds whipping sand past the crest of the dune. Standing atop the crest of the dune, I could feel sand blasting around my legs: it almost seemed as if I were fording a river of sand.

Windblown sand

Among the blowing sands, I spotted a Jerusalem cricket, a species that is neither a cricket nor a resident of Jerusalem.

Jerusalem Cricket in the sand dunes

Past the first set of high dunes, I wandered through a sandy area with more vegetation. At this point, there was no trail; I simply walked in the direction of the next set of dunes that I saw. As I walked towards those dunes, the storm rolled in, completing engulfing the Saddle Mountains to the north with clouds and rain. Before the storm reached me, the cloud cover momentarily broke and the sun illuminated the sand blowing on the nearby dunes.

White Bluffs sand dunes

Across the river, I spotted the cocooned shell of the H reactor, one of the many plutonium enrichment reactors at Hanford. In total, nine plutonium enrichment reactors were built at Hanford, three of which were finished during WWII to provide plutonium for the bombs being assembled at Los Alamos. H reactor was built later during the Cold War; at the height of weapons production, Hanford and the Savannah River Site in South Carolina provided all plutonium for warheads built in the United States. At the end of the Cold War, the Hanford reactors were decommissioned; the buildings around the reactors were torn down and the reactors themselves were left in place and cocooned in protective covering. The Manhattan Project National Historical Park- a recently established park preserving sites at Hanford, Oak Ridge, and Los Alamos- now offers tours of B reactor, the first large-scale nuclear reactor to go critical, a rare chance to enter and visit an otherwise strictly off-limits zone.

Sand dunes, with cocooned Hanford H reactor across the river

At the foot of the second set of dunes, I donned my rain gear and sat down in the sand to momentarily escape the driving rain and the intense wind. It was not apparent as I hunkered down whether much of what was hitting me was sand or water; but I waited out the brief period of heavier rain and then began to ascend the second dunes once the rain transitioned to light showers.

The second set of dunes was substantially more impressive than the first: there were perhaps as many as seven or eight sand mounds all connected along a single ridge of sand. I followed the crest along the dunes, struggling as I fought the collapsing sand up each dune. The views from the top of the highest dunes to the flat Wahluke Slope, the river, and the surrounding mountain ranges were quite remarkable.

Sand dunes

The Columbia River at White Bluffs

After descending the tallest dune, I decided to call it quits for the day. There was still a decent amount of sand that stretched northward- it would certainly be possible to extend the hike beyond where I stopped and explore to the end of the expanse of sand. I slid down from the sand crest to a sandy basin on the east side of the tall dunes, then walked along the base of the dunes until I reached the sandy inter-dune area. From there, I retraced my steps to the trailhead, leaving the monument just after the sun set. I didn't see another person all day on the trail; the only other people I met were a couple of guys from the Priest Rapids Hatchery who were catching some salmon from the river at White Bluffs Landing to stock the hatchery. Although it hasn't been well advertised, the landscapes at Hanford are extraordinary and well worth the trip from Seattle.