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Goat Island Mountain

by Amanda Phillips
Goat Island Mountain

There was no doubt that summer was over as we scrambled up Goat Island Mountain on the first Sunday of fall. Golden colors abound, fresh snow at the top seemed a real possibility and there was a definite bite in the air. I spend so much of the year looking forward to the summer season when the snow melts and the high alpine is accessible, spending as many weekends as possible under the stars. Fall is always a bit bittersweet.

This fall, however, feels so different. I was invited to this trip through some friends I met on Instagram and the stoke was contagious. Rather than mourning the summer I that was over, I became so excited for all of the objectives to come in the following months. I was not hobbling along a 4-mile trail, hoping my shins would not revolt, as I was doing last September, I got to tag along on a route that tested my limits. Instead of feeling completely disconnected from the hiking community as I desperately hoped that my injuries would heal, I felt accepted and thrilled to connect with such awesome people.

All to say, I am getting really excited about this fall.


Goat Island: The Climb

We arrived at the trailhead after a nice sunrise drive. We hit the trail for about half a mile before turning-off and beginning the off-trail portion of the route. A faint bootpath presented itself and we began to scale the wooded hillside. Climbing over damp logs, through spiderwebs and dew, we slowly wove our way through the woods, frequently pausing to check navigation and catch our breath. The trees began to thin and bushes threw off small ice crystals as we disturbed their slumber.

Eventually, we broke through the trees and reached an open meadow and rejoiced–the real fun was about to begin.

We slowly meandered up towards the closest ridge, dodging elk poop every five feet. Matted grass gave signal to where elk recently lay, though the only animals we saw where the ones lining the road as we entered the park. After climbing the meadow, we reached the ridgeline and walked through the trees. The views grew more and more spectacular as we looked down upon the valley we had so recently climbed.

The trees turned into a rocky cliff band on the ridge. We debated a scramble over a section with a bit of run-out or dropping down to the meadow below, crossing the talus field and climbing the gulley. While the ridge was likely possible, we were reticent to turn around at this point and opted for the route we could see, despite the slightly miserable climb up the steep gully. We could see the false summit on the other side of the saddle, losing a few hundred feet of elevation gain only to climb again was slightly heartbreaking but great for the quads.

At long last, we regained the lost elevation and crossed the saddle. Trees gave way to grass, then the grass gave way to gravel as we continued to climb. A stubborn cloud threatened to hang over Mt. Rainier as we grew closer to the high point.

Goat Island: The Ridge

As we reached the high point of the ridge, the large, looming cloud slid to the west and Mount Rainier appeared. It was almost too grand to comprehend and worth every panting step to get there. It felt so close that it was almost inevitable that we would skip to the summit from where we stood. A large icefall on one of the glaciers quickly dispelled that myth, reminding us that nothing on this shore is static. We took a seat and enjoyed the view as we ate a little lunch.

After reveling in the sights, we packed up and continued on our way. We followed the ridge, growing ever closer to the volcano as the clouds moved in and out.  The ridge separates two basins that Michael and I visited last summer–allowing a bird’s eye view of the places I have been. Both Summerland and Glacier Basin were two routes I completed last summer as recovery hikes from shin splints. Each step was a tender, hopeful journey for the following summer not limited by pain. To bound up a meadow, scramble over boulders and slab, climb to a 7300’ peak and literally see the distance I have come was very powerful.

A turquoise lake that Michael and I swam in last summer appeared to our right as a small dot. To our left, the small glacial tarn below Panhandle Gap seemed to glow in the distance. The ridge climbed slowly and revealed better and better views from the mist until we reached the second summit. From here, Rainier stood as an even more massive behemoth. The icy tendrils of the glacier reached into the basin and it felt like a completely different world than the lush forest we wandered through earlier that day.