Dial Mountain Loop: the day I ditched the boring plan

I left the house with a simple plan: hike out to a nearby lake. It’s close, familiar, and there’s always the chance of mushrooms along the way.

But honestly, that hike is starting to feel a little boring.

Almost all the way there, I changed my mind and detoured to a different hike instead. No big dramatic moment. Just that quiet decision of, “Not today.” Bella was fine with it. Bella is always fine with it.

The water bottle mistake (which mattered later) I didn’t fill my water bottle.My logic at the time was: I’m hiking to a lake. Water will exist.

Except I didn’t end up hiking to the lake. I ended up on a completely different route. So I’m making this a rule for myself from now on: fill the water bottle before leaving the house, no matter what hike I think I’m doing. Plans change. Water shouldn’t depend on the plan.

The hike: a full loop with real climbing. This detour turned into a full loop, which always feels satisfying. No backtracking, no turnaround point, no retracing the same trail back to the car. Just a complete circle.

The loop came out to about 6.7 miles (close enough to call it 7) with a lot of climbing. Not one steady climb either, but multiple ups and downs that added up. My total elevation gain was just under 3,000 feet once you count everything.

It was a good hike. Challenging enough to feel like I earned lunch, but not so brutal that I spent the whole time regretting my choices.

Lunch, snowmelt, and the “worm” surprise

Lunch happened, and that’s when the no-water problem stopped being an abstract “oops” and became a real problem.

So I did what you do when you have snow and a way to heat it: I melted snow for drinking water.  In my head, this was going to be one of those clean, outdoorsy moments where you melt snow and it turns into perfectly clear water and you feel very capable and prepared.

That is not what happened.  When the snow melted down, there were little white worms in it. Not long threadlike ones, and not wiggling. They were already dead by the time the snow melted. But they were unmistakably there: small pale wormy-looking things sitting in the bottom of my cup like a tiny reality check.

I just stared at it for a second, because the brain does not immediately accept the sentence “there are worms in my snowmelt water.” Snow is supposed to feel clean. It’s supposed to be the safe option. And then suddenly you’re looking at your cup like it personally betrayed you.

I picked out what I could see, but I still didn’t trust it. So I boiled it. Like, actually boiled it. Not “warm enough,” not “close enough,” but a real boil, because if I’m going to drink water that started out as “snow with dead worms,” I’m going to remove every risk I can.

The water was fine. I was fine. Bella was fine. But it definitely changed my relationship with melting snow in a hurry. Also, it made me think about how many times I’ve melted snow before and never noticed what was in it because it wasn’t as obvious. That part is going to live in my brain rent-free for a while.

The best part: solitude at the end

The hike itself was great, and the worm water didn’t ruin it. Bella and I had a really good time. Toward the end we finally hit a stretch of real solitude, the kind that feels rare lately even when you’re out in the woods. 

It’s not perfect solitude, because there are houses along parts of the route and you can feel that. But for that day, it was exactly what I needed: a new loop, good climbing, quiet moments, and the end-of-hike calm when everything finally settles.

Would I do it again? Maybe.  It’s a solid loop and a good day hike when I want something different without driving forever. The houses make it less-than-perfect if I’m chasing total isolation, but the hike itself was satisfying and the solitude at the end was worth it.

And next time I’m bringing water from home.

Mixed Rain, Snow, and One Pathetic Bite

Bella was more stir-crazy than I was, which is impressive, because I’d been getting twitchy too. She’d been coiled up all day like a spring-loaded toy, and the second I started doing the gear shuffle she went full lock-on mode. No hesitation. No doubts. Just: outside, now, immediately.

The weather was doing that indecisive Pacific Northwest thing. Mixed rain and snow. Wet cold. Not cinematic, not charming, just damp in a way that creeps into everything.

The lake was well over its banks, which is why I wore chest waders. The shoreline had basically been erased. Waders weren’t a fashion choice, they were access. If I wanted to fish without soaking myself and regretting it for the next three hours, I had to suit up like a waterproof marsh creature.

Hiking in chest waders turns a normal outing into a clompy march. You don’t stride. You shuffle. Your legs feel like they’re dragging a decision you made earlier and now can’t undo. It’s not the same hike as usual, which is why I decided to count the mileage this time even though I don’t normally. Waders change the effort equation. If I’m going to trudge around flooded banks like this, I’m logging it. It counts.

We fished anyway, because Bella needed out and I needed out, and because being outside in miserable weather still beats being inside losing your mind.

Then came the one moment of hope: the “bite” that wasn’t just a bite. It was a fish on for a few seconds. Not long enough to land, not long enough to get cocky, but long enough to wake up my whole nervous system like I’d been plugged into a wall outlet. That brief, electric second where everything gets quiet except the line and your attention.

And then it was gone.

No fish. No photo. No proof except that feeling in your hands and the way your brain refuses to accept it’s over. The worst part is how those few seconds reset your expectations. Suddenly you’re sure there’s another one, like the lake owes you a follow-up. It doesn’t.

Bella stayed close, working the edges, alert and busy like she had a job to do. She was cold, but she still had that determined dog energy: I’m outside, therefore I am thriving. She was the whole reason we were there, honestly. She needed to burn off the stir-crazy way more than I did. I just happened to be the one with the car keys.

And then, because nature is always ready to humble you, I had to pee. In chest waders. This is the part nobody puts in their outdoorsy stories because it ruins the aesthetic, but it’s real life. There’s no graceful way to handle that situation. It’s just unglamorous logistics performed in wet cold while trying to pretend you planned your day like a competent adult.

We went home with exactly what we came for: movement, outside air, and the pressure valve loosening a little. No fish came with us. But for a few seconds, there was a fish on, and honestly? That counts for something. It’s enough to keep you from calling the whole thing pointless.

Sometimes the win isn’t a fish.

Sometimes it’s a few seconds of maybe and a dog who finally stops bouncing off the walls.

Christmas Day, Quietly

Christmas Day, Quietly

Christmas Day usually comes with a lot of noise: people, obligations, and someone’s opinion about how you should spend the holiday.

So I did the sensible thing. I took my dog down a dirt road and disappeared into the woods for a while.

This wasn’t one of those dramatic, cinematic hikes where the sky opens up, angels sing, and you discover a waterfall shaped like your destiny. It was quieter than that. Better than that.

It was a “let’s go be alone on purpose” kind of hike.

The best feature: silence

We started out walking down a dirt road and, honestly, the solitude was the best part. No crowds. No trailhead circus. Just that steady winter hush that makes you feel like the world finally turned the volume down.

I got to just walk. Breathe. Listen. Let my brain settle.

The kind of calm you can’t buy at a store because capitalism hasn’t figured out how to package it yet.

Mushrooms, technically

A few mushrooms showed up along the way, which always feels like a little treasure hunt, even when the treasure is… underwhelming.

These weren’t the kind that make you stop and take forty photos from different angles like a proud parent. More like:

“Yep. Mushrooms exist. Carry on.”

Still, spotting them made the forest feel a little more alive, like it was quietly reminding me it’s doing its own thing whether I’m there or not.

The brush picker van

At some point we passed a brush picker van, which is one of those sights that tells a whole story without anyone saying a word. Someone out there was working on Christmas, doing whatever job needed doing, and for a moment the holiday bubble popped.

Not in a bad way. Just… real.

The world doesn’t pause because it’s December 25th. People still go about their lives. And somehow that made my own quiet hike feel even more deliberate.

Lunch at the gravel pit lake

Eventually we turned around and made our way to a gravel pit lake, where we stopped for lunch.

Gravel pit lakes are weirdly beautiful in that “humans messed with the land and nature shrugged and made it pretty anyway” sort of way. We ate, looked out over the water, and enjoyed that stillness you only get when nothing is demanding anything from you.

And then, because it’s the Pacific Northwest and reality hates predictability, it started raining.

Rain happens. Goals happen too.

The rain came in while we were at the lake, the kind of steady, honest rain that doesn’t care about your plans. It’s not dramatic. It’s not angry. It’s just there.

So we did what you do: adjusted, kept moving, and accepted that this was the weather we got.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I hit it.

364 miles.
My hiking goal for the year. Completed. On Christmas Day.

Not with fireworks. Not with fanfare. Just a quiet moment on a dirt road with my dog, rain starting to fall, and the satisfaction of knowing I did the thing I said I’d do.

Back to the car, back to life

After that, we headed back to the car, damp and content.

It wasn’t a huge adventure. It didn’t need to be.

It was the perfect Christmas hike: solitude, a little wandering, a lake lunch, a few unimpressive mushrooms, and a goal met in the middle of ordinary weather.

Goal met. Miles earned. Christmas survived.

Chasing a New Hill and Getting Rained On Anyway

 

Some hikes start with a plan. This one started with me driving to my intended trailhead… and getting distracted by a hill.

You know the kind. It’s just sitting there off to the side, looking all promising and mysterious, like it has a viewpoint and a life-changing moment waiting at the top. So naturally, I did what any reasonable person would do and abandoned the original plan to go investigate the hill instead.

Bella was fully on board immediately, because new places mean new smells and an unlimited supply of things to inspect. 🐾

We climbed up and reached the top… only to discover it dead-ended. No grand reveal. No magical continuation. Just the universe politely informing us that we’d arrived at the end of the line.

So we turned around and headed back down, because what else are you going to do, build a new trail with your bare hands?

From the top, I spotted another road and decided to give that a try next. It looked like it might lead somewhere interesting. It did not. It led somewhere I’m not going to describe because it wasn’t pretty, and this is supposed to be a blog post, not a public complaint.

So we did the sensible thing: turned around again, returned to the car, and settled for a short, peaceful walk to a spot where we could see a lake.

That part was genuinely lovely. I ate lunch with a view while Bella handled her main responsibilities: perimeter checks, breeze analysis, and making sure I didn’t get any silly ideas like “staying out in the rain on purpose.” 🥪🌲

Then the rain showed up.

Not polite rain. Not “misty, atmospheric drizzle.” This was pounding rain, with big fat, white raindrops that made it very clear we were done with our little lakeside moment. We packed up and got back to the car as quickly as we could, because suddenly the hike turned into a sprint against weather. 🌧️🏃‍♀️🐕

Still, even with the detours, dead-ends, and the dramatic downpour, this hike did something important:

It brought Bella and me to within 3 miles of our yearly goal of 364 miles.

So yes, we got rained on. Yes, I wandered into at least one bad decision and Bella followed along like, “Sure, I guess we’re doing this now.” But we’re right there at the finish line, and honestly, that part feels pretty great. 🎉🥾

On a climbers path

 One way to avoid crowds is the walk up the climbers paths until they get too steep.

All of my hikes are on my you tube channel now:  Walks With Moss