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.