Up and down Tiger Mountain there are memorials to local hikers and friends of the mountain, volunteers who gave their time to keep it maintained. Like Murat’s Bridge, Anschell’s Allee, or Pipsee’s View, a modest overlook of a brushy cove. The names of these places all have stories for those who are gone. My stories are right here on this blog.

Pipsee’s View is a good place to rest, between the Nook trail and evil Section Line trail, that zig zags straight up West Tiger 3 to the summit. It doesn’t take long to lose the roar of the motorway below, and if you’re quiet you can tune in to the small sounds of the forest. Like this odd croaking: the sound moves in a circular pattern, a spiral, and reminds me of the Fibonacci sequence, an invisible tree frog making an oval with its throat.

The evil Section Line trail, so steep you are hanging onto the roots of trees so crooked and strained they could be in agony or ecstasy: it leads to a place just below the summit, a clearing with fallen trees as benches shaped in a square, two more memorials but these are plaques on the ground framed with flowers, the founders of the AA group called OSAT, one step at a time. A local branch of alcoholics in recovery who hike.

Twice I climbed West Tiger to join their meeting and listen to their stories. Some, drug addicts or with eating disorders, all of them identifying as diseased. Normal people.

My sponsor and friend Donnie gave me a hard time about the OSAT group, did not think they were legit. Said I’d never been to a real meeting, had not given AA a chance. I think I didn’t want to give that much to the disease, would prefer to just forget about it if I could.

On this day, a Tuesday, I had the small summit all to myself with views of where I’d just been, Mt. Rainier, to the south. It was going to be a hot day but was cool and breezy on the summit. I took a selfie and the more gentle trail down.

Every bit of that trail, every step was fantastic, a perfect choice for the day. I’d realized I didn’t need to go more than 15 minutes to be in absolute wilderness. Just a half an hour up the mountain and the sounds of the motorway blurred in to the overhead breeze.

Even our state park, which I’d gone back to despite the cougar warnings, was a testament to that. Green therapy.

I had the thought I’d blot out the S in the Soaring Eagle sign and replace it with an R and then the Eagle with the word Cougar so it read ROARING COUGAR STATE PARK. That was in keeping with the missing S from a sign near the trailhead that looked like it was saying Ea t Main Drive.

My itchy scalp was back so I had to go for more foam from our local pharmacy. The chain had gone bankrupt and were closing down, dismantling and dusting all the metal shelves. It was odd to see the large pharmacy so empty like that, all fluorescent light, empty space, bad carpeting. They had signs saying 75% off, clearance. Not surprisingly the only thing left, the last unsold inventory, was fish oil. So I bought some.

I ran most of the way down the mountain. I don’t run much, if ever. But I love the feeling of it because I feel free when I run and I feel young again, I feel strong. Plus with trail running there’s the objective hazard of rocks and roots you could trip over so you have to be really careful and pay attention, it’s dangerous. Every step counts. And that’s a metaphor for life.

All that running I wasn’t used to was hard on my joints. When I got home I’d lay in a cold bath with the salts that were good for joint relief. You weren’t supposed to do it too long but I didn’t want to waste the salts, I wanted the full benefit, like a chicken brining.

I don’t know why I stopped going to OSAT. You’d think AA and hiking would be my thing. But the second time I went no one recognized me from the first time. Maybe their memories were just bad. But I wanted someone to remember me, which is funny, most people aren’t good with names. There are other ways to identify I guess.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, identity, Memoir

Tags: Addiction, Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, pacific northwest