Pulling into the parking lot of Hoh Rainforest, I am filled with a swirl of so many emotions. Our surroundings are so lush, serene and breathtaking, I can’t wait to get on the trail to bring life to the pictures I saw on the internet. At the same time, I’m worried and nervous about the accessibility factor. Will there be a route that can handle a wheelchair or possibly a shorter trail that Katie can manage on foot, or will we need to scratch this off our vacation sightseeing list as well?
At the ranger station, they tell me about all the available trails- the lengths, terrain, and what is available to see on each one. By the vivid description, I know right away the Hall of Mosses is where all the awe-inspiring pictures were taken that had prompted me to add this to the ‘must see’ agenda. However, this path is a little over a half-a-mile long and not wheelchair accessible; that one is much shorter and not as scenic. My heart drops a bit knowing the latter will be the sensible choice and the online pictures will have to suffice. At least I will get to see some of the rainforest.
Back at the car, Katie is adamant that she will be able to handle the longer trail. Seeing as she usually tries things she knows she can’t and shouldn’t do anymore, I am skeptical and concerned that she will tire out halfway through and be stuck. She assures me this is not the case and grumbles I don’t give her enough credit. Perchance it is because I know we will both enjoy the scenic trail more or maybe I have a moment of pure selfish weakness, whatever the reason, I give in. We pack up our things and head across the road to the Hall of Mosses.
As we step into the towering Western Hemlocks and Red Cedars, I am surrounded by a peacefulness that only nature can provide. I hurry Katie across a dilapidated, wood bridge traversing a crystal-clear, gurgling stream. Then our relaxing nature walk takes a steep turn north. While describing the even terrain and ‘only a few bumps’ on this trail, the rangers forgot to mention the staircase built into the side of a cliff. I am infuriated by this lazy oversight but that feeling is overshadowed by my terror of Katie climbing the precipitous staircase. Stairs are an unnerving challenge for her, and my only consolation is she is still fresh.
The stairs are just wide enough for me to climb beside her and help her up each step. With her arm around my neck, she grips the rusted, metal handrail and steps up with her stronger, right leg. Using it to push herself up while she pulls on the rail, Katie is able to lift herself up to the next stair. We take each step in-sync, so I can help stabilize her as we move up the uneven staircase. The determination and effort are written on her face, and I encourage her until we reach the top.
Knowing she will need to rest before we can proceed, I steer us towards a green-iron bench beside the trail. We take a seat so Katie can recuperate, and I can continue to fret in the back of my mind. Concerned over a challenge this taxing so early in our walk, I offer to turn back. She scoffs at the suggestion and sees no reason not to push forward. Trying to settle my nerves, I look around and try to focus on my calm surroundings. This is the first real glimpse I get of the forest.
Ferns of all shapes and varieties fan out in front of us. With assorted sizes, patterns, and colors, they weave multi-layered skirts around each of the trees. There are more shades of green than a Sherwin-Williams store and all complement each other beautifully. I am surrounded by ancient Sitka Spruce that stretch their trunks until their limbs can tickle the clouds. Taking a deep breath, it smells a bit musty and earthy, like wet-garden soil. That makes sense since I’m sitting in a rainforest.
When Katie is ready, we set out on the twig-strewn path through the forest. She has her left arm draped over my shoulder, and my right is wrapped loosely around her waist. The extra balance and stability I provide is helping her enjoy the stunning landscape until we literally hit a bump in the road. A tree has decided that a monopoly on one side of the path is not enough. It has tried to lay claim to our trail by bisecting it with a large, bulging root. This makes another big step for Katie and more palpitations for me. At this rate, I’ll be a perfect candidate for my family’s high blood pressure by the time we make it back to the car.
Once I step over the offending root, I turn and face Katie. She reaches across the wooden obstacle and grabs ahold of my shoulders for support. I wince when I feel her fingernails take hold but stand firm so she doesn’t lose her balance. Slowly, she lifts her right foot over the hump and sets it next to me, straddling the obstruction. The weak left is next, and I must lift her knee to help her clear the top of the bump. This routine works, and I’m sure it will be needed again farther down the road.
After successfully hurdling the hump, we slowly press on. deeper into this vast greenhouse. Our pace gives me a chance to fully absorb my surrounding. I’m fenced in by trees that are anywhere from saplings to centuries old, inches to feet in diameter, and are heights that end only when my chin is completely vertical. The pale-grey hue of broken, decaying stumps and timbers that have succumb to mother nature and father time accentuates the beauty of the russet-brown, lichen-covered hemlocks towering over them.
I see shorter maples hiding in the shadows of their loftier cousins that could be used as stage props for the Broadway version of Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. The bent and deformed branches protruding from the warped and twisted limbs will leave a frightful shadow on a child’s wall. The green, flowing moss hanging from each bough makes lovely tinsel to transforms these deformed trees into Christmas trees worthy of any ghoul’s holiday.
I look around and find the biggest tree – in the surrounding few hundred feet – and assist Katie to pose against it for a photo-op. Even when she spreads her arms wide, as if to fly away, the tree is still larger than her wingspan. As she is leaning against the rough bark, I can see weariness begin to subtly emerge on her face causing me to wrinkle my brow in concern. Such a small tell will be overlooked by most, but I can read her better. I have become more perceptive of the smallest of changes since the MS diagnosis. She carries a dormant bomb, and I must be able to spot and preemptively neutralize anything that may set it off.
Despite my growing concerns about her fatigue and my willingness to turn around, Katie is steadfast in her decision to continue. Agonizingly respecting her wishes, we again embark down the dusty path. I know I probably sound like the chirping bird in the morning that repeats the same tune over-and-over again until she wants to shoot it. However, I’m concerned because I don’t know how much trail is left for us or how much gas is left for her. A thought briefly crosses my mind to make an executive decision to turn around and not chance her health, but I know the fallout from this will be brutal. For now, we will stay the course.
A short distance down the trail, the debate is definitively settled when we approach a sign that reads ‘Halfway Point.’ As Katie so sweetly reminds me, ‘It is the same distance on both sides of the loop back to the bridge, so there’s no point in turning back now.’ We go around the corner and begin the slow-and-steady/shaky walk back to the car. All my senses are in overdrive as I try to soak in the natural beauty around me, as well as be hyper-vigilant to Katie’s demeanor. I know things can go downhill very quickly when she is tired, and she has already begun leaning on me more.
This half of the path offers its own scenic beauty. The ferns are lighter shades of green and seem to be standing a little straighter. With fewer of the shorter moss-covered, disfigured maples lurking in the shadows, the Sitka somehow even appeared taller. There is more sun peeking through the canopy of leaves, so maybe that is contributing to the change in foliage.
As we round a corner, I can barely contain my excitement when I see we are approaching the forest’s wooden rainbow. This sizeable tree branch bends over the pedestrian walkway and forms a seamless arch. It truly is a masterpiece of engineering created by nature. This marvel is something I saw in multiple pictures whilst researching Hoh Rainforest and is at the top of my mental ‘Hoh photo-ops’ list. After multiple selfies with Hoh’s arc, Katie volunteers to take some photos of me standing underneath it. I’m not entirely sure how, but she carefully balances in the middle of the road long enough to take a few shots before I run back to steady her. Her feats and actions never cease to amaze me.
I start to feel the difference a little sun makes in this steamy sweatbox and worry about this element being added to Katie’s already overloaded table. Heat turns her muscles into jelly and renders her a ragdoll. Recognizing we will need to take more rest and water breaks, I plan for a stop at the large-grey rock I spot up ahead. It’s slightly off the path but taking care of her is more important than following the ‘Stay on the Trail’ rule. An indentation on the side of the sizeable stone curves perfectly into a makeshift chair for Katie. She can now sit down, rest and rehydrate before we tackle the final stretch.
After a much too short rest in my opinion, she is antsy to start again. We both are acutely aware that her hourglass of energy is quickly slipping away, and we’re playing with borrowed time. I only wish she would rest for a few minutes longer so she might gain a few extra minutes. However, I’ve learned when she has her mind set on something, standing in her way is futile.
As we commence walking, I notice her left foot is barely clearing the ground. Her concentration and focus tell me she is laboring to elevate it. The bottom of her dirt-coated, blue New Balance is audibly scraping the ground, so I start to remind her with every step to lift her foot. Hoping to assist the left leg in raising this foot, I try to support more of its weight. I’m concerned that there are so many small, loose stones on the path for her to skid and trip on so easily. I don’t want that to be our undoing.
With each step, as I feel her struggle and slow a bit more, my insides knot and my heart begins to skip every few beats with growing anxiety and worry. Our rest breaks become more and more frequent until finally we are stopping around every hundred feet. She keeps apologizing for ruining my vacation, but I should be the one groveling for forgiveness after dragging her into this. I should know her limitations, and I should have MADE her turn back. If she gets hurt or has a relapse, it will be all my fault, and I won’t be able to do anything. I am supposed to be preventing her from overdoing it; not instigating it.
At one point along the route, Katie’s legs are about to fold underneath her, and there are no benches in sight. She ends up plopping down on a Red Cedar’s dirt-packed, root mound. We drink our lukewarm water and chew our melted chocolate-cherry granola bars while she recovers. Unfortunately, the forest’s smallest predators take this opportunity to begin drinking from us and chewing on our exposed skin. Numerous hikers stop to ask ME if SHE is injured, as if comprehension and speech are only possible for standing, walking individuals. I can barely contain my irritation and struggle to reply civilly. Judging by the strained look on her face, their blatant disrespect and ignorance are wearing on Katie as well. Although a longer break would be nice, neither of us has patience or tolerance to deal with the witlessness right now and cut our break short.
Moving forward, I continue to offer support and reassure vocally, but am silently stewing and panicking. The stairs are near and descending them will present a new challenge for her already spent legs. I make sure we are stop frequently so she conserves all her lingering energy for that challenge. This also gives our new entourage of tiny pillagers a chance to replenish themselves. I’m positive the swarm has grown since it began patiently following us. A stationary target is much easier to catch then a moving one, so I guess I can’t fault them for wanting a sit-down meal over drive-thru for a change.
The top of the dreaded steps appears, and I see glimpses of fear, dismay, and anxiety cross Katie’s face before her steely fortitude sets in. Going down stairs is much more difficult for her than going up, and each step presents a new challenge. Moving to the second step, I turn to steady her as she grips the handrail and begins to gingerly descend. Stepping down first with her strong right, she uses it, the railing, and my shoulder to support herself as she brings the weaker left foot down. Basically, we are reversing the process of going up.
We are slowly and methodically repeating this process step-by-grueling-step, when I notice we have created a traffic jam and are delaying some extremely impatient people. One unhappy man even offers to carry Katie down, so the line can move faster! As nice, albeit highly inappropriate, as his offer is, we choose to press our backs firmly against the stairway’s rock wall and let people scurry past to return to their all-consuming, hectic lives. Without asking, I knew there is no chance of her giving up now when she is so close to the finish line – even if it takes her another hour to cross it.
Relief and gratitude wash over me when I help her off the last step. When we then cross the bridge, I take a deep breath and finally allow myself to relax a little. Even though I was worried and stressed throughout the walk, this whole experience was amazing. We got to see astoundingly, stunning wonders of nature and were able to make it back safely – what more could I ask for?
Anticipating the end of the hike and wanting to give Katie one last boost of inspiration, I get too comfortable and make a grievous mistake. In the past, when I have said how close we were to the end or pointed out our destination, regardless of the distance remaining, her body has instantly drained all remaining energy and collapsed. I know this but am unfocused and still make the thoughtless, stupid slip-up. I point to our car and tell her we are almost there. Before the last syllable floats off my tongue, I realize my error, and what I have done. Katie will now face unnecessary torment and struggle for the rest of our walk because of my carelessness. How can I be so foolish? We are almost there!
I feel her slump against me as her legs fold and crumple beneath her. She clings to my neck, and I quickly tighten my grip on her waist to hold her up. Every step from here to the car is like a three-legged race. Her right leg still has a bit of strength, but I am fully in charge of lifting her left. With every step of my right foot, I lift her leg off the ground and help move the left foot forward. This improvised system carries us out of the Hall of Mosses.
Emerging from the forest, I’m sure we look like quite the downtrodden pair, but we are quite the opposite. I am thankful we made it safely, happy we’re finished, ecstatic about the things we have seen and pictures we have taken, but more than anything - I’m proud of Katie for what she has accomplished today. She was determined to walk the whole trail, and she didn’t let anything stand in her way. Not me. Not her fatigue. And most certainly-Not her MS. She conquered it today. Together WE conquered it today.
Author: Katie Yusuf
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