Rampart Ridge with UWild

A view from the Hike

Last weekend, I had the chance to go on a hike to Rampart Ridge, nestled within the majestic Mount Rainier National Park. Organized by UWild, the trip was a refreshing escape into nature while also being a gentle plunge into the ecological and historical richness of the Pacific Northwest. It was one of those hikes that sneaks into your memory, thanks to the whispering trees, the cheeky birds, and the snow that no one saw coming.

A Brief History of the Rampart Ridge Trail

The Rampart Ridge Trail

Rampart Ridge follows a section of the Wonderland Trail, a 93-mile loop that encircles Mount Rainier. This particular trail begins in Longmire, an area with deep historical roots—it was one of the first developed areas in the park and still features rustic architecture from the early 20th century. The ridge itself forms a natural barrier, much like a fortress wall, which gives it its name. It’s a trail known for its steep climbs, forested beauty, and sudden glimpses of snow-capped peaks.

The Hike

Our group gathered early in the morning, bleary-eyed but excited. I signed the waiver, met the trip leaders—Ava and Xander—and introduced myself to the rest of the group. As a lighthearted start, we were each asked which animal we’d choose to be. I went with a gazelle—graceful, quick, and alert. A solid trail companion, I’d like to think.

We left Seattle around 8:00 AM and arrived at the trailhead by 10:30. The weather was crisp, perfect for hiking. By 11:00, we were off, heading into the towering forest.

The trail wasted no time—almost immediately, we were surrounded by soaring trees. Some of them looked impossibly tall, their tops hidden in mist. Douglas firs, western redcedars, and western hemlocks dominated the landscape. Many were old-growth giants, easily hundreds of years old, their bark thick and gnarled, their trunks as wide as doorways. Walking under them made you feel small in the best possible way.

We crossed several old wooden bridges along the way, weathered and mossy, spanning over gurgling creeks swollen with snowmelt. They creaked gently underfoot, adding to the atmosphere—like something out of a fairytale forest.

Ava was our trail naturalist and guide, pausing often to tell us about the forest around us. She explained the differences between the conifers of the Pacific Northwest and their cousins like redwoods found further south. I learned how Douglas fir cones have tiny bracts that look like mouse tails (you’ll never unsee it), and how redcedars were central to the cultures of the Indigenous peoples here, used for canoes, clothing, even ceremonial objects.

We climbed steadily, although we had to take regular breaks—one of our group members was struggling a bit with the climb, but no one minded. It gave us the perfect excuse to slow down and take everything in—the dappled sunlight, the murmur of distant streams, and the soft calls of birds overhead.

As we gained elevation, patches of snow began to appear—first soft and slushy, then gradually thickening until they blanketed the trail. It felt unexpected for mid-spring, but also quietly magical. At one point, we spotted a pair of gray jays darting through the trees—bold little birds, curious and entirely unbothered by our presence. In Washington, they’re nicknamed "camp robbers" for their tendency to sneak food from unattended backpacks. I learned that in Canada, they go by the far more charming name of “whiskey jacks”. Their soft gray plumage and bright, alert eyes brought a touch of liveliness to the calm, snowy landscape.

The "Whiskey Jack"

By 12:30, we reached the viewpoint. The trees opened up to reveal a panoramic view of the forested valleys below and, in the distance, the snowy majesty of what I believe to be Mount Rainier. It might have been another peak—my mountain identifying skills are still a work in progress—but either way, it was stunning. Unfortunately, the sky had clouded over by the time we arrived, softening the view and shrouding some of the distant peaks in mist. Still, we rested there, chatting and eating, soaking in the cool air, the filtered light, and the quiet. It was the kind of moment that reminds you why you hike—not just to move, but to arrive somewhere completely different from where you started, even if only in your head.

A photo a few paces in front of the viewpoint

We began our descent around 1:00 PM. The path down followed a different route, one that was both steeper and wetter. We passed several waterfalls—some trickling, others crashing over rocks with force—fed by the melting snow above. The sound of rushing water stayed with us for most of the way down.

Snow patches made the trail slick in parts, and we had to watch our footing. But the scenery kept distracting us: glimpses of sunlight breaking through the trees, bright green moss clinging to boulders, and more bridges—ancient, wooden, sturdy in their fragility.

A view on the descent

We reached the trailhead by 3:30, tired but happy. My legs ached, my shoes were muddy, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

The hike up Rampart Ridge was a reminder of how much there is to learn from nature. The trees, the birds, and even the snow caught us off guard, all came together to make the day something special. Even with the clouds hiding some of the distant peaks, the experience was far more than just a physical challenge—it was a chance to disconnect and experience the kind of quiet that only comes when you’re in the heart of the forest.