1 year, 1 trail, 12 hikes

As I look down the Oxbow Loop Trail, the path in front of me is framed on both sides by bleeding hearts. The native flowers, a more delicate pink than the cultivated variety, grow on leafless stems that arch elegantly above the body of the plant, like a collection of tiny lanterns guiding my way.

Bleeding hearts on trail. Photo by McKenna Princing.

It’s April 2025 and — though in this moment, the flowers bring only joy — the metaphor of their name is not lost on me, corny as it may be. I’m here, in the Snoqualmie River Valley, in an effort to heal my own heart. I hiked this trail for the first time on New Year’s Day, less than 2 months after I lost my soul dog, Jane. She was with me for 14 and a half years, and I’d gladly based my entire life around her. Without her, I didn’t know how to be myself.

I’m an anxious person in general, so I often work through anxiety on the trail, proving to myself that my insecurities can’t stop me as long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other. And what better place to do that than in one of my favorite areas to explore,an area that means so much to me? I grew up in North Bend, left for a while, then moved back a few years ago. These mountains and this valley have always been home.

• McKenna Princing has always called Western Washington home.
• She has an MFA from Pacific University and is working on a novel set in Oregon. Read her WTA trip reports as McKennaP, and more of her writing at mckennaprincing.com.

That day at Oxbow Loop, the 360-degree views of the Cascades visible throughout the hike inspired an idea: I would come here every month for the whole year, to witness the landscape’s seasonal changes. It would be one thing I could control, something stable, during a time that felt like a landslide waiting to happen. Each month brought new wonders, new challenges.

In February, the weather was so unseasonably warm that I wore a tank top and was disturbed by the impact  human-caused climate change is already having on a landscape that is part of my identity. In July, my puppy Shadow, who I’d adopted a month prior, suddenly died. It broke me anew with such an unexpected loss. Less than a week after, I stepped gingerly so as not to squash the hundreds of baby toads hopping toward the lake that the trail weaves around.

On my birthday, in August, I watched in quiet awe as a garter snake gave birth to eight babies on the trail. As soon as they broke free, each tiny snake was slithering off into the undergrowth to fend for itself. Days later, I moved into my townhouse, the first home I ever purchased. And in December, I witnessed the aftereffects of record-breaking floods that left debris 5 feet up in trees along the shore, marking the height of the river at its peak.

McKenna enjoying a sunny day at Oxbow. Photo by McKenna Princing.

One detail that struck me most was how no single plant dominated throughout the year; instead, they took turns. Bleeding hearts and taller-than-me stalks of stinging nettle in April, horsetail in May, piggyback plants in September. Different emotions affected me, too: sadness, anxiety, contentment. But underneath them all, a sense of belonging. The trail became a sort of second home.

I didn’t always hike alone. Sometimes I brought friends, and a few times, my parents joined me. Since the trail is a loop, each month, I let intuition guide which direction I hiked. I didn’t time myself, or worry about the trail’s flatness. I was getting exercise, but that wasn’t the point. I’d picked Oxbow Loop because it wasn’t a physical challenge for me. It was a path I could commit to, no matter how I felt or how busy I was.

Being out in nature didn’t eliminate my grief — nor would I have wanted it to. Instead, it held me while I processed all the loss, reminding me that, just as the place remained itself during changes of undergrowth and weather, so too I remain myself during changes in life and emotions.

Standing in front of an impressive nurse log. Photo courtesy of McKenna Princing. 

The lake that Oxbow Loop travels around — fittingly called Oxbow Lake — used to be part of the river before diverging nearly 20,000 years ago. There’s a popular belief that water has memory, of sorts, though scientists are less convinced. Still, I wonder if the lake misses flowing.

During my December hike, my last month of monthly visits, water levels were still high enough from the storm that the lake had temporarily rejoined the river. Nothing is forever, and everything changes — but memories remain.