An Olympic undertaking: in the holy grail of arborism, in search of a national champ.

My father often admonished, "Son, nothing worthwhile comes easily." Lottery winners might take exception to this dictum, but in the realm of big tree hunting, Dad's advice rings true. As I stood beneath the world's biggest subalpine fir, deep in Washington's Olympic Mountains, it was clear that my reward was more than just another big tree.

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The place held the aura of a sacred archaeological site, a sort of holy grail of arborism. I felt the presence not only of the stately trees around me, but also that of the people who had come to this remote locale before. We share a brotherhood of spirit because this place is not reached on a mere whim. It is a destination.

The champion subalpine fir sits in the heart of the Olympic Peninsula, near a postcard-perfect mountain pond called Cream Lake. The surrounding wilderness is an alpine dreamscape: crevassed glaciers, glistening snowfields, cragged peaks, steep mountainsides thick with timber, blue lakes, wildflower meadows, tumbling creeks, raging rivers--most painted in various shades of surreal green. This is the landscape I had struggled through over the course of two and a half days.

My route started in the Elwa River Valley along the northern edge of Olympic National Park. From here, a 13-mile, 4,000-vertical-foot slog up a beaten path brought me to an alpine bowl where a black bear spooked away at my scent.

On day two, the broad trail degenerated into a narrow footpath, and the hiking got serious. Traversing a 50-degree slope and near-vertical fins of rock, the vague trail offered virtually the only route of travel in the steep plant-covered world. Just as I began to revel in its relative ease, it stopped. A slide path of loose crumbling rock obliterated any sign of a trail.

I continued across the gully hoping the route might reappear and found myself clawing through a tangle of shrubby yellow cedar. Clearly, this was not the way. I turned and carefully edged my way back. The only other direction the route could have led was down. Ironically, this way was blocked by a small dead subalpine fir, its fallen prickly crown pointing at me like a bayonet. Casting off any thought that the tree was a sign I should turn back, I threw it out of the way and continued down. Within feet, I was no longer on any discernible route.

The suddenly disappearing trail rang eerily familiar, recalling the time I lost a trail in Idaho's Bitterroot Mountains. Darkness was falling along with the first flakes of an approaching storm. Tentless, I crawled under the tightly bunched boughs of a grand old subalpine fir in an open meadow. Its dark cave-like womb sheltered me from two inches of wet snow that fell overnight. The next morning I found the trail.

This time, despite my searching I could not find any route whatsoever. A tree-assisted descent ensued as I lowered myself ape-like from branch to branch down the steep slope. Progress slowed. Two hours of scary downclimbs and frustrating bushwhacks brought me to a pass in the wild mountains, where the game-traveled trail magically reappeared. By this point in the day I was pretty exhausted. It was 11 a.m.

This type of backcountry beat-down is par for reaching the champion subalpine fir. Renowned big tree hunter Robert Van Pelt, Washington state coordinator for the National Register of Big Trees, visited the Cream Lake tree in 1992. Attempting an out and back dash from their basecamp seven miles distant, Van Pelt and his partner underestimated the rigorous route and were forced to spend the night out, lacking so much as a sleeping bag. The next morning brought blinding fog.

"We could only see about 30 feet," Van Pelt recalls. The duo climbed nearby Mt. Ferry to ascertain their position in the soup and from there regained the route and made it back to camp and cherished shelter.

Inclement weather is the norm in this region and probably a big reason why Cream Lake grove such giants. Perched at the head of the Hoh River Valley, the Cream Lake Basin is a perfect bulls-eye for Pacific storms. Saturated air masses funnel up the Hoh before emptying their pregnant loads on the blockade of mountains at the head of the drainage. The valley below gets 135 inches of precipitation annually. Extrapolating to the higher Cream Lake Basin yields 170 inches or more a year, much of that snow.

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Violent thunderstorms hit the area prior to the tree's initial reported discovery in 1963. Young Stephen Arno and his two companions had to endure a night of "horrendous roars of lightning," as Arno recalls. They steered clear of any big tree lightning rods that night, but the next morning, as they emerged from their rain-soaked canvas tent, they were immediately drawn to the champion tree.

"We were just kinda looking around, and this thing stood out," Arno recalls. The trio went over to measure the tree's circumference and discovered they weren't the first to reach the great tree.

At the base of the massive trunk hung a hinged wooden door that concealed an old fire scar opening. Above the door was a mysterious note intended for someone who was expected to pass this way. Arno and his party were stunned. Here they were, miles from the nearest trail, staring at a wilderness message board.

Arno copied the note and investigated its origin after the trip. His detective work revealed that Herb and Lois Crisler, who shot the footage for the Disney True-Life Adventure film The Olympic Elk, were behind both the note and the door. They had used the great tree as a cache for their cumbersome camera equipment between filming forays in the early 1950s.

Half a century after the Crislers used the Cream Lake tree for their filming exploits, the notched-out fire scar remains, and perplexing remnants of past visitors seem to be inextricably linked to the tree.

When I departed the Cream Lake grove in the summer of 2005, it was with the exaltation that I had discovered a new champion. Just minutes earlier, I had uncovered a broken, moss-covered sign for the record tree--at the base of another gargantuan subalpine fir, 300 yards upslope from the real record holder. It was only after wandering through the grove looking for other giants that I came across the fire-scarred true champ. Apparently someone had moved the sign in the past 23 years, because Van Pelt reports it was in front of the correct tree on his '92 visit. Whatever motivated someone to hide the sign remains a mystery.

The magnetism of the king Abies lasiocarpa should not surprise those familiar with this species. After all, subalpine firs are nurturing trees. Grizzly bears strip the bark to get at nutritious cambium buried in the inner tissues. Numerous small mammals and birds eat the seeds, and humans have used the trees many ways throughout history.

Subalpine fir resin has long been chewed as a remedy for halitosis, and the upright purple female cones can be crushed into powder and mixed with fat to produce a digestive cure. Some native American tribes called the subalpine fir "medicine plant" for its multiple uses. They used the firm boughs as bedding and burned its soft wood during the cold winters synonymous with subalpine fir country.

The deep snows that accumulate in alpine fir habitat often form massive drifts on the trees' downwind sides. In response, subalpine firs grow a thick mat of branches beneath the drifted snow pillows. On some trees in exposed locales, the leeward thicket can extend 20 feet from the trunk of the tree. This dense cluster of vegetation provides canopy for various forest dwellers: birds, snakes, deer, bear, lost hikers.

A labyrinth of branches sweeps downward from the trunk, diving beneath the duff of the forest floor before struggling back upward in a manicured looking hedge of green shrubbery. These wild hedges have just enough randomness, however, to make them more beautiful and unique than any human's clipper work.

The cylindrical shape of Abies lasiocarpa does give the distinct impression that it has been trimmed. The perfect form is the archetype of what most might conjure when they hear the word conifer. A tightly packed cone of short stout branches taper to a distinct point at the top, like a rocket set to pierce the sky.

Not all subalpine firs get the opportunity to grow into 100-foot tall natural Christmas trees. A large percentage of the species takes root at the very limit of timberline, clinging to windswept ridges buried in snow for nine months of the year. These hardy specimens sprawl shrub-like, some only growing a few feet in height over their entire 130-year life span. Even in this stunted state, an alpine fir is easily identified by its short one- to two-inch upturned needles and its compact shape. The bark is usually smooth silver/gray, although on big old trees like the 130-foot tall Cream Lake champion, it can be brown and scaly.

Squishy cork-like bark is a dead giveaway for Abies lasiocarpa arizonica, a variety commonly known as corkbark fir that grows at high elevations in Arizona and New Mexico. From these southern locales, the subalpine fir's range extends northward across mountainous areas of the West all the way to Alaska. Like an old friend, subalpine fir is always there to signal one's arrival in the high country, a place--as those lucky enough to see the Cream Lake tree know--we rarely visit without effort.

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Tyler Williams is a guidebook author and photographer from the ponderosa pines of Flagstaff, Arizona.

Story and photos by Tyler Williams