Traversing the North Cascades, July 1978

My first introduction to the Pacific Northwest was an article in National Geographic in 1967 describing the then new North Cascades National Park.  I was enthralled by the spectacular beauty of the high mountain meadows and the rock and ice of that group of mountains that were beyond any realm of imagination.   Little did I know that eleven years later I would be there. 

By my third summer in the Northwest I was prepared to venture to the wilds of the North Cascades.  These are serious mountains and to venture there, especially solo, took a certain amount of gumption.  After some close calls I had acquired an Ice Ax and learned the rudiments of using it.  Being reasonably confident of my camp craft, navigational skills and my physical conditioning, I was finally ready to tackle the most demanding solo adventure of my life.

I filled my larder with the same things that I usually did only more of them due to the length of the trip (I planned on six days.)  So on the third Sunday of July I hitched north of Seattle and up Highway 20 to the trailhead.  That afternoon I made it to the ranger station and to the trailhead early enough to put several miles under my feet dropping down off the highway, across Ross Dam and alongside Ross Lake.

The next day was a gentle valley walk through incredibly thick, almost jungle like forests.  By Tuesday I crossed over Beaver Pass and into the inner sanctum of that wilderness cathedral.  I had some misgivings before reaching the pass because the topography.  I kept expecting that I had reached the top of the pass before I really had.  I pressed on and eventually I found a sign indicating that I was indeed at the pass; I broke out into singing the Doxology praising God for the blessings that the pass brought me.

After the primeval forests of Ross Lake and the Big Beaver Valley I was unprepared for the openness and shear Awe that the Little Beaver valley presented to me.  The glacial nature of the landscape was directly apparent.  The ridge top was for the most part still covered with ice, the Challenger Glacier.  Hanging off of the ice were numerous long thin waterfalls draining into the creek at the bottom of the valley. The steep walls and much of the valley floor were kept open by frequent avalanches each winter.  The mountain range is called the Pickett Range, named for the Civil War general; the individual peaks carry such Names as Challenger, Redoubt, Terror, Fury, and incongruously Easy.

The crowning glory of that magical place was the peak at the head of the valley – Whatcom Peak.  This mountain had the audacity to present itself in such a way that it overwhelmed all the other peaks within sight of it. It was a bold canine tooth of a peak with a coat of ermine draping over its shoulders, the Whatcom Glacier.  Few other mountains I have ever seen can approach its beauty.  I had never imagined such a vision that the Little Beaver Valley presented and I have never seen anything else that can approach it since. 

The distinguishing features of glacial valleys are their flat bottoms and almost vertical walls.  My descent into the valley had been steep; a typical 1000’ per mile, but my climb out of the valley the next day up over Whatcom Pass was on a trail that rose 2250’ in less than a mile.  The trail was blasted out of the cliffs and was covered by large loose rocks that could send the unwary to their doom with little provocation.  However the sheer beauty of the surroundings made for a slow and cautious trip up the trail.  You had to stop every few feet to marvel at what was presented to you. 

This wilderness was unlike any I have seen – before or since.  It was not like the desert of the canyon lands where life was so hard from the lack of water and heat.  It was not quite and calm of the eastern mountains or the Olympics.  It was bold and assertive, but it did not shout from the roof tops of the sky the way that Rainier and the other volcanoes did.  It instead just said I am here, if you want to you can experience me, but I am indifferent to you and your presence.  I was at once humbled and exalted at the privilege of simply being it in the company of these peaks and valleys. 

The next day, Thursday, saw me leave the inner core of the range and begin my trip back out, but I had chosen to make one more trip high up on a ridge.  After traveling down the Chilliwack Valley I climbed up to the top of Copper Mountain.  On this ridge I was severely tested and having passed those tests I was confident that I could travel most anywhere in the mountains.

The day began simply enough I made short work of returning to the valley floor and following the Chilliwack downstream to the trail that would climb to the top of Copper mountain.  The climb up the trail was steep but otherwise easy.  By lunch I found myself at the ridge top. 

For this trip lunch was course heavy bread and pieces of cheese sliced off of a two pound brick, along with granola and GORP.  My chosen lunch spot was at the top of a steep patch of snow with a few boulders for a bench.  As I ate, I LOST MY CHEESE!  I could see it at the bottom of the snow.  The patch was far too big to skirt around it and was steeper than any snow I had ever traveled on before.  I was determined to retrieve it however.  Picking up my Ice Ax, I carefully traveled down the snow dropping 150’ or more of elevation.  I picked up the cheese and climbed back up to my lunch spot.  The whole thing took about 45 minutes.  In that time I gained the confidence to negotiate steep snow and ice.  I now felt as though I could go almost anywhere.  The last barriers had dropped.  I finished lunch and proceeded on towards my evening’s camp.

The terrain at the top of the ridge was completely barren and covered with gravel.  There was also little if any tread to mark the trail.  I started off in the direction I thought I had to go. Very quickly I realized that I had lost the trail although I could see the lake where I was to camp at; I had no way to get there.  I back–tracked and climbed further up the ridge trying to find some evidence of the trail.  I repeated this for a long while growing increasingly anxious.  After almost giving up hope of finding the way I spotted a cairn, marking the trail, I ran over to it and then saw another one.  I was back on the proper path.  After an hour or so I was down at Copper Lake – my home for the night.  After the near disaster my nerves were frazzled and my emotions were shot.  Just as I arrived at the lake I was greeted by the shrill whistle of a Marmot just a few feet away.  The loud whistle caused me to jump out of my skin.  I ran towards the whistle pig swinging my ax at him.  Of course the pig got away, scampering into his grotto under a large boulder.  The tension was broken and happily I made camp and cooked supper.  After supper it was still rather light and I walked over to a ledge overlooking the Chilliwack valley and across to the Picketts behind.  It was an evening with a large full moon and as dusk settled over this dreamy landscape I wrote a letter to a friend describing what had transpired and what I was seeing.  All was well with my world.  To this day I regret not copying that letter… 

The next morning I packed up and left the temple of the North Cascades traveling across Copper Ridge and out Ruth Creek.  I covered what should have taken a day and a half in less than one day.  I was able to cut cross country over the snow without any guilt because the ground was still several feet below mine.  I also ran into several people one a woman staffing a lookout station on Copper Ridge and the other a ranger on patrol.  While I was grateful for the human contact the spell that the mountains had cast on me was broken.  This was a major change from my early trips.  I was comfortable being alone.  In fact other people had been at least a day’s travel or more away from me for most of the trip.  I had completely lost my fear of being alone, I reveled in it.  I was in my element.  While others sharing the experience would have added an extra dimension to the experience, it was complete into itself.  I was confident in my competence. 

Also I knew that if the worst happened, I was doing what I enjoyed most in life.  This attitude would serve me well later on…