The Sloan Glacier, with the east face above.
Halfway up the trail we passed a gorgeous waterfall. Max was warm and took every opportunity to drink from streams and wade chest-deep. The bushes beside the trail on the upper portion were loaded with sweet dark blueberries. I decided that you could tell an over-traveled trail by the empty berry bushes.
The end of the Sloan Creek Trail is a beautiful alpine meadow. Here, on a sunny Labor day weekend, there were two tents pitched. Max ran ahead and chased marmots for a little while, and then came back, and we stopped in the shade for a little lunch because I’d decided he was hungry. There were a fair number of flies there (although nothing like Three Fingers) and I was interested to see that Max was as annoyed with them as I was, and snapped at them constantly.
It became obvious to me that this was not Sloan Peak. The mountain which loomed ahead of us was a gentle, sloping mound, not the sharp spire I’d expected. Just to the right (south) of us was a sharp rocky summit which looked much more likely. Still, I figured we could make this summit, whatever it was, and maybe find a summit book and see exactly where we were, and then go back and bag the other one. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten the book, and so I didn’t have a map of the various mountains. I was all turned around: as we got higher I saw Mt.s Baker and Shuksan to where I was sure was the east, and a gorgeous aspect of Glacier Peak to what I was convinced was the north. So, I never did locate Mt. Stuart, even after digging out my compass, since I had no real idea where it was from me. Generally east, of course, but how far south? It was kind of hazy, too, which didn’t help.
As we got higher, a couple of things became apparent: that I was wrong, and that this was indeed a much higher mountain than I’d first thought, and that we would be home considerably later than 6:00, which is when I’d scheduled our return. So, I pushed on.
We saw only nine people the whole day. The first two we met on the trail, and they didn’t say a word. Three more were wandering around there, two guys and a woman, and were obviously there more for the camping and the escape than for bagging peaks. Up on the glacier we came on two other guys, appropriately decked out with ice axes and roped. One of them offered me his axe (I hadn't brought one, assuming I wouldn't need it in September), which was quite generous, but I turned him down because he lived in Darrington so it would have been a three hour detour. I got on okay, although an ice axe would have made my climbing easier, and would have facilitated the later glissading. I really ought to have brought my gaiters as well, since on the decent (as always) the tops of my boots filled with snow.
Max showed a real interest in things, in what looked to me to be just the scenery. He peered into crevasses (which he’s never been around before) and at the top of the glacier is a huge rock face, and he stood and looked at it as though it was more interesting than a marmot. At one point, I realized I hadn’t seen him in a few minutes, so I called to him, then again, and again, and didn’t see or hear him at all. I was sure he’d gone and fallen into a crevasse, when finally I came over a rise and saw him, a hundred yards ahead of me, gazing off into the distance of eastern Washington. Maybe he was gazing into the crevasses for the cool breeze, but it seems pretty obvious to me that he looks at the scenery just for the sake of the view.
I followed the footprints of the climbers we’d talked to around the left side of the face, and found the trail again. It was warm and dry on this side of the mountain, rocky and sandy like Mt. Stuart, and there were even grasshoppers. Max got to chase after a marmot or two. Sometimes that warning whistle sounds like a taunt. The trail wound around, up and down, and eventually got too steep for Max to follow. I told him to stay there, and hoped for the best. I’d been worrying about this for a while; would he stay and wait patiently, or get crazy with worry and try to follow and fall to his death or maiming, or would he get bored and wander off and I’d never see him again?
I made the summit in about 15 minutes. There was not summit book that I could find, so I set up the camera, and shot myself with what I hoped was Mt Baker in the background, took a few other shots, made a quick phone call home to report that we were okay but would be later, and headed back down.
Glacier Peak to the east.
The descent in the rocks was kind of tough. I needed the cairns much more then on the ascent. When you’re going up, after all, your target is pretty small, so looking for the best route is pretty straightforward. On the descent, however, your target grows ever-larger, and it’s more difficult to figure out where the best route is.
About 50 feet below the summit, off on the other summit a mountain goat came around the corner on a flat spot of rock. Less than 50 feet away, he looked over at me, and decided that it wasn’t hunting season, and resumed his grazing.
I found Max right where I’d left him, whining and worrying. We descended without incident, although he got to chase another marmot, one which I saw before he did (but not before the marmot saw us) and that just about made up for being abandoned. Once we got back to fairly level ground, I gave him a poptart to reward him. He seemed more interested in the glacier, though: I stopped to put snow in my water bottle, and he sat there licking and chewing at the snow. He must have gotten pretty hot, sitting there in the sun waiting for me.
Max actually seemed pretty pooped on the trail out. He was stopping and sitting on the trail, and scratching his ear a lot, so I stopped us at the waterfall, which was a nice spot for a rest, and had some more snacks. We stayed there for about five minutes, and he seemed in much better spirits. When we came by those odd plants again, I picked one, hoping that it wasn’t some endangered species, to have Heidi or someone identify it for me.
It took about 5 hours to get to the summit, (Beckey says 7 hours) and about three more hours back to the car. The trail was pretty steep, and really muddy in places, but it seems like it would be a wonderful place to go and camp for a couple of days, if you didn't mind hauling your gear up the approach trail.
The drive back took an hour and a half, all told. Max was asleep before we got back to the highway, and so far as I could tell he slept the entire way back. I got a nice t-bone steak for dinner, and Max got some steak too, and an early bed.