No, I am NOT OKAY!

I never needed my morning coffee more than I do now. It helps me armor up to face the future since each day is an exercise in the chaos management of my mind. After Trump’s election, I felt morally and psychically wounded. At the limit of my coping skills, I knew I had to make a change. I immediately began a two-month media blackout to reclaim my mental health. I began sketching more frequently, and then every day. I felt a temporary sense of renewal, a recalibration. I felt somewhat calmer even while burdened with an overarching sense of despair, a dark shroud of grief I feared might never leave.

I called a close relative the day after the inauguration to wish him a happy birthday. As with those in so many other families, a deep wedge had evolved. In polar opposition to my lifelong left-leaning stance on politics, he had gone hard right, self-indoctrinating himself over the years in a siloed echo chamber of extreme right-wing media and podcast pundits. He lives alone and those right-wing characters are the incessant voices in the background of his daily life. I approached the call cautiously, just wanting to convey good wishes. I vowed to simply listen to whatever he wanted to talk about, my gift to him. At the end of the call, as he often does, he could not resist mentioning Trump. He said that the best birthday gift he had received was the election of Trump, whom he called “A gift from God.” He went on to say that Trump will fix everything. Really? Yes. Dumbfounded, I did not take the bait, but broke my  silence to simply say, “Let’s keep track of what happens.” I would not say more. It would not matter. I do not know when we will be in contact again. But I do not look forward to it.

Over the last few years, he has forwarded YouTube videos that he thought I should see, apparently proxies for his own thoughts and convictions. The first was the famous one with the pair of emergency services doctors in Sacramento who were denying the impact of COVID-19. Their statements seemed suspicious, so I systematically examined their numbers, doing the math, and proved them irrefutably wrong. I shared my conclusions with him. And, then coincidently, the video was taken down due to the disinformation it was spreading. I felt validated. Did it make a difference? Not really.

Later, he sent another video authored by a YouTuber who smugly presented a calving glacier as evidence glaciers were not retreating. Surprised by such amateur science, I dutifully researched his examples and talking points and proved his assertions wrong. And, I spoke of my boots-on-the-ground experience in the Cascades having seen the retreat of glaciers I had crossed nearly 50 years ago. Did that make a difference? No. He seemed stubbornly committed to a random dude on YouTube spouting nonsense rather than trusting my own experience as a mountaineer. And, that pattern has continued, sending more YouTube videos that I should pay attention to. It seems to fulfill a need for him. They all convey misinformation. Tired of spending time proving their inaccuracies and misrepresentations, I told him I was done. I encouraged him to be more skeptical and use his own critical thinking tools to examine the veracity of these online pundits. Did I get any traction with that suggestion? No. I did not get anywhere. And, I doubt that I ever will. I fear that he is now lost to me, probably forever.

I have wondered and continue to wonder, how did he come to this? What was the pivotal moment? And what was it for so many of the others? What is it that makes the MAGA faithful relentlessly cling to their beliefs, despite evidence to the contrary? Is it an identity thing? Is it a tribal thing? Is it a need to belong as Maslow proposed in his hierarchy of needs? Or, that once we get entrenched in a belief set it becomes easier to double down than to step back and take a second look. And when confronted with contrary evidence, to vociferously deny it, instead of examining the evidence openly and without prejudice and perhaps finally concede, “I was wrong.” Admitting that one was wrong seems to be an unsurmountable barrier for so many. Many ‘not right-wingers’ have asked and continue to ask the question ‘Why?’ I still want to understand. As if there may be an answer for my relative. An answer that might lead toward a departure from the MAGA cult. Or is his positioning as simple as defiantly choosing to be ‘not like Bill?’ And if that is it, perhaps there is nothing to be done.

After that conversation, in the first days of the new administration, I began to keep track, starting a Trump log, a day-by-day itemization of the blizzard of actions taken by Trump and his minions. Early in week three, I simply gave up. It just was not worth it. The trajectory of chaos and devastation was clear and seemed without end, each new initiative as outrageous as those that preceded it. The trauma just kept on coming. And more disturbing were the opinion polls that indicated that Trump’s MAGA supporters were not shocked. The faithful continued to support their orange messiah, his agendas, and those collaborators and supplicants who would unflinchingly carry them out, no matter the cost. I despaired as each new soul-sucking news blurb arrived. I often felt physically sick and wondered if it was a cancer of my body or my mind. Or both?

It was so sudden. They were everywhere, torching everything, all at once, a veritable tsunami of destruction. What could I do? On Tuesday, February 4, I turned off the news and announced “I feel like sketching a political cartoon.” And, I did, in pen and ink. My quick sketch features two disheveled rockers, Trump and Musk, as ‘Donny and the Musketeers,' singing about wrecking everything. An appropriate title would be ‘Revenge of the MAGA Boyz, World Tour 2025.’ The drawing turned out better than I had expected even though it was my first attempt at cartooning. No, I will not submit it to the Seattle Times and may not even post it elsewhere. But it did help me get some toxic thoughts out of my system, if only for a moment.

Donny holds the mic and sings, “Hack it, wreck it, f**k it. Shut it down for gooood!”

Musk strums his guitar and chimes in. “Fast walk‘in FUBAR, play it again.”

‘Donny and the Musketeers.’ A Project 2025 Production

Am I done with my fledgling attempt at political cartooning? I do not know. There is a treasure trove of wickedly alarming material out there right now. A veritable cornucopia of hellish delights for anyone in the visual satire business. Hieronymus Bosch would feel right at home. Could the wreckage be titled the ‘Bonfires of Democracy?’ Probably.

So… in another cartoon thought, RFK Jr. Is being questioned for potential confirmation…

“I understand you were pulled over near Central Park some years ago.”

“Yes”

“And what did the officer ask?”

“Driver’s license and registration.”

“But that’s not all…”

“He did ask about the dead bear in the back of my car.”

“And what was your response?”

“Officer, I’ve never seen that bear before.”

“But I do want to speak out against vaccinations and professional medical care…”

A Republican committee member interrupts,

“Okay, that is enough. I think we are all done here. And, I see no reason to deny Mr. Kennedy’s confirmation.”

The scene is vivid as I write. And, more crazy pictures keep tumbling into my consciousness. Trump and Elon are depicted as wrecking balls smashing the fabled buildings of democracy to bits. Now that Trump is the head of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts I can easily visualize upcoming performances by Kid Rock, Ted Nugent, and Hulk Hogan. Ugh. The tortuous images seem to have a mind of their own, seeking to permeate my thoughts when I least expect or want them.

And, the joke on us liberals is that so many of the incredibly unqualified, incompetent people that Trump submitted for cabinet positions have been confirmed by the cowardly, brain-dead Republican majority, who have sold their collective souls to a psychopath. Pete Hegseth, Kristi Noem, Tulsi Gabbard, and RFK Jr. are among them. It boggles my mind. What is going on with the Republicans, the abdication of their responsibility to their constituents, no matter what their party? I suppose it makes perfect sense when you consider that the chief qualification of the Republicans and the awful roster of candidates is their unquestioning fealty to the orange one, the narcissistic would-be king. And that their mission objective is destructive rather than constructive, a quest to serve the entitled few rather than the needs of many.

I recall a passage from a book I read recently. It resonated with me and seemed appropriate for the current moment.

During a trip to Independence Hall, Philadelphia… Macon Leary is with his niece Susan, age 14.

“If it weren’t for what was decided in this building.” Macon told her, “you and I might very well be living under a dictatorship.”

“We are anyhow,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“You really think you and me have any power?”

“You and I, honey”

“It’s just free speech, that’s all we’ve got. We can say whatever we like, then the government goes on and does exactly what it pleases. You call that a democracy? It’s like we’re on a ship, headed someplace terrible, and someone else is steering and the passengers can’t jump off.”

“Why don’t we go get some supper,” Macon said. He was feeling a little depressed.

---- A passage from ‘The Accidental Tourist’ by Anne Tyler, 1985

And, then yesterday, February 13, Brian Karem, White House Correspondent, wrote:

“Elections have consequences. Yes. They do. And the Democrats who didn’t vote, those who voted for Trump, and the independents who did the same have all put us in the same boat heading down Class-5 rapids before we tumble over a deep waterfall. We have no oars to steer, no one who knows how, and millions of voters still think it’s a cheap thrill ride at a waterpark.”

What? Well, that seems the norm in the Looney Tunes town that Washington D.C. has become these days. I do not know about you but I can relate to the Zoolander fashion designer 'Mugatu,’ when he exclaims, “I Feel Like I'm Taking Crazy Pills!”

Unsurprisingly, WTF, SNAFU, and FUBAR are the most used acronyms in my current vocabulary. Very annoying and unlikely to change anytime soon. Like the characters in disaster movies often say, “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

I have always been an optimist, looking past the roadblocks to figure out how to move forward. But the current situation has me completely stymied. My native optimism is being severely tested. So, what can I do? Well, I wrote to both our State Congressman Adam Smith and our Senator Patty Murray to express my outrage at the Trump-sanctioned, Musk-led data breach of our Medicare and Social Security information. I implored them to take legal action to bring a halt to this nefarious activity and restore the security of our records. Will that make a difference? I do not know.

And, as egregious as the current fragmentation of our democracy is, it is only a small piece of the bigger picture. Not only the future of our hard-fought American democratic principles and rights but the fate of our world, the small, now fragile planet that is our only home. In a race for time where we are already behind, we can ill afford four more years of climate change denial and acceleration of the physical destruction of our environment. Just as I consider Trump a mass murderer for the hundreds of thousands of lives needlessly lost due to his stupidity, denial, narcissistic self-interest, neglect, and bungling response to COVID-19 in its early emergence, I now view him as the most despicably evil person in history, a literal destroyer of worlds. More than an inconvenient truth, it seems to foretell the end of our world as we know it.

So… No, I am NOT OKAY!            

The Latent Image

The faerie appeared first, only a wisp of pencil line, still faint and somewhat hesitant. Once she was more confident, the objects around her revealed themselves. I watched in wonderment. With the miracle of digital photography, I captured the scene as it developed.

There seemed a tale to be told so I kept going with what only started as a concept sketch. A winged faerie, a mythical spirit of nature, had captured my imagination. She would bring the illusion of enchantment to any of the alpine scenes that I favored both in person and in artwork. Would she tell me the story?

She would not speak of the place but gifted me with a magnificent peak and a profusion of glacier lilies. I imagine she was there for only a few moments before flying away to greet the local resident pikas, marmots, and mountain goats.

I reflected that the creation of hand-drawn visual art remains a magically iterative process with starts and stops, considered evaluation, erasing, redoes, and a determined progression towards expressing, and even exceeding the original concept. Sometimes the vision is vague and allowed to reveal itself during the creative process. This involves permission to unleash the active mind and eager hand and dare to make mistakes. Letting things happen. It encourages us to confront the struggle between decisiveness and spontaneity. It seeks the balance between practiced skill and effortless expression that somehow feels intentional.

Despite the inevitable moments of frustration, we must remind ourselves that the rewards of the artistic path are not about the destination. The journey is the gift.

The Golden Staircase

Why were we going? And, what did we expect to gain? A bit apprehensive, I was not completely sure we would succeed. And yet, I pushed forward. For I was the leader, the conceptualizer, and the designated planner of our little foray into the North Cascades.

As October approached, Mark and I prepared for three magical hikes in the second week of the month. We deemed it our ‘Larch Quest.’ You see, here in the Pacific Northwest, an annual collective mania known as ‘Larch Madness,’ seems to generate as much fan fervor as a Taylor Swift concert. Perhaps more. 

Sure, everyone loves the enticing colors of autumn, the falling leaves, and the softer light of the shorter, chillier days. The quest to experience that changing season seems a cultural universal in every place that hosts the trees and shrubs that reveal their October brilliance.

Is it simply the rich, saturated reds, oranges, yellows, and russet colors that are so emotionally evocative? Or, do we see more than the transcendent colors? Is it something deeper, and more profound, that illuminates an internal human experience, the poignance of loss? Does our subconscious perceive an internal metaphor that speaks to the ephemeral, mysteries of life? Probably all of that.

But it is not the same everywhere. Vermont may have its famous ‘leaf peepers’ but here in the Pacific Northwest, we have a particular type of mania, a fall color show that entices us all and ratchets the insanity dial up to eleven!

And, that is why we are driven to be among the splendor of the seasonal change as the slender needles of the subalpine larch turn from chartreuse to gold before finally softly falling away in anticipation of the snows ahead.

The rarity of the species, Larix lyallii, the subalpine larch, or simply alpine larch, and its unique nature result in a color display like no other. Known as a deciduous conifer, its thin needles lose their chlorophyll as the daylight grows shorter and the temperatures fall. The green color having masked the underlying pigments of the needles through much of the year, once gone, reveals the remaining colors of the needles, a stunning yellow gold. Like the leaves of a deciduous tree the needles turn in a graduated process, from green, to chartreuse, to yellow gold, and then wither and fall.

While a hardy species, the alpine larch lives in a marginal environment, at higher elevations, perched on rocky, well-drained soils. Their best-known companions are the whitebark pine and the snow-white mountain goats that browse among them. That is except for those two-plus weeks of the year when a plethora of hardy day hikers and backpackers journey into the mountains to witness their changing color.

It is not only their mesmerizing luminescent yellow-golden color that enchants us, but the palette that hosts them, the way the subalpine larch trees are scattered in small groves against the hard gray of broken granite slopes with harsh crenelated peaks towering high above them. While the range of most of the North American subalpine larch extends from the Rocky Mountains north into Canada, there exists a disjunct population on the sunnier, eastern side of Washington’s North Cascades. Those golden groves, scattered amongst the rugged Cascade peaks were our destination.

Last year, our larch venture was mostly a stealthy affair, seeking out lesser-known and unmaintained trails that led to more remote and little-visited locations, to great success. This year we would journey into the belly of the beast, the eye of the hurricane, to hike some of the most well-known and popular larch trails in the North Cascades along with so many others. Why would we do this you may you ask?

Despite the annual fervor on the Washington Hikers and Climbers Facebook page, the gushing trip reports on the Washington Trails website, and the recent Seattle newspaper articles, we went because my friend Mark had never been. We all get some joy from showing our friends the places that have special meaning for us. So, I figured why not hike the classics. There is a reason they are so popular. However, to make it work we needed to go mid-week and arrive at the trailheads early. And while even arriving early could not guarantee a spot at the trailhead lot, we would certainly get close, and have the most solitude in the early morning.

It would not do to wake up in the middle of the night to drive three and a half hours from my house to the trailhead. We would need to sleep closer than that, so I researched the local campgrounds. I figured we could car camp at Lone Fir Campground, not many miles from the trailheads. It seemed ideal, though it would be bitterly cold at night. We would have to break camp in freezing temperatures, eat quickly, and haul buns to the trailhead. It did not sound like a lot of fun. Not fun at all. It seemed the price we would have to pay.

And then things changed. After sharing plans with a friend who had a cabin in the nearby hamlet of Mazama, we got an iffy offer to spend a night, or two. Could we lock down a cabin? Was that a real possibility? As our departure day approached, our plans varied, still in flux, a possible stay here, or there. And then, on the last day before departure, we scored three consecutive nights in three different Mazama area cabins owned by three different groups of friends. It was a bit cumbersome, but a very welcome development. It sure beat the hell out of tent camping at Lone Fir. Amazed at our good luck, we set out, fueled with optimism.

Of course, housing logistics wouldn’t be the only hurdle. Weather is always mercurial in the mountains and the three days ahead were no exception. We planned to start with Cutthroat Pass, expecting storm clouds battling with patches of blue sky, but not raining or snowing. On the second, and best forecasted weather day, we would hike the fabled Maple Pass Loop, the longest and most renowned of our trilogy. As the weather once again deteriorated to gray, we would make our third pilgrimage to the storybook vistas above Blue Lake, and then, once satisfied, drive home.

After picking up hot egg and bacon bagels at the Mazama Store, we headed towards the Cutthroat Pass Trailhead across the road from the Maple Pass Loop. We had planned to arrive not long after 8:00 am. As we neared the closer Blue Lake Trailhead, the weather became an ominous pelting rain. We pulled over, decided on a ‘Plan B,’ turned around, and headed west. It is always good to have a ‘Plan B’ And the Goat Peak Lookout was today’s.

The twisting dirt road to the trailhead was a gnarly, wash-boarded affair that seemed to take way too long, but the opening valley vistas somewhat made up for it. We arrived as the second vehicle at the small trailhead lot. And, without a drop of rain. We greeted two other hikers and headed up. The first section of the trail ascended over rocky dirt that after leaving the forest snaked higher towards a much steeper wooded section. That section was a bit of a grinder, but we were soon hiking among the subalpine larch and whitebark pine.

Once above the climb, beyond a long ridgeline traverse, the lookout tower etched itself against the skyline, perched atop a knoll well populated with golden larches. The skies were in turmoil, massive gray clouds jostling with a whisper of blue trying to break through. The drama of the sky hovered over the knoll of gold making the scene storybook magical.

We hiked past the richness of twisted silver snags and tufts of spiky grasses scattered across the rocky lichen-inhabited soil as we approached the last slopes and the summit lookout. The final section snaked through substantial stands of larches, the trail leading us up through a hall of gold, a golden staircase, the larches intimate, close to our touch.

Suddenly we arrived, explored the historic lookout, and layered up as stiff winds compelled us not to linger. But linger we did as we marveled at the place and the long views from the top. It took us only about eighty minutes from the trailhead to the lookout. Despite the modest stats, the steep part of the hike made us work for the privilege of being on top. Even with little sun, the colors of the place were rich and enticing to the eye. Perhaps even more so in the soft light.

The trip down happened fast. We encountered less than ten people heading up and noted their vehicles in the trailhead lot. Not many. It was a dramatic contrast from the overcrowding that the Rainy Pass hikes experienced. Tomorrow would be different.

We noted that Thursday had the best weather forecast of the week, sandwiched between two other days of less-than-optimal conditions. Since Mark had never hiked the Maple Pass Loop, I decided we had to do the ‘big daddy,’ even though I had done it before, and it has since become insanely popular and crowded. We arrived at the trailhead parking lot around 8:00 am, made a quick loop, and found no open spaces. Once back to the entrance, we drove east and parked along the highway, the fourteenth car from the entrance. Not bad. It would be far worse later in the day. And, on weekends, hundreds of cars would line the roadway.

I had hiked the loop clockwise twice before and knew it to be a sensational approach. This time we hiked counter-clockwise. The trail is composed of the usual rocks, roots, and both dusty and muddy dirt. But in good shape. The traverse above Lake Ann emerges from the woodland cover and surprises with big vistas and fall colors. The lake glistened below as granite peaks pierced the skyline. A surprise inversion layer lent an ethereal quality as the distant peaks seemed to float above the drifting white. Higher up we marveled at the snow-capped forms of Mount Baker and Mount Shuksan, clearly silhouetted against the northern sky. The ascent was an intermittent affair of steepening switchbacks punctuated with flat sections between. Throughout the hike, we passed by both small clusters of subalpine larches and through scattered groves of the hardy golden trees.

The last push to the pass was the steepest of all. And, then we were there. We found the stunning alpine views panoramic. We headed up the arm toward the rocky butte above the pass where we paused and sat on inviting boulders. We snacked and took photos. Many others settled in as well. More hikers gathered below. We had prepared for that and thankfully noted less than we had expected. That changed on the descent.

We headed down the steep switchbacks from the pass and took a quick detour to a nearby spur with a rocky overlook. We paused again to savor the scenery, viewing scattered groves of golden larches on the rocky slopes below. As we resumed our descent, we encountered many groups hiking down, sometimes conga lines of hikers, many engaged in noisy chatter. And, lots of dogs. I had last been here eight years ago and had seen far fewer hikers. So much has changed. You may ask, Is it still worth it? Well… YES!

Having hiked it both ways I have concluded that neither direction is superior. In fact, you should just hike it both ways. And, as you hike, you should always turn and look back, frequently. The loop is a veritable symphony of heart-stopping views with surprises at every turn. The larches, while transcendently stunning, are just the visual spice, the ephemeral seasoning on one of the finest view hikes in the Cascades.

After cabin hopping, mooching off the goodwill of friends with residences in the Mazama area, we finally headed to Blue Lake, to hike the third of three, after the Goat Peak Lookout and the Maple Pass Loop. It was our October trilogy, all Cascades larch classics.

We arrived at the trailhead parking lot, again around 8:00 am, drove through, and found no spaces. Back to the entrance, we turned east and parked along the highway, the fourth car down the road. Not bad.

I had hiked to Blue Lake in October of 2017 as it snowed, cloaking the hike and the destination with a charming blanket of white. The flakes drifted down as we traveled and paused to marvel at the place, Liberty Bell and the Early Winters Spires dominating the skyline above the shimmering lake. We saw only two other people that day. This day was similar, but without snow, and with many more hikers.

So, cold we could see our breath, we layered up and ascended. Yesterday on the Maple Pass Loop we traversed many steep slopes only cleaved by a narrow trail. The trail to Blue Lake was much wider in most sections and seemed more gradually graded toward the lake. Because of the short distance, the easy grade, and the lack of vertical exposure, it seemed a perfect hike for kids. That thought was validated as we encountered many happy families with cute youngsters as we descended.

Because of its beauty and easy accessibility, the trail to Blue Lake has received too much hiker attention in recent years, without enough thoughtfulness, and it shows. The lakeside trail, now also wider and more at risk than years ago deserves the considered respect of today’s hikers. The sections by the lake now have sturdy wire stakes holding a white cord designed to keep hikers from meandering off trail, destroying the fragile lakeside plants. This special place is a treasure and we all need to be mindful as we pass through.

As we headed down, we considered taking the climber’s trail higher but only went a short distance before deciding to save that for another time. That steeper trail is now well-signed and easy to find.

In this second week of October, many larches were in their prime, needles turned an iridescent gold, while some were just turning from chartreuse to gold, and others already drying out preparing to fall to the rocky soil. Blue Lake, is a worthy destination and we loved it. As we headed down, back to the trailhead, my hiking partner declared that he was now officially “larched out.” It had been a superb three days of hiking among the golden splendor of the Larix lyallii during a keyhole in the unpredictable weather of our beloved North Cascades.

Thinking in operatic terms, I have concluded that hikes like Goat Peak Lookout and Blue Lake present as arias, solo pieces of great beauty, each remarkable and worthy. By contrast, Maple Pass is so much bigger, more expansive, and dramatic. The Maple Pass Loop is an entire visual opera, resonant, powerful, and Wagnerian in its intensity.

I am grateful to have hiked them all once again, regarding the experience as a sublime gift.

Here are links to four of the six spherical panoramas that I took during our three hikes among the magical golden subalpine larches.

Goat Peak, Larch Vista, Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/goat-peak-larch-vista-okanogan-wenatchee-national-forest-wa-state

Maple Pass Loop, Alpine Vista, Okanogan Wenatchee National Forest, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/maple-pass-loop-alpine-vista-okanogan-wenatchee-national-forest-wa-state

Maple Pass Loop, Rocky Overlook, Okanogan Wenatchee National Forest, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/maple-pass-loop-rocky-overlook-okanogan-wenatchee-national-forest-wa-state-usa

Blue Lake, Overlook Vista, Okanogan Wenatchee National Forest, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/blue-lake-overlook-vista-okanogan-wenatchee-national-forest-wa-state

For the most immersive viewing, move your cursor to the menu bar in the upper right of the image and click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon. Then scroll to enter the space.

Three Days Until We Die

We were young, smart, and confident. Adventurous mountaineers determined to make our mark. It would not be easy, but the will to act was perhaps our greatest strength.

After launching our breakthrough Light Dimension tent, and papering our workshop walls with orders, we had irrefutable evidence of latent customer demand for an outdoor product made with the new water-proof breathable Gore-Tex laminate. Although we were the first to market and were euphoric about our success, we worried our good fortune might not last. I suggested we maintain momentum by adding Gore-Tex rainwear. Nicolai concurred. After creating simple pullover patterns with underarm zippers for extra venting, I cut and sewed two anoraks from the tent laminate we had on hand. We now needed a rigorous field test in actual alpine conditions. I looked to Nicolai for his mountaineering expertise.

As was his way, he picked a superlative project. The high mountain Ptarmigan Traverse, a remote rugged route among sharp glaciated North Cascade peaks, was unique, challenging, and stunningly beautiful. Nicolai had completed the classic traverse once before, in good weather, and yearned to return. Our objective was so compelling we champed at the bit. The sooner we could validate our prototypes the sooner we could commence production, marketing, and sales.

The weather held us back as days of rain frustrated us. Even in the face of it, we assured ourselves that we were soon due for better. On that basis, we forged ahead. To make it more interesting, Nicolai boldly announced that we would take neither map nor compass. We would rely on his memory. And without commitment to any peak bagging, we left our crampons behind. A weight-saving measure. It was August so a rope and ice axes should do. I accepted Nicolai’s decisions without question due to his confidence and prior experience on the high alpine traverse.

As we crossed the Skagit River and drove up the Cascade River Road to the trailhead, the weather seemed to be clearing, hints of blue sky peeking through the overcast. Dressed in running shorts and cotton t-shirts, with alpine packs, we hiked the three-and-a-half-mile trail to Cascade Pass. Blue patches episodically shone through drifting clouds. The day looked promising. That promise would not last.

Arriving at the pass, gray clouds now swept over Sahale Arm, and the temperature plummeted. We reluctantly changed from nylon shorts to wool knickers, from cotton tees to wool shirts, and donned our Gore-Tex anoraks. It was not what we wanted, but we were not turning back. Both fit and determined, we had one direction, forward.

Heading up the Cache Glacier towards Cache Col, ominous clouds darkened the sky, and rain pelted down. The rain persisted, cold droplets beading up and running down my anorak. Perspiring freely but still relatively comfortable, I climbed swiftly to stay warm. As we gained elevation, I looked back at Sahale Arm and then down to a moving speck of a person below Mix-up Peak. Nicolai was making his way up the crusty sun-cupped snow that covered the glacier. The scale of the environment was vast indeed, seemingly made larger by the heavy shroud of gray. I felt a disquieting sense of isolation. If we became lost, we would not be found.

Just before the col, we crossed a forbidding-looking bergschrund with an overhanging ice block arched ominously over a deep fractured crack. Once over, we continued scanning for Kool-Aid Lake, the site of our first overnight camp. The fun name suggested a welcoming and refreshing place. I had looked forward to it. In my euphemistic vision, it would greet us, sparkling brightly in the sun, a serene reflecting pool perched high on a shelf amongst the surrounding peaks. My Shangri-La fantasy. Less than a mile across heather-covered slopes, Nicolai stopped near a small dark body of water nestled in a rocky outcrop and took off his pack. I realized that this meager pool, little more than a large puddle, was Kool-Aid Lake. A large snowfield wrapped around and over, nearly completely covering it. It was hardly a cause for celebration. Was this in some way a sign that portended what we might encounter in the days ahead? I did not find it encouraging.

Now raining steadily, a gray mist enveloped us. We pitched our Light Dimension, shook out our sleeping bags, crawled in, and zipped up the tent for the night. We fired up our MSR stove and prepared a hearty pot of noodles and landjeager. The savory ramen and sausage both warmed my body and enlivened my spirit despite the damp chill.

We then removed our wet knickers, wadded them up, stuffed them towards the back of the tent, and crawled into the comfort of our down sleeping bags. I had a blue foam pad under my bag. Although thin, it was the right compromise between insulation, comfort, bulk, and weight. Surprisingly, Nicolai had a prototype of a new inflatable sleeping pad from Cascade Designs. The sealed nylon exterior fabric sandwiched a compressible foam. An air valve allowed him to inflate the sleeping pad, creating an insulating cushion under his sleeping bag. In the morning, he could open the valve, expel the air, and roll the pad into a tight cylinder, next-era technology applied to sleeping pads. I envied Nicolai for scoring this prize for his field-testing sleeping comfort. Why he hadn’t he scored two?

The next morning, Nicolai announced that the air valve in the prototype sleeping pad had failed. The formerly inflated foam pad had squished down to nothing, providing negligible cushioning and insulation underneath him. He then mandated that going forward we would be taking turns using my blue foam pad. The person not using the blue foam pad could separate himself from the cold surface beneath by cushioning his bag with our soft packs. So, the next night I knew I would be sleeping on flattened alpine packs and dried sausages. This adventure was getting better and better.

We traversed toward Spider-Formidable Col. And once across, would descend to Yang Yang Lakes for camp. Visibility down into the valley below was decent, but our high route was completely socked in with a dense mist. As we continued our traverse, I expressed some apprehension. Nicolai assuaged my concerns by informing me that all we had to do was follow the cirque to the col and that he had done it before. We continued, still optimistic that at some point, the weather would change for the better, and assured each other with the quintessential Pacific Northwest phrase.

“Don’t worry, it’ll burn off.”

It did not. Instead, it snowed. By the time we reached the col, snow had been falling vigorously for some time and was now blowing sideways with a determined ferocity. The exposed granite peaks that jutted up on each side of the col were dark featureless forms, visibility closing in like a tightening concentric circle. As we crossed over the col and began the descent into the next cirque and our search for Yang Yang Lakes, Nicolai paused momentarily and looked up at me, his expression grim, a mix of fatigue and determination. Standing on a steep slope of jumbled snow-covered rocks, he appeared mounted on a precipice at the edge of a world that disappeared into a deep white void. Were we worried, with no maps or compass? Hell no, Nicolai had been here before. In Nicolai, I trusted. Wait a minute, was I sure about that?

The snow continued, big flakes streaming steadily down. Visually, the scene was quite picturesque, but the wet and heavy snow melted on contact with our warm bodies, rivulets running off our Gore-Tex anoraks and soaking into our wool knickers. One good thing, perhaps the most essential thing, though we were both tired, we were still warm. The Gore-Tex anoraks were doing their job, and our wool knickers retained our body heat even though quite wet.

We kept going and finally found a grassy outcrop that hosted a solitary lake. Not Yang Yang Lakes, but good enough. Though small, it was larger than Kool-Aid, about the size of the footprint of a medium-sized house, and luxurious by comparison to the forlorn little Kool-Aid Lake. We quickly made our second camp on the snow-covered meadow near the lake. Pleased that things were going as well as they were, under the circumstances, I got out the Sigg pots and water bottles and went to the lake to get water for dinner.

Then things got worse. When we pulled our sleeping bags out of their stuff sacks, we noticed they had accumulated a bit of water. It was likely from both internal tent moisture, contact with our wet wool knickers the night before, and water leaking into our packs during our traverse in the wet snow. Our custom Feathered Friends down bags were no match for the weather. The bags had lost half their loft as the down plumules clustered into soggy little clumps. No matter how good the down, it provides no insulation when wet and does not easily dry out. The dampness was everywhere with nowhere else to go. Unless we got some sun, the situation with our sleeping bags would continue to deteriorate. That night we slept in our wet clothes, in our bags, knowing it would only make the situation worse, but we needed to stay as warm as possible and needed that extra layer. We did not sleep well.

The next morning, the weather seemed to be breaking. Visibility now slightly better, we took some time to explore the area surrounding our camp. Despite the snow, there was a profusion of meadow wildflowers that had likely bloomed sometime days earlier, in better weather. Seeing them was somehow heartening. After further exploration, we discovered the two Yang Yang Lakes on a shelf not far below the lake where we had camped. So, not completely off course.

We packed and ascended to a pass in preparation to drop down onto the South Cascade Glacier. As we looked towards the next section of our route, the sun faded to a hazy yellow ball as an opaque curtain of moisture rolled back in. It stayed that way as we climbed up a ribbon of snow that led to a lengthy glacier traverse that would take us to the Sentinel-La Conte col.

Looking down from the pass, the South Cascade Glacier was more than enormous. The base, a web of wrinkled blue-gray fingers, reached towards the green-gray surface of the silty lake below. We dropped into a giant talus and scree slope and plunge stepped down, almost like skiing, short sections on the crumbly rocks. It was tiring work, staying upright in the steep loose wet rock that varied in size from baseballs to engine blocks.

After what seemed way too long a descent, we finally reached the bottom of the scree and the foot of the glacier. As we set boots on the glacier what had appeared as a uniform shade of gray from far above was an undulating river of ice encrusted with fine particles of dark gray rock, the ice filthy and wrinkled with age.

The upper stretches of the glacier had newer snow cover, still dirty but more uniformly white than gray. The main body displayed a gigantic spider web of horizontal crevasses, opened by the relentless creep down over the undulating terrain into the valley below. As we reached the top, we crossed by the South Cascade Glacier Hut, a science research station, perched on a rocky outcrop surrounded by snowfields. Painted a battleship gray, I wondered who chose the paint color.

Though the structure was overwhelmingly utilitarian, festooned with antenna, no Swiss chalet, it still looked like an opportunity to me, a chance to get warm for a few minutes. I had seen no one emerge from the hut. Otherwise, I would have waved. I thought it would be a good idea to saunter over, knock on the door and introduce ourselves. I fantasized that they would welcome us in, and we would join them drinking hot chocolate as we felt the warmth of the fire from their potbellied stove. We could share stories and get warm. My wishful thinking active in the chilly moment.

Warmth as a physical concept was very much on my mind. But Nicolai thought differently than me. He was sure that they would not be glad to see us. He was having none of my fantasy and said we needed to keep going, and we did. I occasionally looked back, so sorry to see the hut become smaller and smaller. Why was Nicolai so headstrong?

The rain continued, drizzling through the cold, damp air, visibility closing into near white-out conditions. So far, we had been traversing and climbing a combination of rock and sun-cupped snowfields and had not needed either crampons or the rope. And then things changed. In the process of descending another immense snowfield, this time looking for White Rocks Lakes, our designated camp three, it slowly became painfully clear that we were off route. We had lost too much elevation and had not found the lakes. Now in a steep section, the surface icy, and starting to get dark, we realized that we were lost. Serious doubt crept into my psyche.

We stopped, knowing that to descend further would only compound our mistake. It was too late in the day to turn around and climb back up. We had run out of time. Determined that a small niche on the ice field was going to be our camp three, we started chopping out a tent platform on the icy slope. We worked furiously, hacking away with the adzes of our ice axes. It took longer than we wished. After clearing just enough space, we hastily pitched the tent on the barely adequate platform and crawled inside. We would sleep on the ice tonight.

Our priority was maintaining body heat. We fired up our trusty gas-fueled MSR Model 9 stove, our little friend, who would keep us company that night. The little stove was a godsend for climbers and backpackers alike, a true mountaineer’s tool. A freaking blow torch that made a lot of noise and cranked out a lot of heat, which you needed when melting snow for water. We huddled around the little stove as it roared away. We were just trying to get warm, leaning over towards the stove, hands cupped and yearning like two small children in a Dicken’s novel.

“Please sir, may we have another bowl of warmth?”

That activity became our ongoing routine as night passed. We called it taking a warmth break. Our down bags were each a sodden mess of wet down clumps sandwiched between two sheets of nylon, completely useless, and we slept on top of them that night, fully clothed in our wet wool. Sleep is a euphemism because we did not sleep much at all. We passed the night in brief snatches of that nether world that exists in the fuzzy border between sleep and consciousness. We punctuated our stupors that night with frequent breaks, crouched over our little gas-fueled friend as it roared away.

Try as it might, the small stove provided only enough warmth to keep us engaged with getting through the night. I was shivering, freezing, certain that I would get through this night, but I was feeling really ragged and seriously questioned how much more of this I could take. I wondered if Nicolai was concerned as well. I asked him,

“So, if the conditions don’t change, how many more days can we do this until we die?”

Nicolai was among the smartest people that I had ever met, and nothing if not self-assured. If you wanted the perfect model for a t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “I might be wrong. But I doubt it.” Nicolai would be your first choice. Hunched over the stove, he paused as if making a few mental calculations and then slowly turned his head towards me.

“Three days.”

Two words, with no elaboration. So, there I had it, three days. Well, that was at least a bit more headroom than I had expected, given the way that I felt in the moment. Why it positively cheered me up. Three more days, hurray! We would surely make it out inside of three days. Wait a minute…but if we do not, and if I feel this wretched now, that means it could conceivably get a whole lot worse. I shivered. I did not want to think about that.

After the interminable night passed, I stumbled out of the tent and stabilized myself on the slick ice. Just over the horizon, dawn was breaking. It was finally happening! A blazing sun, now emerging, casting bold flares of light across the glaciers. The clouds parted to reveal a bright cerulean blue sky. I marveled at the visual drama of the moment. My heart filled with joy. I could almost feel the warmth to come. We would live today and tomorrow!

We packed our gear and carefully stepped onto the snowfield, regretting leaving our crampons behind. It looked like any other steep sun-cupped snowfield, but the surface was a sheet of undulating glassy slick ice. I tippy-toed up in the icy cups, gingerly testing every step. Sometimes, while stopping on the steeper sections, I cautiously chopped out occasional crude steps with the adze of my MSR Thunderbird ice axe, careful to maintain my balance. It was too steep and slick to self-arrest.

We finally made it to White Rock Lakes and after roping up and crossing the Dana Glacier towards Spire Point, we descended to Cub Lake and assessed our situation. We had no intention of spending yet another sleepless night freezing and shivering, hunched over the little stove.

We elected to push on, hiking the last eleven miles out the Bachelor Creek and Downey Creek trails to the trailhead. We made the last two days of our traverse in one long exhausting day, bushwhacking through the brush fest that was Bachelor Creek until we finally met the Downey Creek trail, a real trail. Yet, it seemed endless as we stumbled down the last miles of the rough and rocky path in the dark. The orange light of a campfire beckoned as we approached the end.

We opportunistically wolfed down grilled hotdogs gifted by sympathetic trailhead car campers, and giving in to our fatigue slept on dirt in the Downy Creek campground and were glad of it, now warmer again. The next morning, we toasted our sock-clad feet by our campfire as we waited for our ride out. Although we had flirted with a frozen world and encountered the face of death, we had fortunately survived. Breathing the fresh air of life had never felt so good.

Author’s Note: A longer version of this story, a chapter titled 'It'll Burn Off,' appears in ‘Banquet of the Infinite,’ a memoir of my adventures in the mountains and outdoor business in the ‘70s. Available as an illustrated eBook at Amazon Kindle Press, Barnes & Noble Press, and Kobo Books. Although the book has many vintage photos, this story contains some that are not in the book.

The Journey

We often yearn to return. Wistfully, to the distant past. The places where our fondest memories still shine brightly. Daring exploits in which we frequently remember ourselves as heroes. While we cannot enter that reality again, we can select a different path. Now much older, I choose to return to the alpine climbs and high routes of my youth by making determined marks on paper. My journey exists in a different medium with the tools of the fine artist rather than ropes, crampons, and ice axe, the tools of the creative alpinist. You would think it a safer route to take and you would be right, but only in the physical sense.

My practice and acquisition of rock climbing and mountaineering skills took place in the mountains, on the rock, snow, and ice, rather than in a climbing gym. Back then, there was no such thing. All our field study and effort were to make ourselves ready for the bigger, longer, more technically demanding objectives that we would encounter higher in the mountains. Most of our education, after a few rudimentary classes, consisted of progressive self-instruction gained both from the doing of the routes and watching our friends. The rope handling and other practices of the art form of climbing, became gradually integrated into our skill sets, so they became second nature.

Confidence was a most important attribute for climbers, and those shorter routes in no small way contributed to building that attribute. In the process, we met others from the same tribe and expanded our portfolio of climbing partners, learning from each other, stoking the fires of desire, and moving forward. A heady time, as we diligently prepared ourselves and passed through a gateway to a larger alpine world, a world that we were so inexorably drawn to by the power of our mountain dreams.

Those dreams still resonate within and as I struggle to express them on paper, I find the challenge still considerable, perhaps even greater. Even with college instruction in fine arts, I now find myself back at what feels like the beginning. The terror of the blank page is real. Hesitation and procrastination delay the moment of the first pencil marks, the beginning of a committed journey. And, even once started, the path to completion is sometimes muddled with confusion and fear. What next? How will I finish this piece without screwing it up? It helps to recall the committed path of the Samurai. There is only one direction, forward.

As with climbing, my visualization skills still conceive of projects for which my abilities are not yet ready. I suppose that is okay if I somehow reconcile the time devoted to skill building as a doorway to achieving my artistic dreams. They need each other I tell myself. Without dreams what is there? My dreams provide the impetus to move forward and engage in daily practice that will help make them a reality.

Curiously, I have found a new tribe, that of the pen and ink illustrators who bravely exhibit their work on the pages of an international Facebook group. They are kindred spirits, all seeking expression and progress in their artistic quest. And, through considered examination, I am learning from their efforts. It is not unlike how we benefitted from each other in those heady days of yesteryear, scaling those magnificent rocky cliffs, icy faces, and snowy peaks.

In the present, now acquiring and building technique and ability in the medium of art, I look for confidence in my abilities to emerge. It is happening, slowly. Not as quick as my not very patient self would like. Learning new skills is always a challenge and, I reflect, perhaps a metaphor for life itself.

The never-ending journey.

Burn Notice

It is always a shock when you make the abrupt transition from a trusted mountain companion—climbing partner, backpacker, day hiking buddy—to persona non grata. And you might not grasp the full extent of it in the present moment. Perhaps only later will you realize that you are truly burned. Of course, sometimes it happens right to your face. Those are the worst.

You wonder why it happened, though it is likely you will never really know. You have been irrevocably cut off. Dumped! End stop. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens, and when it does, it stops you cold.

Many years ago, Denny and I attempted a traverse of the three peaks of Mount Index in the Cascades of Washington state. Upon arriving on the summit of the North Peak, exhausted and running out of daylight, we bivouacked. After a sleepless night, we abandoned the traverse, rappelling back down the route we had climbed the day before. Except for the brushy descent, I was pleased to be off the peak. It had looked pristine from a distance but the route was a messy, unenjoyable affair, a veritable vertical bushwhack. If Denny wanted to try it again, I was out. Though we did not speak of it, I could tell he already knew.

In the early 1970s in Seattle, I was part of the team at Early Winters, which made tents for the local alpine community, and through our factory shop, Denny had become connected to the mountaineers in our circle of climbing partners. Subsequently, he joined me, David Stevenson, Rainer Burgdorfer, and another friend, Roy Plaeger, on an aborted attempt on Liberty Ridge. After that, Roy and Denny teamed up to tackle the Index Traverse. I was no longer interested in the route myself, but I endorsed their enthusiasm and wished them the best of luck. 

The date of their departure arrived, and I kept track of their days on the route. They occasionally cropped up in my thoughts as I pondered where on the climb they might be and how they were handling it. Soon, they were overdue by two days. Since this was no extended expedition, two days was a meaningful delay, an ominous development.

What should I do? What could I do? I called and conferred with my friend and mountain mentor, Bill Nicolai. He reviewed the timetable and then suggested that we call search and rescue. It was good to have a partner in that decision, and I trusted Nicolai’s judgment. After alerting the SAR team, Nicolai and I hopped in his car and drove to Index. We wanted to be there for our friends.

As we found out later, Denny and Roy were surprised by a sudden storm and were forced to bivouac on the Middle Peak. They couldn’t go forward because of the lack of visibility, and the wet rock made climbing treacherous. For protection from the elements, they squeezed into a void under some boulders and got progressively wetter and colder as the water ran down the rocks and onto their huddled forms.

Incredulously Denny had been wearing blue jeans instead of wool knickers. Frankly, not a smart move in the Cascades. And he knew better. Roy later told me he had extra clothing and food, which he shared with Denny as they sat together, wet and freezing in a relentless nightmare of a storm they did not expect. Legendary Northwest climber Fred Beckey had warned in his book, Cascade Alpine Guide, that Index should only be attempted in steady weather. And if caught in a storm, there would be no easy and rapid descent. Denny and Roy discovered the truth of that, and were stuck.

In dire situations like this, time often seems to collapse into itself and crawl nearly to a complete stop. To keep time moving, they did as many who are pinned on a mountain often do. They talked about food—the food they yearned for, hot cheeseburgers, and going out for food they could not possibly get. These were cruel fantasies they imposed on themselves for distraction from the agony of their wet, cold circumstances. The night passed like a sloth.

The storm persisted throughout the next day, forcing them to stay put for a second night. They worried the weather wouldn’t clear, and the threat of hypothermia loomed. Luckily, on their third morning, the fog cleared and they scrambled along a narrow ridge and reached the Main Peak that afternoon.

After the drive to Index, Bill and I hiked up toward a large congregation of mountain rescue members—lots more people than we expected. In evaluating the situation, it was obvious it would be a time-consuming and difficult technical feat for an unaided rescue team to locate and retrieve Denny and Roy from the steep, rugged, and now wet black peaks. Even that might be an understatement: It was hard to imagine success even for a very skilled team, and the chance of mishap for anyone on the rescue crew was too high to risk.

Denny and Roy might well be hypothermic, and perhaps near death. Facing the constraints of time, technical difficulties, and safety, someone in SAR called for a rescue helicopter, which we discovered only when we heard the loud whup, whup, whup of the long blades cutting through the white mist. We waited for word from above, and soon the flight crew radioed they’d located the climbers.

Denny and Roy had made it off the traverse and were spotted amidst a large boulder field on their descent from the Main Peak. They were alive. We did not know they’d successfully summited and reached the boulders by nightfall. They bivouacked there the third night, shivering, cold, and wet as the last two. By day four, they were exhausted and hungry.

The helicopter approached the climbers and hovered a few feet over a flat, house-sized boulder as a rescue crew member extended his hand to help them. The noise was deafening, and the downwash from the rotors challenged them to stay upright and climb in. The moments were tenuous, but they made it. Once aboard, the chopper whirled up and away from the boulder field and ferried them toward our gathering.

The noisy machine slowly touched down, and both climbers and crew emerged. Denny and Roy were ambulatory and appeared unhurt. I felt both relief and joy and yet wondered what would have occurred without a rescue. Would they have made it out without becoming hypothermic and perishing? Would they have soldiered on, beating the odds to return with an epic story of ascent and survival? Or would tragedy have befallen them?

Of that, I cannot say. But with the perspective of one who has spent time in the mountains in horrific conditions on more than one occasion, I remain convinced rescuing them with the chopper was a good decision. Even without other physical trauma, the space between fatigue exhaustion and hypothermia and death can be sliver-thin.

Roy approached, wearing a fatigued smile and a sheepish demeanor. He offered his hand, thanking us both for our concern, for paying attention, for taking action, and for coming out in support. As we talked, Denny walked toward us. Expecting a similar greeting, I was taken aback when, with his head held high and a stern expression, he walked by us without a word or acknowledgment we were there.

I surmised that he was angry at us. I guessed he felt rescue was beneath him, an affront to his dignity and mountaineering abilities. They’d made it off the climb without aid, so why would they need any help from us? I often wondered how Denny viewed what happened that day, what was going through his mind. I still wonder.

His unspoken words to me that day were not, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” They seemed to be, “Don’t call, ever.”

It was over. Even though we had been roped partners on many prior climbs, we would not climb together again, and it was the last time that I would see him. It was to be the last time for Roy as well.

That was long ago. In recent years, I have resumed hiking and scrambling the peaks of the Cascades and teaming with other old climbing partners. One guy seemed well suited to my interests. And he lived close by. For several years, he was always game for mountain adventures, selected great routes, eagerly sallied forth, and often brought beer for the post-event celebration. What could go wrong?

As with previous mountain mishaps, this one involved a dog—always a variable in the mountains. I like dogs. I just choose not to own one, which to some dog lovers means I don’t like dogs. I could never figure that one out.

One spring day I texted my friend an invitation. “Let’s hike up to the Granite Mountain Lookout. There’s still snow on the ridge. I’ll wear mountain boots and take poles, an ice axe, and traction. I plan to go light. Are you in?”

He said he was. So, he shows up in low-cut trail runners, with a 60 lb. pack, no poles, ice axe, or traction, but with his dog, a springer spaniel. If I hadn’t been so gung ho to get into the alpine, I might have noticed we had very different agendas and this supposed light and fast outing might go sideways.

“What’s with the heavy pack?”  I asked as he hefted the beast. He replied he was training to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from the Columbia River to the Canadian border in one push, without resupply. It was an audacious plan at 505.7 miles and a lot of elevation gain and loss on the way. Lugging a sixty-pound pack up Granite Mountain was clearly training—all climbs are— but I had pitched a light training day with some time on snow as we ascended the last ridge section to the lookout. Even with a minimal pack, the hike would be strenuous. I could not imagine lugging sixty pounds up thirty-eight hundred feet of elevation in a little over four miles. What was he thinking? I should have asked him at the car when he first picked me up at my house. But no, while I saw his huge pack, I also did not see it; the tunnel vision of my overeager brain didn’t allow it to register. I was more focused on the snow climb ahead.

We shouldered our packs at the trailhead, my flyweight, and his behemoth, and headed up. About a third of the way up I could tell he was struggling with weights shifting inside his pack. I suggested he could pull some out, stash them along the route, and pick them up on the return. He concurred. We continued with episodic stops to rest and water his dog. We finally reached the meadows above the treeline. He stopped again. I waited. Finally, he said, “You go ahead.”

I felt released and stretched my pace, eager for the snow-covered ridge. After crossing the first significant snowfield, I looked back. He had stopped again on the other side. I turned and continued onto the ridge, his dog now my frisky companion, as she always tracked the leader. The snow challenged me, yet I welcomed the experience. I soon reached the lookout and scanned the skyline, pleased with my ascent. We waited there together, human and canine.

A small figure appeared far below, my friend waving his arms. It sure looked like a signal to come down. We reluctantly descended and once close I could tell he was not happy. He was furious. What had I been thinking? Had I watered his dog? Well, no. I was out of water. I had only some bottled tea and didn’t think that was appropriate. Anyway, couldn’t his dog lick snow if it was thirsting? His tirade continued. Although I couldn’t square his earlier “you go ahead” with his volcanic anger, I apologized. It didn’t help. He stomped off, post-holing through the snow as he disappeared down the mountain.

I tried to enjoy the rest of the hike on my solo descent, puzzling over what had just happened. Maybe there was something else going on, his emotions a tinder-dry forest ready to explode into an inferno and I was the spark. That gave me solace as I mentally prepared to exit the trail to an empty parking lot. Much to my surprise, he was still at the trailhead, waiting to drive me home. I offered a token, “Hey, I can buy beer.” Perhaps that would help absolve the rift. He responded, “I don’t feel like it.” His anger was palpable so I thought it best not to push it. We rode in silence.

A couple weeks later I texted him with a proposal to make a loop up Longs Pass, down to the Ingalls Creek Trail, up to Lake Ingalls, and back to the trailhead via Ingalls Way. It was decent bait, I thought, sure to get a response. I was wrong. My text went unanswered, my olive branch untaken. Months and later years went by. There was no response. I had been burned. Scorched.

Even now, I still wonder what went wrong.

Some burn notices are more subtle. The slow drifting away. Unanswered calls, texts, emails, and even letters. It’s as if the great trips of the past had never happened. It seems the burns all have a common theme: You are never, ever going to know the why. Instead, you are left with a void. All you can do with inexplicable loss is find a way to be okay with it.

That will have to be enough.