Put a Mailbox on It

When I started up the trail at 7:30 am, I was alone. There were no other cars in the spacious trailhead lot. In the cool of the morning, I settled into a comfortable pace, slowly absorbing my sense of the new place. My impressions soon formed, as most sections of the hike presented as a relentless ascent through a corridor of verdant green. Various wildflowers were still blooming, with the trailside foxglove increasing during the ascent. They punctuated the leafy trailside vegetation with their vibrant, cheerful colors, and I welcomed that.

I briefly passed a couple of sections, shouldered with dusky fractured orange rock walls, and then the trail returned once again to the forested green vegetation, which sometimes crowded the upper sections. Once the path finally gained the summit ridge, the surface changed from loose and embedded rock to a narrow winding dirt trail, soft and dark with forest duff. Even while savoring my solitude, letting my right brain run free, to think about creative projects, I realized there was simply a limit. I desperately wanted a more interesting experience, more sensory stimulation.

After about six miles, I found myself losing patience, eager to be done with the trail. It seemed never-ending, always heading higher. And then about half a mile from the summit, it annoyingly snaked down to a saddle, losing precious elevation, before finally opening to skyline views and climbing the rocky scramble up the summit blocks.

I reached the summit alone to find the panoramic views completely shrouded in a sea of white. Glad to finally arrive, I sat and snacked and waited for a forecasted clearing of the cloud cover. After about ten minutes, I was delighted to discover the appearance of Mount Rainier on the southern skyline. It seemed to have happened in a flash, as I ate my Clif bar and pondered the unknown. I found the sight exhilarating and a validation of my decision to come. Two young hikers soon joined me. They had taken the unmaintained Kamikaze Trail up from Teneriffe Falls. I envied them their shorter route, but not the steep, sketchy conditions. They acknowledged the difficulty and announced their plan to descend the longer trail. Then another two hikers joined us, having ascended from the Mount Si Trailhead, and we five shared the hard-won summit as the clouds further cleared to reveal jaw-dropping views. The rocky summit was without wind or bugs. A fine summit indeed.

During my hike, I had considered the lack of people on the Mount Teneriffe trail. I casually compared it to nearby Mailbox Peak, which is now mobbed with hikers who want that selfie at the summit. I had hiked Mailbox Peak on three occasions in the years before it exploded in popularity and then decided I was done. What was it about Mailbox, I asked myself.

For one, the old trail was a gnarly, incredibly steep, and somewhat featureless ascent through a dark, moist, densely wooded, root-riden, improvised, and eroded boot path where it was all too easy to get lost, and we once did. Occasional trees sported small white sheet metal diamonds as the only trail markers. They were few and you had to look up to see them, no easy task when most of your concentration was focused down, examining the terrain underfoot, figuring out your next best step to keep moving relentlessly up the dirty incline. 

After a point, it all looked the same, an enigma of a hike, and once you got off trail, it took a while for your mental lightbulb to flick on. It was usually well after your errant turn, somewhere indistinguishable, and then you were left to question when and where you went wrong. You felt stupid, sheepish, and with way less of your trailblazing confidence. You could hardly admit that to your companion, if you had one, much less to yourself, so you pretended you had it covered. You stood there trying to puzzle it out, working backwards in increments, and once successful, left wondering how you could have blundered so. And then you resumed, continuing up the tortuous so-called trail.

There was nothing picturesque about the terrain until you emerged onto the trail connector that merged with the new ’improved’ trail. Now out of the woods, you ascended a broad boulder field, a veritable granite staircase as the trail wound up a vast slope of fractured rock. I always found that section magnificent, my favorite part of the hike. Yes, not counting the mailbox at the summit. But unfortunately, the granite steps did not continue to the top. They abruptly ended, and the last push was up an exposed dirt and rock ravine with little redeeming qualities other than it led to the small summit pyramid, which featured a classic old-school metal mailbox. And, once you were there, the feeling was somewhat euphoric. You simply could not help yourself. You had arrived at the much-storied mailbox atop Mailbox Peak. The hike had already been memorably difficult, taxing in ways you had not previously imagined.

And yet, here you were, sometimes by yourself. The sturdy mailbox sat perched on a stout metal pole embedded in a small stone and mortar monument. Festooned with stickers, the colorful mailbox stood about chest high and beckoned. You felt like a child again, ready and eager to open the box and discover the mystery within. As if driven by a primal instinct, you reached out and pulled down the lid to peer inside. And then rummaging through the clutter, in a voyage of discovery, curiously examining the various articles strewn carelessly in the small interior. You found it a veritable treasure box.

And, if you were lucky, some kind soul had left a small bottle of whiskey, and as you quaffed the divine liquid, you felt the euphoria of the ephemeral moment, as you, godlike, became part of a time-honored ritual, about to make your own small contribution. Even a small outdoor product sticker pasted on the outside would be good enough. You may have wished that you had brought something more substantial, but you just did not know and wanted to travel light. It was not just the magic of the mailbox as an icon; it was also the mystery of what was inside. Once you understood the enigmatic box, you would do better next time. Now committed, you knew there would be a next time. The immediate and important thing was to indicate presence, your presence. This was completely different from simply unfurling and signing a paper summit register. It was so much more joyously simple, quirky, and satisfying. That was the essence of the magic moment. And, you were now a part of it. It was so fucking cool!

And then you looked up, and if the sky was clear, you spun around and savored the commanding view of the nearby peaks. Mount Rainier would stand proud to the south. While arguably not nearly as dramatic as the spiky granite spires of the North Cascades, these peaks were yours today, and they were enough, more than enough. And as you were joined by upcoming hikers, you welcomed them, friendly new acquaintances, now members of the unspoken tribe. The atmosphere was convivial and celebratory, sharing stories of the varied hikes that all had once loved. What could have been better? Such was the magnetism of the mailbox summit. You would remember it long after your presence had become a mere whisper in the wind.

The Mailbox Peak backstory scrolls back to July 4, 1960, when a Seattle letter carrier named Carl Heine hauled the first mailbox to the summit. He intended it to serve as a summit register for teenagers at Valley Camp, where he was the spare-time head camp director. He thought to encourage them up the arduous trail to sign the register inside. The mailbox was brilliant, perhaps even more so than Carl had imagined. In that brief sliver of time, as one approached the mailbox, there was a return to childhood where the magic of discovery was so palpable. 

Over the years, the ascent gained popularity due to the novelty of the summit mailbox as a place to leave and pick up mail and other small treasures. And, in the process, the local search and rescue was kept progressively busier as more hikers suffered mishaps or got lost on the rugged trail. In 2012, DNR planned a new trail to make the summit more accessible and thus reduce the number of rescues. The new trail, completed in 2014, reduced the angle of ascent from up to 60 degrees to a more doable 25 degrees, but still a workout with 4,000 feet of elevation gain. And yet hikers still flocked to the old trail. Why? It is a grisly affair all the way to the breakout, where the two trails merge below the boulder field. These committed hikers do it because it is not fun, because it is a frustrating and strenuous pain in the butt, and like anything exceedingly difficult, a rite of passage, and a good story to tell.

Once you arrived at the top, you knew others would follow. You would later hear of the hardy firefighters who hauled a cast iron fire hydrant to the summit, and the carefree crew who struggled up with a fiberglass river kayak for their wacky summit photo. Anyone might ask, why? The answer was obvious. To become part of the story, the legend. If for one moment in time, they could record themselves as heroes in a silly quest of their own invention and make their own story. It seemed so inexplicably worth it. Others showed up clad in dinosaur costumes, each party putting their creative stamp on the place. More costumes would follow. To the best of my knowledge, no weddings have yet taken place, but what do I know? Even though it would be a nightmare to cater, never say never.

Again, we can further probe for what inspires such behavior. It seems that we collectively crave to create a sense of the ridiculous to celebrate our otherwise normal pedestrian lives. Sometime during the pandemic, local interest in hiking surged, and Mailbox has since become exponentially more popular, a roaring success, and finally achieved iconic status! No small accomplishment!

Many others have been inspired by the wackiness, most notably a group of young men who, seeking comfortable seating they said, decided to carry a living room couch, sedan chair style with wood handles, to the summit of Cashmere Mountain, one of the highest peaks in the Leavenworth area, only a bit lower than the legendary Mount Stuart, Colchuck and Dragontail Peaks. It was sophomoric and audacious to attempt, and no small feat to accomplish. Surprisingly, they nearly made it, only falling scantly short of the summit, finally thwarted by the ever-steepening granite. Of course, they made a YouTube video of their quest. It is a youthful, charming, and compelling Don Quixote story that records their naïve adventure. Anyone who has been seduced by the magnetism of Mailbox Peak would immediately understand their motivation, the why of it, the absurdity of their quest, and be heartily fist-pumping and cheering them on. The ubiquity of present-day social media has provided a highly effective platform with which to spread the joy. And many have tuned in and enthusiastically embraced it. Off the wall, risky exploits? Bring 'em on! And, let’s make a video!

The Cashmere Coach adventure suggests that there may be more mailboxes in the offing. Imagine if that were to happen. I can just hear the local cadre of ‘leave no trace cairn kickers’ now.

“Did ya hear that someone put a mailbox up on Pratt Mountain?”

“That rock pile? Jeez!”

“I know. But we can’t let that stand. We’ll have to get up there and take it down.”

“Screw that! You, maybe, but not me. I ain’t gonna scramble that thing for a mailbox.”

“Well, if we don’t, next thing you’ll see is more mailboxes on Mount Defiance and Dungeon Peak. Where will it end?”

“Well, jeez! If we don’t, there goes the neighborhood!”

It seems we all have a bottled-up need to get silly and laugh together, heartily and without restraint. It is a highly effective tonic for rejuvenating ourselves, a self-medication, and we all desperately need our daily dose. This realization caused me to consider my experience on the summit of Mount Teneriffe . While it was briefly celebratory, and we laughed together, it lacked the simple over-the-top silliness of Mailbox Peak. Would we have benefited from that? Probably. Wait a minute. No doubt! If only Mount Teneriffe had a mailbox or some other compelling novelty feature, it would probably be as mobbed as Mailbox Peak. But, would that be a good thing?

Well, now that I think more about it, probably not. Absolutely not! You see, I like it just the way it is.

 

Postscript: Here are links to a few spherical panoramas I took at the famous Mailbox Peak in years past. And, a link to the YouTube video on the intrepid young crew hauling the couch up Cashmere Mountain. A must-watch.

Summit Mailbox, Mailbox Peak, Snoqualmie Area, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/summit-mailbox-mailbox-peak-snoqualmie-area-wa-state

Mailbox Peak, Lunch Break, Snoqualmie Area, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/mailbox-peak-lunch-break-snoqualmie-area-wa-state

Mailbox Peak, Mail Call, Snoqualmie Area, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/mailbox-peak-mail-call-snoqualmie-area-wa-state

Couch to Mt. Cashmere

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ps0nAnGEdsI

Alpine Icons

When it comes to hiking destinations, lakes or peaks, I usually prefer peaks. I like scrambling, or climbing to their summits for the opportunity to view the surrounding alpine architecture and the valleys below. I think of the vaunted halls of the mountain kings. Pure drama from the summits!

For others, the magnetic destinations are the alpine lakes. Many are not notable, and I do not understand the attraction. However, some stand out, and a few are truly breathtaking and iconic. While I have not seen all that populate the North Cascades or the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, I have hiked to many of the icons.

Icons. What attributes help a place attain iconic status? There is no chart of defining characteristics to which one may refer. It is a personal thing based on my aesthetic judgement. And, it would be so for any other wilderness explorer. So, what is on my list? And why?

Most of them are remote and require a rigorous hike to access them. Despite that, they are quite well-known and popular. They sit nestled beneath or near iconic peaks, which beckon you to stop and absorb the views. They all exhibit a certain je ne sais quoi, a captivating and elusive character that separates them from the rest. You will recognize it when you get there. If you want to savor the places with some degree of solitude, you should arrive at the trailhead early and mid-week

Here are my current top five. Would they be the top five for anyone else? Probably not, but many would. Why do they fascinate me and make me yearn to return?

Lake Ingalls tops my list for many reasons. Not the least of which is that we once camped there before climbing the North Ridge of Mount Stuart in 1974. That was before camping at the lake was outlawed. Accessible from a trailhead in the Teanaway, the lake resides in a rocky bowl beneath Ingalls Peak. The lake is not visible on the approach from Ingalls Pass or Headlight Basin. It only reveals itself after a rocky scramble to the basin above the access trail. Once there, clear skies permitting, you will savor the heart-stopping view across its sapphire waters to a magnificent granite monolith, the south face of Mount Stuart. I have visited on several occasions and have never been disappointed.

Lake Serene has a similar history, as I first passed it on our approach to access our climbing route on the North Face of the North Peak of Mount Index. The three peaks of Mount Index jut abruptly skyward from the west side of the lake. A spacious granite apron, named “lunch rock” sits on the north side of the lake, providing a popular scenic destination for a well-earned snack break. While the hike stats suggest the effort will be moderate, the numbers deceive as most of the elevation gain occurs in the last half of the hike and is quite rigorous. Before the improved trail was established, the approach to the lake was not much better than a steep bushwhack. Now, with three hundred or so wood cribbed steps, the ascent is far less daunting. Still a workout, but without the brushy slide alder.

Colchuck Lake sits beneath the massive North Face of Dragontail Peak in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness. The peak is framed by both Enchantment and Colchuck Peaks. The first time I ever saw it was on the approach to our climb of the North Face of Dragontail Peak. I have revisited the lake many times since and find the views always jaw-dropping, the scale of the alpine environment simply raw and massive. It is insanely popular these days as Colchuck Lake affords access to Aasgard Pass, a gateway to the Enchantment Lakes. Those lucky enough to score a permit may camp at the lake before ascending the pass. Others simply must be content to visit the lake on a day hike or fit enough to traverse through the Enchantments on one long day. Colchuck is arguably the most popular lake in Washington State (probably more so than Snow Lake) and is a selfie magnet for those who post on the Washington Hikers and Climbers Facebook page. Unless you can go after peak season, mid-week, and early, it is probably best to hike elsewhere.

Blue Lake is a stunningly beautiful destination accessible by a long drive from the Seattle area to the North Cascades and a short hike from the trailhead. It is most radiant in the fall when the larch needles change their color into that mesmerizing and ephemeral gold. Because of its proximity to the insanely popular Maple Pass Loop and Cutthroat Pass larch hikes, you need to arrive mid-week before the sun rises. Or, be prepared to park far down the road from the trailhead and put up with legions of other hikers. Nonetheless, it features breathtaking views of Liberty Bell and Early Winters Spires across its deep blue waters.

Tank Lakes reside in the heart of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, nearly twelve miles and four thousand feet up the Necklace Valley Trail that follows the East Fork of the Foss River drainage. The final thrust to the small lakes is steep, rocky, and exposed to the sun, brutal on a hot day. Back in the day, we hiked to the lakes in one long day, thrashed by the time we arrived. The lakes reside in small bowls that punctuate a remote, otherworldly granite landscape. These lakes warrant inclusion due to the dramatic view south to the sharp rock towers of Little Big Chief, Middle Chief, Summit Chief, Chimney Rock, and Overcoat Peak, a fierce granite palisade that dominates the southern skyline. In my opinion, one of the most spectacular views in Washington's Cascades. Not easy to get to, but more than worth it.

I could continue and add five more to make a top ten list, and I may do that. But for now, these five amazing lakes will do. I have created spherical panoramic photographs at the first four. Click the links to open the images. For the most immersive viewing, open to full screen and scroll around and up, and down.

Mt. Stuart from Ingalls Lake, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/mt-stuart-from-ingalls-lake-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa-state

Lake Serene, Lunch Rock, Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest, WA

www.360cities.net/image/lake-serene-lunch-rock-mt-baker-snoqualmie-national-forest-wa

Hiker’s Vista, Colchuck Lake, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA

https://www.360cities.net/image/hiker-s-vista-colchuck-lake-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa

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

The Truth About Crows

Our backyard crows are a tight-knit tribe and occasionally part of a considerable murder. And we are not members. Okay, Diane gives them seeds and other bird treats, and I suppose they like her for that. In fact, I am sure they do. But me? I do not know. But probably not so much.

Diane likes the crows because they eat the crane fly larvae in the lawn and raise a ruckus if a hawk or bobcat shows up while she is gardening. She values their warning system because who wants to be surprised by an encounter with a bobcat, or two, or three? Of course, the crows do it to protect each other, and Diane is merely a beneficiary. But she still appreciates it.

I do love watching the crows swoop into the garden and gracefully flair their wings to land. So captivatingly beautiful. And, I like the way they go about their business, proud birds strutting about with a regal sense of purpose. I do feel some affection for them and have sketched them on several occasions as they are worthy subjects. But, as charming as they may be, I find they do not give a shit about the state of our garden. Specifically, my attempts to top-seed the bare spots in our lawn.

I got a bit angry the other day when they were tearing up some freshly patched lawn, bare sports that I had filled in with sod from perimeter trimmings. I thought, “This will work.” The crows, “Eh, looks like good pickings for undersoil critters.” And, so they tore out patches of newly laid sod, and either dragged them away or pecked them into little fragments, all to look for something yummy in the dirt below.” I spied their shenanigans as I ate breakfast. Outraged at their callous behavior, I was out the back door like a shot, yelling at them to stop. But the damage was done. Diane said, “They are just being crows, doing what comes naturally.” Did that help? No, it did not.

Acknowledging and coming to terms with my surprise setback (it took a few days), I have come to realize that any future top-seeding success will not come easily. The crows are formidable foes because they are big, strong, determined, and smart. I know I am up against the brightest of the many birds, or any other creatures, that visit our backyard to feed and socialize. And, they collaborate. When they do their damage, it is usually a pair of them, relentlessly tag teaming the defenseless sod.

It seems that gardening with crows has several steps. One: perform the garden task, two: watch the crows discover it, three: watch the crows tear it apart, four: clean up the mess that the crows left, five: perform the garden task again, this time differently, mindful of the crows. Repeat as necessary. Until you start screaming and pulling your hair out. Or, accept what is, the natural order of things, according to the crows.

Somehow, writing this out forces me to confront the higher order of gardening that will be necessary to find a peaceful co-existence with our feathered friends. So, I am developing plans. Yes, several, as I know not what will succeed, so I may as well have a full quiver of approaches. The only metric of success in this instance will be whether sufficient grass seeds sprout and live to sustain themselves.

In the meantime, I have become as patient as a Zen priest, watching dispassionately as the crows continue their damage day after day, relentlessly tearing up the soil and scattering the earthly fragments hither and yon. You see, to act without preparation is pointless. So why get all wound up about it? Have a glass of wine or a scotch, and chill. My time will come. At least that is what I tell myself as I thoughtfully develop my ‘crow-proof’ plans.

But, wait a minute. Hold the phone. If I look at myself, I need to ask, why am I so concerned about this piece of dirt and grass? What does it represent? And, if I consider that maybe the crows are not the problem, then what? I must examine whether the problem might reside with me. Could that be? And why? Perhaps it is a need for control, an obsessive need that can only be fulfilled by ordering my little patch of the world.

In a big, bad world that now seems so roiled by chaos, we may feel compelled to reach for anything over which we can effectively exert control. I think we need that, a sense of stability, solidity, things we can depend on.

Over the last few years, I have been sketching in pen and ink, an unforgiving practice that requires both spontaneity and control to achieve an artful outcome. It is precise and considered, and inwardly satisfying. Given that, perhaps my backyard efforts are an extension of that creative drive, a need to bring some order to what could be an unruly horticultural disaster zone. A need to create both beauty and a sense of order. Makes sense. I need to control what I can to mentally survive the colossal chaos that now surrounds and engulfs us all.

If I add my gardening efforts to my hiking and artwork, it will nicely supplement my core physical fitness and mental health activities. That requires that I approach gardening with a Zen mindfulness, a commitment to both passionate involvement and nonattachment to the outcomes. Well, perhaps only a little attachment because it is sometimes hard to let go of what we want, but might not get. I am coming to understand that gardening is more about influence than control. It is a dance that combines inspiration and effort with uncertain outcomes. It is a voyage into who knows what, likely with a good deal of failure ahead. And, I’ll have to be okay with that.

So, what about the crows? The truth about the crows is that they deserve my respect and consideration because they own this place as much as we do. So, I need to devise a plan, a path that seeks to meet our mutual needs. Such intelligent creatures must be acknowledged and understood. To both accommodate, outwit, and deter them and achieve any success, I must enter the mind of the crow, to see the world through their eyes, to think like a crow. Really? Yes, really. It certainly seems so.

“Become the crow,” whispers the sensei.

Outlaw Scrabble

I mentioned it in passing, a casual remark without much forethought. My friend surprised me with his response, shocked and critical. How could we do this? It was as if we had elected to walk on the wild side, jump off the beaten path, and plunge down a slippery slope straight into the gates of hell. Okay, I guess there is no easy way to say it, so I’m just going to blurt it out.

We don’t play by the rules! I guess we’ve always been more about the activity than the score. Diane and I usually neglected to keep score when on the golf course and when we played tennis. One less thing to deal with, one less thing to get in the way of having fun. It’s the same for us with our favorite board game. We play what I call ‘Outlaw Scrabble.’ Keeping score seemed so tedious that we just jumped ship and kept on improvising to create an adaptation of the game, which we call our own. And why not? It’s way more fun. For us, anyway.

I recall playing competitive checkers, chess, and Monopoly as a kid. At the time, I loved them all. But later, Monopoly became the worst. At first, I found it fun to own a utility or two, and acquire and put up hotels on Park Place. But all too often, the dark side of capitalism took hold and the game ended when someone had an explosive tantrum, upended the board, and stomped off. So, not fun. Not fun at all. I later wondered who came up with the game, why it had become so popular, and why I had once liked it so much.

So, we play Scrabble as a collaborative and creative game rather than a score-keeping competitive event. We play often, most evenings after dinner, with wine and music. After over two thousand games, we have tweaked our playbook so much that I feel compelled to explain it. Why? Perhaps you might enjoy playing it our way?

First Tray: We grab seven tiles from the tile bag. If we don’t like the mix or can’t even make a four-letter word, back into the bag they go. If they are all consonants or vowels, back into the bag they go. Whoever is most excited about their first tray goes first.

The Early Game: If the tile bag treats us well, we create long words. The goal at this stage is to develop a pattern that stretches across all areas of the board and provides good opportunities for subsequent words. I call it a ‘pattern dominant variant’ of the original game, as we have already dispensed with tile values and are instead working in concert. We create the pattern together. Our two brains are focused on the same objective.

Spelling: Yes, spelling is important, and we don’t just make stuff up. We used to obsessively check the various Scrabble dictionaries, but too often they disagreed. So, we scrapped that. If the word has a dictionary definition, it is okay. We also include various urban dictionaries.

Unusual Words: Dace is a fun word, the name of a small fish. We always cheer when Dace appears. Bird names are another favorite group. Quail, hawk, towhee, crow, ptarmigan, and others. Quirt is an unusual word, the name of a short whip used in the Southwest. We like unusual words. It makes the game more interesting. Also, it is exciting and fun to place a new word and exclaim, “First time on the board!”

Blank Tiles: We use the blanks to make words that may be missing a letter or two. Okay. So what? Well, we often borrow blanks from each other and then pay back from our next tray. And if someone later gets a letter that the blank represents, they can switch that letter for the blank. It keeps the blanks in play and extends their utility.

Borrowed Letters: As we visualize potential words, we sometimes realize we are missing a key letter. So, we often ask, “Do you have an E?” Or, “Can I see your tray?” As with the blanks, we borrow and pay back. It’s okay. Trust me. After all, this is ‘Outlaw Scrabble’ and the upside is that it enables faster and more creative play.

The SSP: No, we are not overly concerned that the Secret Scrabble Police will be busting in, detaining, and deporting us. At least not anytime soon. But you never know these days, do you? After all, our game play is most definitely WOKE.

The Difficult Consonants: Our least favorite tiles are J, X, and Z. We actively seek opportunities to get them off our trays and onto the board as early as possible. Surprisingly, we also regard Gs and Ms as difficult, an annoyance to be dealt with. Vs and Ks are okay. I actually like Ks and wish there were more than one. While you can spell Risk, Task, and others, you cannot spell Kick, unless you use a blank. And, why would you do that? Really?

The Q and the U: These two can be trouble. We prefer to use them together to make words like quark, squirt, squawk, bisque, and pique. That requires mindful placement of the U letters in the early game, leaving room for the arrival of the Q, which is notorious for arriving late. If none of the U letters are any longer available to pair with the Q, we can usually make the default word Qi.

Triples and Triple Doubles: It is not that uncommon to get three of a kind, a triple. That is not helpful. It is even worse when the triple is vowels. We allow the third tile of a triple to be tossed back into the bag and another tile withdrawn. If we get three pairs, well, we deal with it.

Pacing and The End Game: We like an energetic game, where the words flow effortlessly. Getting stuck is a bitch. If the words are long, the pattern is good, and the letters withdrawn are varied, the game can maintain momentum as the board fills. As shorter words find homes in smaller places, the pace often slows. But sometimes it is a race to the finish, the goal to get all the tiles on the board. These days, we always do. 

Unusual Guests: When we took care of our son’s Red-crowned amazon parrot, we occasionally let Rico join in the game. Always gregarious and curious, he often picked up tiles with his beak as he ambled across the board, creating a game-ending mess of scattered tiles. Anything goes Scrabble, I suppose.

Libations: We usually sip the wine that accompanied our earlier dinner. In the winter months, we may sip the occasional single malt. No, we do not get sloshed. That would detract from the intense concentration that we bring to our game.

Musical Accompaniment: We have iPod playlists that accompany our play. At first, we came for the game and played music. Now we come for the music and play the game. Our go-to artists include The War on Drugs and Taylor Swift (our favorite childless cat lady), followed by Tom Petty and Bryan Adams. There are others, but these are the current favorites. We occasionally put on The Traveling Wilburys, Grouplove, Phoenix, M83, Scorpions, and Alison Krauss. In the past, we have enjoyed Birdy and Ellie Goulding. Not all music works. Florence and the Machine is a bit too dramatic, Kurt Vile’s voice is too dominant, and Natalie Prass is too melancholy. Most shoegaze, while great for sketching, is not optimal. If we’re having fun, and the musical vibe is working, we steadily increase the volume as we approach the last tiles. We talk about our favorite artists, often wondering if Adam Granduciel is in the studio working on his next album. We hope so. We’re so ready for it!

Scrabble Talk: My tray is crap! This is so hard! Cool word! It’s my turn! Don’t Bogart the bag!

Political Discourse: None.

Self-Justification: We tell ourselves that we are keeping our old brains nimble. So, fuck the rules! No score keeping, just clever words and pattern management that fills the board until the tile bag is empty. Our game has no losers. Just winners. And, simple fun with wine and great music! What could be better?

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.