Just Ruck It!

The arrival of spring always signals the need to accelerate training for upcoming mountain exploits, both for simple one-day scrambles and potential multi-day high routes in Washington’s Cascades. My usual response is to start loading various packs with gear and packing the weight up the local trails, and even wearing one on my garage elliptical as I pound out the miles during the early season rains. Sure, I might look peculiar lugging a big pack on the nearby woodland loops. But who cares? I am older and practically invisible as it is. Anyway, it is the results that count.

Curiously, I recently stumbled across an article that announced what purports to be the latest fitness craze, ‘Rucking.’ What the Ruck? I had never heard of it. Had I been living under a rock? Intrigued, I soon discovered that it is merely the practice of carrying a weighted rucksack for exercise. The online buzz seems primarily aimed at urban fitness buffs. If you search online, you will soon run across dedicated websites such as Ruckformiles.com and learn more, much more. And, you will not be surprised to discover several commercial ventures exist to assist one in outfitting for rucking with products specifically designed for the activity. What? Seriously? Yes!

GORUCK, the Rucking Company, assertively proclaims ‘Crush Calories. Get Strong. Rucking burns more calories than walking and builds strength.’ They sell purpose-built packs for rucking that feature internal sleeves constructed to accept ‘ruck weights,’ flat metal plates (They begin at $75 for the entry-level 10 lb. weight. Note: a gallon of water in a plastic jug weighs 8.34 lbs. and costs zilch.). A website popout exhorts ‘Join the Rucking Revolution.’ And asks for your email address, presumably to keep you informed on the latest in rucking, and rucking gear. GORUCK points out that rucking is a great way to get stronger and is easier on your knees than running. Sounds good. Really good. Need to learn more? Their website even provides links to GORUCK events and GORUCK Clubs. GORUCK encourages you to ‘Download the Sandlot app to find and join your local GORUCK club.’ It could make prospective ruckers wonder how they could have missed this next big thing. “All this was happening and I didn’t have a clue?”

GORUCK is not alone. Another entrepreneurial company, Kickstarter-funded ‘Wild Gym’ announces ‘Rucking Backpacks for Wild People.’ Their website urges ‘Build Strength. Get Outside’ and ‘Stay Wild. Join the League of Wildness.’ Who would not be swayed by that? Among other products, they sell a complete ‘Ruck System Bundle’ and in addition to metal ruck plates offer a self-fill weight bag with ‘Chop Wood. Carry Water' silkscreened on the back. ‘Holds up to 100 lbs. of sand. NOT to be filled with water.’ What? No wood nor water? Nonetheless still a very Zen pronouncement. And, the founder, Dan, a former Wildland Firefighter and Wilderness Ranger projects a friendly and inviting vibe.

Dan makes the case that their packs make rucking easier as they are custom-designed to carry the weight in the right place. He makes a compelling argument that a Wild Gym Rucking Pack is superior for this purpose when compared to a regular backpack, which may be difficult to pack properly with training weights. Keeping it simple, he offers two sizes of Rucking packs. By comparison, REI offers over 300 models of day packs and backpacking packs, a bewildering array to sort through and decide. I always laugh at REI’s so-called assortment planning. “Everything is not an assortment.” For any beginner interested in rucking the simple approach makes a lot of sense. For those of us who have a gear closet with an array of packs, less so. And, if we have been using them, are already well versed in how to load them with gear.

Both companies thoughtfully present a system approach that would appeal to anyone looking to get started with this hot ‘new’ training concept. Buy the gear, find a club, and join this cool tribe. But wait a minute. What they present is not groundbreakingly new. Anyone who has participated in, or knows of, basic military training is well familiar with the marching and double timing everywhere hauling a pack weighted with field gear, much of which you would never use, all the while shouting out raunchy call and response cadences with your case-hardened drill instructor. We have been here before. In fact, one could submit that it goes way back. Way back. Think of the Cro Magnon, early humans struggling forth, shouldering the burdensome loads of that era.

There are comparative attributes that help further differentiate the various activities that involve carrying loads on one's back. Urban vs. Wild. Elective vs. Required. Training vs. Task. Cool vs. Uncool. The new ‘rucking’ seems to be primarily urban, elective, training-focused, and presented with a healthy dose of cool. Alpine rucking is wild, elective, training-focused, and likely perceived as eccentrically uncool. And, young army recruits are participating in required, rather than elective, training. Cro Magnon hunters and the hod carriers of yore were most definitely task-focused, not training-oriented. But these varied activities can all achieve physical fitness, that is if done in moderation. Otherwise, they may just break you down. So, there is really nothing unique here. The load-bearing practice has just been updated and rebranded for a new generation.

Nevertheless, it seems that new age rucking is a worthy and effective approach for achieving physical and mental fitness, especially the getting outside part of it. Detach from the computer, put away your cell phone, and start moving. Feeling your body, seeing with new eyes, and smelling wild fragrances are a big part of the practice. I can endorse all of it, even buying the gear, if you feel so inclined. Whatever helps you overcome your body inertia and get moving. The practice itself is a worthy pursuit.

However, I will pass on the specialty rucking stuff as it is not designed for actual alpine adventures. I will keep loading my mountain packs with actual mountain gear and a few dead weights, random stuff lying around the garage, framing hammers, water jugs, and such. Such weight training refamiliarizes my body with my favorite alpine packs. That is worth something in achieving readiness for upcoming adventures. And, using gear that I already own is way less expensive than buying specialty gear just for rucking. I would rather have another lighter ice axe than a rucking pack. You see, I already find it too easy to be tempted by new mountaineering paraphernalia.

But no matter what path you choose, I encourage you to throw a weighted pack on your back, step outside, and get moving. ‘Just Ruck It!’

Alpine Reality Check

The grand plan, the big idea, was to complete the Stuart Range Traverse, to climb to the 9,415-foot summit of Mt. Stuart and then traverse along the ridge crest and summit each of the four other Stuart Range peaks to the east: Sherpa Peak, Argonaut Peak, Colchuck Peak, and Dragontail Peak. All in one single push. Nicolai proposed it to me and, from the comfort of my Seattle home, it sounded glorious, even epic. The traverse was probably unclimbed, but who knew? Probably not, and that added to the appeal.

“What a cool idea. Let’s do it!”

That was my usual response to Nicolai, as his projects always had some hook that took them a step beyond the ordinary, that thing to which I could not say no. So, I always just said, “Yes.”

I waited and impatiently waited some more. “Where is Nicolai?” I asked the question aloud even though I stood on the front porch of my house alone. Nicolai was late, and not the first time, and when he finally did show up, he wasn’t even ready to go. No, he needed to drive around town to pick up his rucksack somewhere, climbing gear somewhere else, and perform various other errands. Why was his climbing gear scattered all over town? Why doesn’t he have his gear stashed all in one place? It was a question that I asked myself but did not ask him.

I was fuming, but Nicolai was still my mountain mentor, the fearless leader, the high priest. And I was the acolyte, trailing behind, always trying to keep up, intent on learning and adding to my alpine experience and skill set. We were not equal in the realm of mountaineering. I did not feel like I was entitled to complain much. I was usually projecting forward to the journey ahead instead of being fully in the present moment. I would put up with Nicolai’s annoying ways today.

I breathed with some relief when he finally showed up. No apologies. That wasn’t his style. And so, I pitched my gear into the back seat and climbed in. I sat beside Nicolai, working on my patience skills, as Xanthus, his ’63 Ford Galaxy, lurched around town on a gear hunt before finally heading east and toward the mountains of the Stuart Range. My mood lightened as we entered the narrow forest road, my eagerness now in the forefront. Almost there.

The tires crunched and skidded on the rocks as we pulled up to the packed dirt trailhead in the mid-afternoon. I thought, “Great, what now?” I knew from a previous climb that we had a long, long approach ahead of us before we even set foot on Mt. Stuart. I wondered what Nicolai had been thinking. It was certainly no alpine start, far from it.

As he finished packing his rucksack, he turned and asked me, 

“What time is it?”

He had no watch. I consulted mine and informed him that it was three o’clock. He looked up, wearing a genuinely surprised expression, and after a pause exclaimed,

“Shit, we gotta haul ass!”

At that point, I knew I was in for it. I watched his muscular form disappear up the trail. I hurried to join him. I was used to trailing in Nicolai’s wake as he dragged me along on various climbs. He was always stronger, faster, and more skillful. But I figured that if I kept at it, I would catch up, at least the getting stronger and faster part of it.

That day would finally come, but it was not to be today. Today I was still straining to keep up. We barreled up the trail as the light faded towards sunset. When it got to the point that it was getting dark, we were still on our approach, nowhere near the base of the climb. No matter.

“We’ll stop here,” Nicolai announced as he took off his pack, unrolled his pad, and shook out his sleeping bag, making a spot to sleep right next to the trail. He crawled into his sleeping bag, and that was that. His snoring provided a distinctive audible counterpoint to the otherwise silent night. I zipped up my sleeping bag and wondered about tomorrow.

I woke to the sound of birds on a bright, sunny day and watched Nicolai’s sleeping form for a few minutes. I did not feel like waking him. After a moment, he stirred, looked around as if not sure where he was, and then suddenly jumped up. As he wadded his down sleeping bag into its stuff sack, he declared,

“It’s late. We gotta haul ass.”

And with that, we resumed our approach, hauling ass, phase two.

Still a relative novice and very much under the sway of my alpine mentor, I stashed my growing skepticism and continued, still wondering what might happen. How would this adventure unfold? While I did not know, I was still game. It was my alpine apprenticeship. And I accepted that.

We finally arrived at the base of the West Ridge route on Mount Stuart. I cheekily suggested that we might want to climb it nude. Nicolai readily agreed. He was known for his nude ascents, especially his nude ascent of Mount Rainier, the first and probably only one by anyone ever. A stunt that seemed a bit crazy, and one with no small amount of bravado and risk. I heard that the weather on Rainier, that day of his nude climb, had been perfect, or he would not have been able to pull it off. But pull it off, he did.

The weather on this day was warm and clear, the risk of freezing to death was, unlike on Rainier, slim, and I was eager to try this outrageous naked climbing thing by making a nude ascent of the West Ridge of Stuart. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We dropped our packs and took off our clothes. We stuffed them into our rucksacks and began climbing upward. I was self-aware in a whole new way. At first, I felt a bit smug. The heat of the sun warmed my skin, a satisfying sensation. This nude climbing was a cool thing to do. Definitely.

We climbed un-roped since the difficulty level of the route was well within our capabilities, and it also helped us make up some lost time. We stayed close together, climbing in tandem. Pitch after pitch went by, and as we got higher on the ridge, the immense scale of the mountain became ever magnified as I looked around and down. As we climbed further, a thought occurred to me. What if I fell? I did not expect to take a fall. Falling was a remote possibility in my rational mind, but the seemingly irrational thought would not go away.

By now, the novelty of climbing naked from one jagged granite block to another had worn off. No longer smug, I was just a small, naked climber, a mere speck, on the West Ridge of the mighty Mt. Stuart, the single greatest exposed mass of granite in the United States. My thinking had progressed to envisioning my small crushed body found bloody and naked on the rocks below after a horrendous, terminal fall.

For some reason, I thought it would certainly be okay for my lifeless body to be found, fully clothed, but not to be found stark naked. No, that would not do. I continued mulling this over, perhaps overthinking it. Yes, I was absolutely overthinking it. I climbed on and upward and as we neared Long John Tower, reached a decision. I called out,

“Hey Nicolai, hold up. I’ve had enough of this naked climbing. I’m going to put my clothes back on.”

Without a word, he patiently waited, and after I had hurriedly rejoined the world of the clothed, he turned, and we both continued up the ridge. We had not seen anyone else on the climb and thought that we might have the entire route to ourselves. That was not to be. We soon encountered another climbing party, fully roped and belaying their leader. The four all turned and stared as we approached, mouths open, no words.

The buck-naked Nicolai shouted out, “Do you mind if we climb through?”

And with no objection, we swiftly passed them by. Nicolai and I finally roped up and belayed each other for the more difficult 5.6 layback crux pitch near the summit and then, un-roped again, deftly made our way up the jumbled granite blocks to the top. The sun was slipping towards the horizon, painting the sky in warm orange hues. As we paused on the summit, Nicolai, bronzed and naked, crouched like a primate eating peanut M&Ms from the bag. We briefly rested there, savoring our accomplishment and the view ahead.

Resuming our mission, we carefully descended towards the notch between Mt. Stuart and Sherpa Peak. And it was there, in that rocky granite saddle, we bivouacked for the night, settling into our down sleeping bags, staring wordlessly up at the pinpoints of ancient lights in the moonless sky, as our conscious thoughts slowly faded to black.

The next morning, we confronted our painfully obvious situation. We had simply started too late to complete the traverse in the time we had left. Unfulfilled ambitions are not an uncommon part of the drill in the mountains. Usually, it’s the weather that forces you off the climb, but sometimes it’s just your poor groundwork, probably more often than you’d like to admit.

And sometimes it was both, the weather forcing you off first so you’d receive a reprieve from realizing that, without the weather as an excuse, you would have had to confront your slipshod planning. Often a climb could be sandbagged by decisions and actions that occurred at the beginning, before even one step of the approach. In that situation, it simply amounted to a lack of time, the product of the very late start.

If I had recognized my inner voice, the one with the cognitive feasibility litmus test, I would have acknowledged right at the trailhead that our quest would not succeed. No amount of hauling ass could make up the time that we needed. So, with some deep regrets, we descended from the saddle and hiked back down the Ingalls Creek Trail, trudging our way back toward civilization, now both fully clothed. While my partner Nicolai added another nude ascent to his portfolio, I made probably the only 50% nude ascent of Mt. Stuart ever. Of that, I am confident. Do I regret that I did not make a 100% nude ascent that day? I am still on the fence about that. And that’s okay.

Fortunately, we both emerged without any falls or minor injuries. I chalk it up to being in my bulletproof years. And yet, I continued saying “Yes” to a host of the gnarliest ideas imaginable. After all, we could always back off. And, that did happen on the Mount Index Traverse (after the North Peak), the Liberty Ridge route on Mount Rainier, and a few others. Of course, Nicolai and I suffered greatly in reprehensible weather on the Ptarmigan Traverse back in 1976. But somehow, I survived all those years of risk-filled adventures. I was fortunate as not all did.

That was long ago. These days I am more circumspect. Okay, I’ll just say it, more risk averse.  There are some routes that I will not undertake on a solo outing, and some not even with a partner. And, it goes without saying that I do not climb naked anymore. While I don’t want to die in the mountains, it is simpler than that. I value my mountain time so much that I want it to last forever. And, while forever is a long time I don’t want to miss any part of it that I might yet have. That means that I measure my steps and take extra care not to get injured. I am more realistic and selective in my choices, which is not always easy. What is easy is to sit in front of my computer gathering beta on various alpine projects while in my twenty-something frame of mind. My youthful mental construct where almost everything seems possible. I often suffer the dreams of my young mind in my now older body. Yes, I would like to climb Eldorado Peak again. No, not a repeat of the amazing West Ridge, but perhaps the snow-covered knife edge of the East Ridge. That should be quite a bit easier, and doable, right? Well, that depends.

This year, my friend Mark seemed determined to summit The Brothers, specifically the higher south peak, Mount Edward. Since he lives on a waterfront that overlooks the Olympic peninsula, he spent years gazing at the twin peaks every day. Those moments fed his obsession. Having climbed The Brothers in his youth, Mark now longed to share the iconic summit with his sons. He invited me to accompany him to recon the climb before inviting Tyler and Chase.

At first, I eagerly agreed to join him. However, after researching the route and terrain, I declined. It looked like too much unsavory territory to cover in quest of a summit, both on the approach and the climb itself. Too much suffering for too little fun. I would save myself for better routes. I called him and said so.

“My dear friend, I really want to do this for you, but I really don’t want to do it for me.”

I waited a beat for his response. He understood straightaway and let me off the hook. Relieved, I thought no more of it until I had returned from a recent solo ascent of Mount Defiance and received a text from Mark. He and the boys were heading up to do The Brothers. I paused in thought and then wished them luck and a safe climb.

I was not surprised to learn that both the route and conditions challenged them all. Mark’s hamstrings both suddenly seized up very near the summit, only 500 vertical feet away. To his consternation, he discovered he could not climb any further. He chalked it up to inadequate hydration on an unusually hot day. I could empathize, as the same thing had previously happened to me at the upper saddle below Hidden Lake Lookout. No amount of will could propel you forward. You just had to sit it out and then descend.

Tyler and Chase conferred with Mark, and with their decision made, the brothers continued up while their dad waited and worried. After an hour and a half of fretful anxiety, Mark looked up to see a small figure, Chase, energetically waving from the summit. His sons had both summited despite some fearsome moments. It was no small feat as another group of seasoned mountaineers had missed the final key to the summit, a narrow chimney, and had abandoned close to the top. That summit day and the subsequent hike out constituted a physical beatdown for all. They had persevered, surmounting steep loose rock, thick understory brush, and two trailside hornets’ nests. When I later heard the details, the conditions, and the obstacles they faced, I knew I had made the right choice, my decision criteria clearly validated.

Of course, there are some easier local hikes that I equivocate about but that is usually more about overcoming the inertia necessary to get out the door. My wife, Diane, provides encouragement by assertively urging, “Don’t wimp out.” That usually spurs me to action and I have another fine day in the mountains. Thank you, Diane.

Where is the dividing line that cleaves between ‘just do it’ and ‘don’t do it’ decisions? It varies. I have ascended the steep and loose climbers trail to the summit of Kendall Peak on a couple of solo outings and thought little of it but stopped short at the summit pyramid at McClellan Butte. Perhaps if I had been with a friend, I would have continued to the top. The steep rock face certainly looked well within my capabilities, but the significant exposure gave me pause. I was alone and the uncertainty of what might go wrong weighed on me. I regretted leaving it behind but justified the decision by telling myself that Diane would certainly kill me if I fell and died.

Now far older than when I embarked on my first alpine quests, I feel the heartbeat of time. I temper my ambitions by acknowledging the stark reality of my age and physical limitations. I think about that for my older companions as well. Even though my body still has all its original equipment it does not mean that every new arduous adventure makes me stronger. Hardly.

I later joked with Mark that every plan should heed to a personal ARC, my acronym for an ‘Alpine Reality Check.’ It is a mirror we should regard to help us snap out of denial and confront that both our alpine capabilities and mountain time are now regrettably limited. While it is not difficult to acknowledge that the days of fifth-class mixed alpine may now be well behind us, it is not quite so easy to mentally prepare to finally leave the stage. Perhaps we can ignore that a bit longer if we select the routes that allow us to stay in the game. Staying in the game. I cannot think of anything better.

Spires of Eden

While not much to look at, the provincial mountain town of Index was, in our unconstrained imagination, a stripped-down version of Chamonix, the famous French commune, a mecca for alpine climbers. Located on the North Fork of The Skykomish River in the western foothills of the Cascades, the little town was not even visible from Highway 2.

There was only a sign. But once you drove into town, you could see the dramatic and easily accessible sheer rock cliffs of the Upper and Lower Town Walls. Those granite destinations hosted over forty vertical rock routes like City Park, Snow White, Japanese Gardens, and Breakfast of Champions.

Across Highway 2, the three peaks of Mt. Index - Main, Middle, and North jutted prominently skyward. A dramatic rock palisade, clearly visible to the south of Index, their profiles were so classically alpine and visually stunning that they could make a climber’s heart flutter. The desire they created was palpable. Who among us would not yearn to ascend those peaks? And the loftiest of goals was the traverse, to climb not only the North Peak but to complete a series of ascents across the summits of the other two peaks, all in one push.

Denny and I first met one spring at the Peshastin Pinnacles when we climbed various practice routes. Later, as a two-person team, we had successfully climbed the long and strenuous Gerber-Sink North Face route on the massive granite face of Dragontail Peak, only four years after the first ascent. As a climber, he was tall, lean, capable, and experienced. He possessed an inner fire that drove him to tackle and summit as many peaks as he could fit into his time away from work. I admired his ambition and felt well aligned with his resolve in achieving alpine objectives. We seemed a good fit, a good team.

Having discussed what we wanted to tackle next, the climb that stood out was the North Face of the North Peak of Mt. Index, the most legendary of the Index trio, and then the traverse of the other two peaks. The Index Traverse was an ambitious concept, a challenging multi-day event, but we felt it within our capabilities. Full of alpine dreams and the unflagging optimism and energy of youth, we packed our gear and headed to Index.

The base of the North Peak of Mt. Index rose dramatically from the rocky shores of Lake Serene, rising over 2,800 feet to the summit from the lake basin. The three-and-a-half-mile route to the lake was more of a rugged climber’s trail than a hiker’s path, nearly a complete bushwhack, steep, brushy, and muddy. In many sections, the footing was so steep and slippery that you would have to grab the branches of the ubiquitous slide alder, Alnus viridis, grasping hand over hand to help pull yourself up.

Lake Serene was a lovely name, a name that exuded the promise of a placid alpine destination with a picturesque view. A place to bring someone special, a place to pause and picnic. As I struggled up the so-called trail, I laughed to myself, musing that Lake Serene was a day hiker trap, a cruel joke that probably lured legions of the unsuspecting out for what they imagined would be a walk in the park. It was that damn name. If it had been called Lake Fearsome, Lake Loathing, Lake Despicable, or something like that, people would have thought twice about it.

If there is any truth in advertising, you could note that yes, it was serene once you got there, and the view was picturesque, in fact stunning, but the hike was most definitely not a serene experience.

Sweat ran down my forehead as I fought my way through the slide alder and up the muddy slope. Were we ever going to get out of this stuff? It seemed a very inauspicious beginning to what we had envisioned as an alpine dream climb. It annoyed me. The lake was not even our destination, merely a way station before our primary goal, the technical climbing of the peak. The exasperating route to the lake was what climbers, offhandedly and sometimes dismissably, referred to as the approach.

We soon forgot the annoyance of the arduous brushy hike. We broke out of the slide alder and dense conifers to confront the three stunning summits. They completely dominated the view across the sparkling waters of the high alpine lake. Even in summer, there were still snowfields above the talus at the base of the mountain. It was a quintessential storybook alpine scene that held us in awe.

The weather was bright, the air crisp with the scent of tree needles, and the stunning view held forth the promise of why we had come. We paused at the lake, drank from the cold waters, and topped off our water bottles. Now that we had the warm-up of the approach behind, the real work could begin.

The plan was to climb the North Face of the North Peak, bivy at the top, and complete the traverse of the other two peaks the next day. It was a decent plan, as plans go, but the condition of the route up the North Peak was far from what we had expected. We were naive. We expected a straightforward ascent of clean solid granite with most pitches to be crack climbs. Instead, early on, we encountered long sections with significant exposure that I would later describe as a vertical bushwhack.

Scary pitches of dirty, loose rock and insubstantial vegetation offered no opportunity for roped protection. So, we climbed simultaneously and very carefully. It was both physically and mentally exhausting, as appalling conditions often are. While good rock can inspire confidence and augment your physical enjoyment, crappy pitches suck away at you, both physically and psychically.

It was only near the top, the last three pitches before the summit, that we encountered any decent rock and opportunities to place protection with confidence. We climbed those fine pitches roped, and they were a joy. Would that the balance of the climb had been so satisfying. But no, it was not. It was regrettably a Jekyll and Hyde route.

Mt. Stuart and Dragontail Peak had ruined me. Those north face routes themselves were pretty darn clean, mostly clear of vegetation and soil, and the quality of granite was superb. They were immaculate by comparison. Although there were always loose blocks in the couloirs, most of the rock was solid, and you could depend on it. That was not the case on Mt. Index. The dismal quality of the route led me to despise the climb, and by extension, the peak, even before our summit bivouac.

Beckey’s climbing guide had pointed out the dirty, loose brushy conditions but had minimized them. We did not know that, and even if we had been told about it in advance, we probably would have ignored it since we had a predetermined vision of what this climb should be, and that drove us forward. It had looked so pristine from the little town of Index. We would have been in complete denial.

And we also revered Fred Beckey. He was a legend even then. No, he had not yet achieved national name recognition, but everyone who climbed in the Pacific Northwest either knew him or knew of him. He had climbed this route and so, like other acolytes, we followed in his footsteps. If Beckey had climbed it, we should climb it. Of course, that completely ignored the reality that it might be a scary and unsatisfying event. I did not even consider that possibility. Denny probably didn’t either.

Arriving at the top, we unroped and found the summit register, a short section of galvanized pipe with two threaded end caps. Inside was an old curled paper book and a stub of a pencil. We entered our names and exchanged the grim smiles of our fatigue. After the momentary satisfaction of the successful ascent and taking a couple of summit photos, my thoughts shifted to the traverse. I climbed down a few steps from the top to further examine the section that we would need to downclimb or rappel to continue our traverse to the Middle Peak. I did not like what I saw.

I gazed at a ragged jumble of granite blocks that appeared to have been angrily tossed down into the saddle by the forces of gravity that continually erode mountains. The whole daunting mess down to and across the deeply knifed Middle-North Peak notch looked highly unstable. I was not a big fan of steep loose rock this size, especially with the kind of exposure we had at that elevation. It was one thing to plunge step down a scree field near a run-out, but this looked treacherous. I could not see riding one of these fractured blocks to the bottom. 

Getting from the North Peak to the Middle Peak had all the appearances of a delicate and significantly risky undertaking. Maybe I was an alpine elitist, but I already had mixed feelings about the route we had just completed and found myself rapidly losing interest in the traverse. Even though we had just bagged the North Peak, I felt no enthusiasm to continue.

“So be it,” I said to myself. “There’s nothing more to see here folks, move along.” There were other, much better climbs to spend my time on.

As the sun departed, we slipped into down jackets and half bags over thin foam pads amongst the tumble of boulders at the summit and pulled our nylon bivy sacks over us. We prepared for a sleep that would not come. It was another one of those nights on a mountain bivouac. If it were not for my anxiety about the conditions of the climbing ahead, I might have laid in wonderment looking up at the star-filled universe above us, merging with the infinite, before slowly drifting away.

Instead, I lay awake, silently awfulizing about what could go wrong on the traverse, a continuous disaster loop playing in my overactive mind. Hours later, I finally made my decision. “Fuck it!” My fun meter indicator had been dropping rapidly and was near pegging zero. I was definitely done. My new game plan was to feign sleeping in and hope that my climbing partner Denny had an interminably rough sleepless night and would agree to abandon the traverse until sometime in the indeterminant future.

“Hey, we can always come back again,” I would say and then we would pack our gear and descend. Well, I lucked out as that did happen. We departed that morning, rappelling down our brushy ascent route. It would be countless years before I returned, and even then, not to the peak that had once captured my youthful mountain dreams.

That was so long ago that I have now embellished the best parts of that climb in my memory and can laugh at the absurd conditions that contributed to the worst parts of that experience. These days a vastly improved trail with countless cribbed steps makes the lake access far less arduous. And so, Lake Serene is now one of the most visited destinations in that part of the Cascades. 

Last year I impulsively decided to return and revisit that pristine sapphire beauty and the sharp peaks that towered above it. Having ascended Mount Defiance on a solo outing the week before I thought the hike to Lake Serene would be a comparative walk in the park. Given the stats on WTA, 8.2 miles round trip, with 2,000 feet of gain I thought “Easy, no problem.” and decided to take my heavier camera gear. I vaguely remembered the trail from a prior visit in 2014. I would venture forth alone to savor the place at my own pace.

Perched in a small basin at the foot of the three rocky peaks of Mount Index, Lake Serene is one of the most iconic lakes in Washington’s Cascades, a dramatic spot to rest and reflect. The now popular hike is easily accessible from the Seattle area, the trailhead only a quarter mile off Highway 2, the forest road taking a right just before the narrow steel truss bridge that crosses the South Fork of the Skykomish River.

My Garmin GPS measured the hike to the lake that day at 7.85 miles round trip with 2,402 feet of cumulative elevation gain, with most of the gain happening in the last 1.5 miles just before the lake. The first couple of miles were deceptively easy, the proverbial backcountry stroll. But when the trail began its determined ascent to the lake it really got down to business. Relentlessly rocky and steep, it featured more than 300 wood cribbed steps that intermittently navigated the narrow switchbacks. That part of the trail was surprisingly strenuous. Later, during my descent, I encountered many groups of upcoming hikers, often with hopeful smiles. looking up with fatigued expressions and all asking the same question, “How much further?” Fortunately, the lakeside destination was well worth the effort and I encouraged them all.

I started early, just after 7:00 a.m., and had the trail to entirely myself until near the top when I was passed by another hiker, a friendly woman from England. I soon caught up with her at the sprawling lakeside rock apron, ‘Lunch Rock’ and we visited for a while before I set up my tripod to take enough images for a spherical panorama. Soon other hikers arrived. We had the brilliant place to ourselves for only a few minutes.

I adapted, incorporating the other hikers into my images. I willed myself to become invisible to them all as I immersed myself in my workflow, taking many extra frames to allow for the selection of the best during my editing process. I did not art direct any of them. Extemporaneous poses were always so much more interesting. The process was intensive but far easier than the ascent of the peak so many years ago. There was more time to be in the present expansive moment than absorbed in the focused, sometimes sketchy work of ascent. 

Once satisfied, I slowly hiked back to the long log bridge that crossed the jumbled deadfall of the lake outlet. I paused before the narrow span, reluctant to leave. I scanned the scene, one last look I thought, and in the process discovered a faint spur trail that I had not noticed before. The brushy path seemed to radiate an energy of mystery and discovery. Pushing past leafy branches, my curiosity willed me forward. I soon heard the noise of cascading water that I could not yet see. The trail ended. Searching, I continued. Finally, venturing further up a forested knoll and climbing over a large downed tree, I descended through steep brush to a jutting rocky precipice. Now gifted with a viewpoint that looked across the wild terrain, the hidden waterfall finally revealed itself, furiously tumbling over steep granite slabs, I stopped, held there by the beauty of it all.

This was a spot few had yet visited, an overlook clearly overlooked. It deserved my attention, and perhaps a panorama. As I slowly, carefully rotated my body, examining the visual sphere before me, seeking an inspired photographic composition, I noticed a window between the towering lakeside conifers. They embraced a dramatic view of the three peaks of Mount Index.

As I prepared for my shoot, I took horizontal exposure tests using that mountain view. My trusty 15 mm Sigma fisheye lens created the usual pleasing curving distortion. The trees arched skyward toward each other, intimately framing the stunning granite peaks. The scene that day, as seen through my viewfinder, took me back to France, to Chartres Cathedral, where I had once stood still in the soaring space, gazing in awe of the brilliant stained-glass windows framed by a host of graceful stone columns. Today I stood in awe of an unexpected wild and magnificent alpine cathedral. I paused in silent reverence, transfixed, so grateful for the ethereal scene. This little gem of a place was not far from the usual spots where most hikers stopped. I mused that even small places that may seem to be of no consequence can still bring the magic. They are out there everywhere, just waiting to be found. I reminded myself that all it takes is unleashing my imagination, opening my consciousness, and truly seeing what lies before me. 

Author’s Note: The first part of this story appears in ‘Banquet of the Infinite,’ a memoir of my adventures in the mountains and outdoor business in the ‘70s. It is an excerpt from a chapter titled ‘The Choices We Make.’ Available as an illustrated eBook at Amazon Kindle Press, Barnes & Noble Press, and Kobo Books.

Here are links to the spherical panoramas that I took on my latest visit. For the most immersive experience, click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to enter those places.

Lake Serene and Mt. Index from Lunch Rock: https://www.360cities.net/image/lake-serene-lunch-rock-mt-baker-snoqualmie-national-forest-wa

The Alpine Cathedral and Hidden Waterfall from the overlooked overlook: https://www.360cities.net/image/mount-index-valley-overlook-trail-mt-baker-snoqualmie-national-forest-wa

The Last Ice Axe

It hit me with a wallop. Stunned, I barely held back my tears. It had once been so robust and magnificent, a vast field of ice. Now only a fractured patch. An emotional despondence overtook and overwhelmed me in that moment. I had come so far to gaze upon it once more, and most of it was now gone, probably forever.

The steep climber’s trail took me to Horseshoe Lake, a liquid sapphire in a high alpine bowl. I wanted to regard the north side of Mt. Stuart, a mountain I had climbed by three different routes in my youth. The classic North Ridge had been my first, and I wished to see it again. Not easily visible from Lake Stuart, the much higher and closer lake would provide a stunning view. And later, perhaps the opportunity to hike nearer, climb onto the Stuart Glacier, and photograph the stunning granite buttress.

I imagined myself high on the ice, setting my tripod beneath the towering flank of the fabled North Ridge, and looking up the steep and slender Stuart Glacier Couloir, recalling my climbs from so long ago. I yearned to bask in the remembrance of those glorious exploits as I readied my camera to make several spherical panoramas. Sadly, it was not to be. My plight was to stand back in shock and absorb a tragic loss. Not an inexplicable loss, because I knew the reasons why, the irrefutable ravages of human-caused climate change. It shook me nonetheless. Yet, I felt a surge of denial in the face of the reality in front of me. It seems that we will not easily accept that for which we are not yet emotionally prepared.

I remained on my rocky perch regarding the glacier. It looked so sad, so forlorn, I could not approach it. Remembering the day that I had once traversed the vast glacier from Goat Pass to the North Ridge, I sighed. Ice axes in hand, we four quickly crossed the sun-cupped surface unroped, always mindful of potential rockfall from above and the gaping crevasses below. It was as if we had entered the gates of an alpine cathedral, the day bright and shiny, with the promise of a crystalline granite ascent and a magnificent summit ahead. That spectacular day was now only a memory, never to be repeated.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had hiked to the Source Lake overlook to see The Tooth, my first multi-pitch alpine rock climb. I expected to ascend to Pineapple Pass, the base of the South Face route. Visualizing a photographic composition from that site, in my mind already stunning, I continued. The narrow trail abruptly ended in a steep talus field high above the lake. The balance of the route would be up and across a daunting expanse of sharp, loose rock. Only rock. No snow. Hardly inviting, certainly time-consuming, and surely not much fun.

Where was the vast snowfield that we had ascended in 1974? My thoughts drifted to the past.

When Nicolai first invited me to climb The Tooth he added,

“Bring an ice axe.”

I responded in the affirmative, not letting him know that I had no ice axe. That would be lame, I thought, to straightaway admit that. At the first opportunity, I hurried down to the REI on Capitol Hill and perused their selection of ice axes, all freely hanging on a wall. No one helped me, and perhaps I did not want to be assisted and thus reveal myself as a lowly novice.

I picked up a nice-looking axe, which was my primary criterion, not knowing anything. It had a sleek lacquered hickory shaft with a polished steel head sporting a sharp adze and a slightly curved pick. A pointed steel spike at the other end completed the package. The pick blade was stamped ‘CAMP Made in Italy.’ Looks good, I thought. I swung it a bit. It felt good. But what did I know? And then, the decision made, I headed to the cash register. The feeling in that moment was somewhat euphoric. I had my first ice axe. It was a beauty, and I was on my way.

We headed up the Snow Lake trail from the Alpental parking lot and passed into a truly alpine environment. A brilliant sunny day spoke of possibilities. We left the hiking trail and, after passing Source Lake, encountered snow.

Nicolai pulled his ice axe from his pack, and I did the same. He began ascending the steep snow slope, kicking steps, and plunging the spike into the snow. I watched and, a bit unsure of myself quickly called out.

“Hey, how do you use this thing?”

The cat was now out of the bag. I did not know shit about travel on snow or ice.

Nicolai did not give me the business about it or laugh in my face. Like a patient mentor, he explained the rudiments of ice axe use for glacier travel, demonstrating the techniques. I picked it up quickly, relieved that my little bit of instruction had gone so well, and we continued toward the base of the granite spire known as The Tooth.

I remember that brilliant day well. The three-pitch technical climb, relatively straightforward, athletic, and satisfying, led to a descent that proved to be big fun as well. We rappelled back down the climbing route, taking it slowly, savoring both the place and the process, and were soon back on snow, the softer mushy snow of the hot afternoon. I was elated. The day had been perfect, and in a real sense, I had been spoiled. Not all alpine rock climbs would be of that quality and rarely conducted on such a fine day.

Gazing at the approach, once a vast snowfield, now only jumbled granite, I exhaled and paused. Would I climb the tortuous talus to reach Pineapple Pass today? My yearning to be there again fought with my now older self, the self that felt the photo opportunity was probably not worth the extra effort. That and an ounce of caution due to the potential for injury on a solo outing. I took some panoramas of the cirque from where I was, and once satisfied, departed. It had been a fine day even without revisiting Pineapple Pass. Perhaps sometime next season, with an enthusiastic companion, I said to myself.

Previously, Mark and I hiked up to Cascade Pass and then Sahale Arm in one of the most magnificent alpine environments in the North Cascades. Our plan, hike to the Sahale Glacier Camp, high on the shoulder of Sahale Mountain, and use that location for some dramatic mountain photography. We tent-camped at Marble Creek Campground the night before to split up the long drive from the Seattle area and get to the trailhead early. Up before dawn, we drove the rutted road to our departure point. The weather remained in transition, uncertain, but encouraging.

It reminded me of the day when Nicolai and I had embarked on the Ptarmigan Traverse so many years before. That day the ephemeral promise of fair weather rapidly evaporated at Cascade Pass, changing to pelting rain and blowing snow for our next three days of the rugged mountain traverse. We nearly froze to death.

Today would be different I thought as we hiked the first miles to the pass. The next section would be more challenging. After ascending the steep granite switchbacks, we followed the trail up the Sahale Arm’s exposed ridgeline and encountered a stiff cold wind. After the warmth of the switchbacks, the transition required layering up, and wind shells. 

Several bands of mountain goats, many with kids, passed over the trail, often nearby. One senior goat came close, regarding me, evaluating whether I was a troublemaker or not. After determining that I was no threat, the decisive leader guided the group past. We resumed hiking. I took to a prominent knoll on the arm, about three-quarters of a mile from the high camp, set up my tripod, and took several sets of photographs. The fast-moving clouds both tormented and pleased me by alternately obscuring and revealing Sahale Mountain, Mix-up Peak, The Triplets, and Johannesburg Mountain. After thirty minutes in the icy wind, my hands were freezing. Satisfied, we chose not to continue to the Sahale Glacier Camp and headed back down. The frigid wind had beaten us.

Though the Sahale Glacier appeared smaller than I had expected, I did not realize the full extent of it until I returned home. I compared my current photographs to those I took looking back from the Cache Glacier as Nicolai and I climbed toward Cache Col on our 1976 Ptarmigan Traverse. The difference was significant, staggering. And, the same was true when I examined the present state of the Cache Glacier. I knew then that my romantic desire to repeat the Ptarmigan Traverse might never be realized. And, even if I embarked on the route again, it would never be the same. The glorious ermine robes of snow that once so fully cloaked the spiky peaks would now be forever diminished.

Though I had traversed the massive South Cascades Glacier during that Ptarmigan Traverse, I had not seen it in person since. Recent photographs were my only source of information on the state of its glacial ice. In those, the retreat, the loss of glacial mass balance, was dramatic. And yet those pictures seemed somewhat abstract, only a view from a distance, captured in a photograph by someone else. While I cognitively processed the dire situation, the photographs conveyed little of the emotional impact of perceiving the loss firsthand. To return to those places I had traveled before, to see them up close, my eyes immersed in the moment, the changes made real, my emotions unleashed. It felt like witnessing the death of a loved one. 

I did not think of it at the time, but looking back, I realize this mountain season was, for me, a regrettable trilogy of loss. And, of the three, the last, the Stuart Glacier was the one that truly burst the dam of my emotions. If I am honest with myself, they all broke my heart. I felt my own personal solastalgia.

Solastalgia is a new thesis that we are destined to encounter with increasing frequency. The environmental philosopher, Glenn Albrecht developed the concept to provide clarity to the psychological impact of environmentally induced stress. It is an emotive experience we feel when we encounter the negative effects of human-caused environmental change. It can range from observing and feeling the impact of strip mining to retreating glaciers, experienced as a form of distress that is exacerbated by our perception that we are powerless before the process of irreversible environmental change.

I experience it as a profound form of loss of which I am not yet capable of wrapping my emotions around. It takes time. Years ago, I spoke about loss with a friend who was a developmental psychologist. I observed that as I aged the experience of processing loss was becoming more frequent. He replied, “It becomes constant.” I absorbed his sobering statement. It resonated with truth. And, I did not minimize it.

While my earlier observation was about the loss of people we knew and often loved, it has now become even more true in the high alpine context. It now confronts me every year. I regretfully acknowledge I will not likely revisit most of the mixed alpine climbs that remain forever enshrined in my fondest memories. Those icy places are no longer the same, much smaller, shadows of their former selves, and often worse, gone forever. That disconcerting recognition and the pain of it has stayed with me and probably always will.

I later wryly mused that ice axe sales might well be plummeting given the atrocious conditions of recent years. Perhaps there would be no point in making any more of them. Curious, I sought confirmation. It seems that I was wrong. Industry reports project ramping demand for ice axes as the number of people flocking to mountain sports steadily increases. Sales certainly cannot be driven by the accumulation of ice. It is not happening. Many of the most revered ice climbs have completely disappeared from the planet, or are in the process of doing so. Okay, many steep snow and ice climbs might still be viable in a very narrow early season window of time, after consolidation, and before they rapidly melt out. You certainly will not see the same amount of north-facing ice we used to see in years past. The Stuart Glacier Couloir, once viable in summer is now nothing but rock. The Black Ice Couloir on the Grand Teton is not always filled with the ice of yore. It has melted out and reformed, many times, depending on seasonal weather. What once we took for granted, we can no longer expect. Those days now seem irrevocably lost.

These now shorter windows for peak conditions will make the steep ascents even more tricky. I recall the three unfortunate climbers who lost their lives on Colchuck Peak’s Northeast Couloir this recent February. They had come from the East Coast, were unfamiliar with the local mountains and snowpack, and had a short climbing window based not on mountain conditions but on their travel agenda. The lead climber released the avalanche as he planted his ice axe. Though the slide was relatively small, the couloir was narrow and steep, and their falls long, and traumatic. The exposed rock and choked walls were deadly that day. I submit that they ignored the unfavorable conditions as their planned ascent was driven by a self-imposed timetable, rather than what the mountain might wisely suggest.

I did not make light of their deaths. As always, I felt grief, a grief that I had experienced before, for all those who had perished, many of whom I had known. I wished their deaths were not true and that I had not heard of them. But they held a very important lesson. If you were going to stay in the game, you could not turn away from the deaths. You really needed to pay attention to those mishaps, learn from them, and take the lessons with you as you would with any piece of acquired gear or technique. You did not want those thoughts to dominate your consciousness, and you did not want to treat them blithely either, because they mattered. A lot.

Despite that cautionary knowledge, we still yearn to ascend those icy faces and couloirs. We know it will demand even more scrutiny of conditions, seasoned judgment, considerable patience, the requisite skill to succeed, and the wisdom to know when to walk away. It all seems more difficult than ever before.

As we imagine our future alpine objectives, paging through dog-eared guidebooks and online beta searches, it is all too easy to imagine we might need another ice axe. Yeah, that Colchuck Glacier sure looks inviting. Maybe a newer, shorter, lighter axe? Perhaps no other piece of mountaineering gear better symbolizes the alpine quest, the timeless romance of the adventure ahead. Each new axe is accompanied by a compellingly glorious vision of what might be.

My old climbing partner Nicolai once derisively observed, “People often buy gear and think they’re climbing.”

Yes, our mountaineering visions and acquisitive yearnings are often difficult to subdue. Ice axes are fun mountain tools, and it is all too easy to think that you might need another. But, if you pay attention, your rational mind will tell you that your gear closet is nearly full, and ask if you really need one more ice axe, probably destined to remain pristine and new, unscathed by the hard edges of the alpine world. And, the current dismal state of alpine ice makes it even easier to say no to that acquisitive impulse. Perhaps our yearning is a form of sorrowful denial in the face of that which we can see but cannot change. I have considered that thought, held up the mirror, and concluded I already have the last ice axe I will ever own.

Author’s Note: Links to three of several contemporary spherical panoramas I took at each of the places mentioned in this story are provided below. I find the images haunting. For the most immersive experience, click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to enter those places.

Mount Stuart, Horseshoe Lake Overlook, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/mount-stuart-horseshoe-lake-overlook-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa

The Hidden Waterfall, Source Lake Cirque, Snoqualmie Region, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/the-hidden-waterfall-source-lake-cirque-snoqualmie-region-wa-usa 

Sahale Mountain, Sahale Arm, North Cascades National Park, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/sahale-mountain-sahale-arm-north-cascades-national-park-wa

Oracle on Boat Street

Mixed alpine - snow, ice, and rock and all manner of mountain climbing could be at its best an exhilarating and almost religious experience, but more often than not was a compromise with conditions, partners, and weather. Sometimes it could be no less than a deal made with the devil. A dirty, wet, windy, freezing, interminable undertaking with faulty route-finding, questionable companions, and bad judgment all mixed up in a witch’s brew to make you wish that you were anywhere but on your particular route. In other words, a harsh and unforgiving experience that made you question why the fuck were you up there when you could be doing something more comfortable, rewarding, and safe. 

The risk of injury and sometimes death was always there, not only from the weather or your incompetence or foolishness, not to mention that of your climbing partners but quite often from what is known as objective dangers. What you may ask are objective dangers?

The first thing that comes to mind is falling rocks, from pebbles to car-size boulders. Gravity launching them towards the base of your climb, an intimidating and dangerous menace, bouncing haphazardly, down couloirs and faces alike, crashing and whizzing by with an ominous buzz like the wings of giant hummingbirds. 

Sometimes you couldn’t see them coming. You just heard the distinctive sound. And when you could see them, they were so fast and erratic that sometimes the best you could do was make yourself as small as possible by crouching into the rock in front of you. Avalanches and general disintegration of the mountain environment also fit into the classification, mudslides, falling trees, and so forth.

In the mountains, you needed to realize that nothing was static. Everything was dynamic. No amount of good judgment or technical skill could make you completely immune to what could go wrong. You needed to proceed skillfully, thoughtfully, and without hesitation. The best way to do that was to emulate the decisive actions of a seasoned ‘hardman.’

A state of being that we all aspired to, in the alpine context the hardman was an exceptionally tough climber who had accomplished climbs of epic difficulty and danger under the most arduous conditions. The hardman could not only put up with the worst conditions and questionable situations but could keep a clear head and persevere, do what was necessary, and get the job done. The hardman was not only physically tough but had the mental fortitude to match. In other words, a mythic god among men.

The most renowned hardman of the era was the famous English climber, Don Whillans. I and my climbing friends continually sought his and other hardman stories to inspire and fuel our alpine desires. And the best place to read about their exploits and courage was Mountain magazine, the premier European alpine monthly. It had gravitas, serious writing, and gritty black and white photos that took us along with the exploits of the hardmen of the English crags, the Alps, the Karakoram, and beyond.

We devoured their stories and poured over their images, hardmen in hard places. Mountain provided a mythic vision of a heroic world that stoked the flames of our alpine desires. And the best, and probably the only, place in Seattle at that time to find Mountain was the Swallow’s Nest.

The Swallow’s Nest was most definitely a destination shop, sitting on an obscure street under a bridge near the U district, Boat Street. Dark inside, it took a moment for your eyes to adjust, and you almost expected someone to greet you by asking for the password. The Nest, metaphorically presenting itself as a mecca for the hardcore, a temple, and a private club with a secret knock. It was brilliant, really, and we were drawn to it like moths to a flame, a veritable candy store for climbers.

An ordinary side door provided entry to an unassuming old wood-frame building in the Boat Street Marina area along Seattle’s Portage Bay. If you had no idea what was inside, it might seem like a dump of a place. From the outside, it appeared as incognito retailing.

The narrow, crowded store featured a carefully edited selection of premier mountain gear from Europe and the US, all displayed on wooden wall shelves and ceiling hooks. Not much more spacious than someone’s bedroom with a large walk-in closet, it was crammed with gear and apparel for mixed alpine mountaineering. The feeling was immediately intimate.

The first time I entered to shop, I stopped a couple of feet in, had a wow moment, and took a slow 180 to gain a sense of orientation and allow the colors and textures to wash over me. The environs presented as such a rich tableau you knew that it would require thorough examination. Considered scrutiny would be the order of the day as this was not a place you rushed into, spent a few minutes, and rapidly departed. No, this was something special.

A big old potbellied wood-burning stove anchored an alcove to the left of the door as you entered the shop. Their alpine reference library featured a well-worn wooden bench and second-hand chairs, and natural pine shelves with the latest alpine magazines: Mountain, Off Belay, Summit, Climbing, and various domestic and international mountain books and climbing guides. Immediately drawn in, I perused their offering, picking up, examining, and then sitting down, settling in and reading, ensconced in the warm and welcoming place. Their little library resonated with a feeling of community and authority, establishing this little hidden treasure of a shop as ‘the place.’

The Swallow’s Nest was the physical actualization of a vision created by the guys at the helm, Bill Sumner, Mike Heath, and Clark Gerhardt, all university academics and accomplished climbers. I recognized the pure genius of providing a place where you could spend time shelling and eating the peanuts they had laid out by the stove and steeping yourself in alpine lore. Both unique and comforting, it helped you feel that you belonged. The importance of that could not be overestimated. It reeked of authenticity. Because of that, it may well have increased your desire to walk out of the shop with your latest piece of gear so you could better access your next project. After all, we all needed the right gear.

The guys at the Swallow’s Nest were clever. They didn’t rush up as soon as you entered and ask to help you. That would have been awkward. God forbid you should be asked if you needed help. These guys knew the game. They let you be because you needed that. No one in their right mind was going to risk looking like the village idiot by admitting that they didn’t know something and needed help. That would be to admit your ineptitude and lack of experience. Instead, the Swallow’s Nest guys busied themselves tending shop until you put something on the counter and struck up a conversation.

Because of the small space, there weren’t rows and rows of items. Conventional retailers would call it a carefully edited assortment. Everything was preselected based on the climbing expertise of the owners. If it was there, on the shelf, you could bank on it being the right stuff. You could trust it.

Except for apparel, where there would be a range of sizes, the gear displays were usually single items. For example, one Galibier Peuterey boot, one Chouinard-Salewa Rigid Crampon, each in its little shelf space and right in front of you so you could pick it up and handle it. Even the climbing hardware was right up front, nothing in a glass case. It was a very physical experience. And that was important because this was likely gear you had never seen before and more importantly, gear that you might stake your life on, high in the mountains. You absolutely needed to touch it, scrutinize it. And you could and did and no one hovered over you.

Their sales technique was brilliant. Every product that sat on a shelf, hung on a wall, rack, or hook on the ceiling had a 3x5 card with a description of the item, where it came from, why you’d need it, how you’d use it, and of course the price. A veritable reference gallery of products with snippets of key information conveyed on handwritten cards. The text was thoughtfully written, engaging, and informative, and the calligraphy was utilitarian and professional. These little cards actually sold the products.

Anyone from day hikers, backpackers, and novice climbers to more capable mountaineers could navigate the store and make an informed purchasing decision without ever revealing that they weren’t already a seasoned hardman simply replenishing worn-out gear. Nowadays, there’s a name for these tiny signs, ‘shelf talkers,’ but this was earlier and much more erudite and personal than any such cards I have seen since.

In my mind, their approach was retailing genius. But it’s likely the little cards were developed more out of the practicality of convenience, so they, the proprietors, wouldn’t have to keep answering the same questions over and over. Nevertheless, I appreciated the shelf talkers and they were highly effective.

The Nest even had its proprietary Swallow label clothing. Louise Beardsley created and sewed colorful nylon windbreakers, cagoules, gaiters, and other gear designed specifically for the needs of the Swallow’s Nest customers. I heard that she lived in the mountain town of Index where she had her shop. She would commute to Seattle from time to time whenever she had a fresh batch of her mountaineering apparel.

Her designs stood out not only for their simple functionality but their bright color combinations. The standard color scheme for shell garments at REI was either solid green or solid blue, so Louise’s distinctive mountain clothing added even more luster to the Nest. And this was before Patagonia came out with twenty colors of fleece jackets. I still have my purple nylon anorak windbreaker with the red trim and yellow barrel-shaped cord locks on the drawstrings.

The Swallow’s Nest – it was like a nest, all tight and cozy inside. It also had the magic of the name; the Swallow’s Nest was a bivouac at the end of the Hinterstosser Traverse on the North Face of the Eiger, one of the most daunting alpine climbs in all of Europe. It was a name for people who knew, and it positioned the store as the place for specialty gear beyond that of the more pedestrian outdoor retailers.

For Mike, Bill, and Clark, it wasn’t just about selling stuff. They created a multi-purpose environment with opportunities for perusing and ogling gear, talking shop with the staff about equipment, route conditions, and latest exploits, or just reading the latest climbing porn by the warmth of the wood-fired stove. A theme park in miniature, providing not only literature, gear, and apparel but also the comforting shelter of a climbing hut, and we loved it.

More than a simple refuge, the Swallow’s Nest existed as a physical symbol that represented the robust presence of our local tribe of mountaineering enthusiasts. That image was burnished by the community events that the owners organized and sponsored. 

I approached Chris Bonington after his presentation in a university lecture hall to sign my copy of his latest book, Everest, the Hard Way. The title of the presentation chronicled the British teams’ first ascent of the South West face of Everest, a grueling ascent of the steepest face on the mountain. He finished his slide show with stories from the expedition, and we young enthusiasts queued up to get close to the man who was already renowned in the climbing world, his accomplishments writ large in Mountain magazine.

He signed my copy, “To Bill, All the best, Chris Bonington.”

The inscription seemed somewhat generic, but I felt that he meant it, and I loved it. Only 13 years older than I, he was supremely approachable and, while a committed and serious climber, he also had a quality of sincere earnestness about him. Twenty years later, he would be knighted for his service to the sport, to be henceforth known as Sir Chris Bonington.

Some years later, the little shop on Boat Street closed. The Swallow’s Nest moved to a much larger space nearer downtown Seattle just south of Lake Union. Unfortunately, it was never the same. The magic that made it so special didn’t make the journey.

The rustic Boat Street Swallow’s Nest exists only in our memories. Looking back, I feel fortunate for the experience. I remember it as a meaningful symbol of a sublime romance. One that was shared by all of those who loved and felt drawn to the mountains around us. It provided us with essential gear and enabled us to have some of the best climbs and times of our lives. And in that memory, the Swallow’s Nest is timeless.

Author’s Note: This story appears in a chapter of the same name in my mountain memoir, ‘Banquet of the Infinite,’ a memoir of my adventures in the mountains and outdoor business in the ‘70s. Now available as an illustrated eBook at Amazon Kindle Press, Barnes & Noble Press, and Kobo Books.