Guitar Dreams

As we gathered before our flickering living room TV, our collective anticipation was palpable. Ed Sullivan strode forth onto the small black-and-white screen and theatrically swept his right arm toward the stage as he loudly announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles!” We were among 74 million other viewers, the largest in TV history, who had tuned in to see them, the four lads from Liverpool who would change everything. We had all heard of them, but until that night on February 9, 1964, we had not actually seen or heard them perform live and did not know what to expect. We sat in rapt attention as the identically dressed young men launched into their first song, "All My Lovin."  They kept right on going with “Till There Was You,” “She Loves You,” “I Saw Her Standing There,” and finally, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” As the girls in the audience clapped and screamed hysterically, we sat back, stunned in the moment. Unbeknownst to us, the British invasion had just begun.

It seemed only a few days later that my younger brother had gathered three friends to form their own four-piece rock and roll band. Bluegrass, country, and the Everly Brothers were suddenly history. A high school friend of mine, already skilled on the guitar, ended up teaching them how to play songs. Rupert, the drummer, started with a rudimentary drum kit. My brother, John, acquired a cherry red solid-body Gibson SG, while David and Johnny each bought black single-pickup Silvertone 1448 guitars, entry-level instruments that nonetheless sounded incredible. No doubt inspired by the Dave Clark Five, my mother sewed four matching red wool jackets that they wore with black peg pants and men’s stiletto shoes. They named their band the ‘Chandels,’ a mashup of names, concocted from the Chantays, a California surf rock band, and the Rondels, a rock group from the suburbs of Boston.

It was not long before the ‘Chandels’ upgraded to a serious set of Ludwig drums and the latest Fender guitars. Johnny got a Fender Jazz bass, and David and John bought Fender Jaguars. After all, Carl Wilson of the Beach Boys played a Jaguar. As their musicianship improved, they moved beyond high school venues to the Cinnamon Cinder, a local alcohol-free teen dance club and rock-and-roll venue where the music was always loud and driving. It was 'the place' for all the high school kids in and around Anchorage. The dance floor was always crowded, as we gyrated into a floating, mesmerizing sea of music, all lost in those magic moments of youth. We loved it, and even now I remember it well.

Mom sewed matching plaid tunics for the group when they all switched out from Fenders to Rickenbacker guitars. It seemed a more righteous choice of instruments for bands that wanted to emulate the British sound. So they thought. Their haircuts now paid tribute to the Beatles' mop tops, even though they were four young lads from Alaska. 

Their musical portfolio was now growing at a prodigious rate, and so, Dad became their unofficial manager. But only part-time, as he still had a full-time career that he was not leaving. Nonetheless, he took the band seriously both in promoting them and seeking potential recording opportunities.

As Tom Petty sings in “Into the Great Wide Open,” “The sky was the limit. The future was wide open.” They were young and brash and got a bit carried away with their success.  Rebels without a clue, they did not know, but it would not last. 

I only heard about it later. It arose from an onstage dispute between my brother, the rhythm guitarist, and David, the lead guitarist, who had launched into an over-the-top solo with out-of-control volume. A contentious fight ensued. And, David angrily stormed off the stage. That was the end. They never played together again. It seemed so senseless to squander what they had achieved. Chalk it up to the impulsiveness of youth. Even as a bystander, I was saddened to hear of it. I was not alone.

My younger brother, still in high school, now addicted to a rocking lifestyle, frequently snuck out late on weekday nights, and played electric bass in another band, at bawdy clubs, rocking the place, with a gin and tonic sitting on his amp as Miss Wiggles sashayed across the stage, coyly removing her apparel. He thought he was hot stuff. “The sky was the limit.” Of course, his grades plummeted as his incorrigible behavior continued. Our parents finally put a stop to the whole enterprise by shipping him off to a regimented prep school in Tennessee. There were no rock bands at Columbia Military Academy. Years passed, as did his early guitar dreams.

While in their heyday, I had been a bit jealous of my brother’s guitar success and wanted to try my hand at the electric guitar. Still in high school and living at home, my mother held sway. She mandated that I should get a flamenco guitar, take a different path, and not compete with my brother. I complied, but felt marooned in a distant place with little to inspire me. I knew of no flamenco guitar heroes. That would come later. 

I left my beautiful flamenco guitar behind during my college years, which created a long gap in my playing. I still have it, a rare spruce top Gibson F-2 Flamenco with cypress sides and back. A fine instrument, crafted in Gibson’s Kalamazoo, Michigan factory, with a short run between only 1963 and 1968. It was the only flamenco-style guitar that Gibson ever made. Will I yet become adept at playing Malaguena? As Alexander Pope once said, "Hope springs eternal."

After a long business career, I finally picked up the guitar again. I bought a nice ‘97 Gibson Les Paul DC Studio on my 50^th birthday and began taking lessons. I figured if I kept at it, I could get good. I thought, yeah, I can master this instrument. But after a few years of spare-time practice, the pressures of long hours in a management role put a damper on my aspiring efforts. Practice faded away. Precious seasons passed, lost in time, as silent wisps in the wind.

Now, so many years later, what feels like an eon, I have returned to the guitar due to the unconscious efforts of my youngest son, Bryce. On a recent visit, he sat in our living room, pulled out his acoustic guitar, and began fingerpicking a song as his wife sat by and our grandson ran circles around the room. Bryce seemed so centered and at peace in those moments. I admired his composed presence and the magic of the sounds that surrounded us all. Then he surprised me by encouraging me to join him. I pulled out my old Taylor acoustic, and he coached me on the picking pattern. His unspoken suggestion and gift to me that day was that I should rejoin the quest.

A powerful message lovingly communicated can often reawaken a passion long neglected and propel one forward with recommitted action. Moved by the feelings in those moments, I took up the daunting gauntlet. So, I silently thank him every day when I pick up one of my old guitars and sally forth. While I may only be an old Don Quixote of the guitar, I am not without determined purpose, now adding guitar practice to my other creative disciplines, writing, photography, sketching, and watercolors. The art of music adds both dimension and balance to the others and honors them all.

The key with any creative quest is to engage and practice every day. It may sound challenging, but each small daily practice contributes to building toward competence and eventually mastery. You need to keep the guitar out and handy, so there is little barrier to action. So, what to practice? That presents a key and perplexing question. Back in the day, most detailed instructional materials were available only in print. It is so different now with the advent of instructional videos on YouTube. There is a veritable ocean of content that spans from the disappointingly amateur to the truly excellent. To my surprise, many online instructors pitch lessons for older students. One announces. “This is where people over forty go to learn guitar.” Some even say they are the place for people in their '40s, '50s, and '60s. I laugh and ask myself, “What about those who are in their '70s?”

It can be bewildering as many videos admonish viewers what not to do, which can be helpful. But the key I now seek is how to structure my time to achieve the most progress. Some video instructors provide roadmaps that include song playing, technique, and music theory. Many lead off with “How I would learn guitar from scratch.” Or “If I started over, this is how I’d get good at guitar.” Some are more helpful than others. I do like those that tell you not to bother learning all the full major scales up and down the fretboard and focus on acquiring the skills that you will use the most.

For example, for beginners: playing open chords, basic chord structure, learning strumming techniques and common strumming patterns, open chord variations, barre chords, chord transitions and connecting phrases, easy pentatonic shapes, picking techniques, bends, hammer-ons, and pull-offs, signature riffs, and licks. For intermediates: the major and minor pentatonic scales, arpeggios, triads (major and minor), switching between major and minor pentatonic, and mixing scales and chords. And improvising. Whew!

In the meantime, I take sublime pleasure in the process of playing a fine instrument, with well-executed notes jangling cleanly. And, of course, simply learning and playing music that most appeals to me. Lately, I have been focused on “Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac, “Better if You Don’t” by CHVRCHES, “Civilian” by Wye Oak, “Summer of '69” by Bryan Adams, “I Forgive it All” by Mudcrutch (Tom Petty’s other group), "Song for Woody" by Bob Dylan, “The Lucky One” by Alison Krauss and Union Station,” When You Say Nothing at All” by Keith Whitley, “Follow You Down” by the Gin Blossoms, and “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. Makes sense, right? It has been both frustrating and fun as I retrain my reluctant right and left hands to do what they need to do. But it is a decent set of tunes to both challenge and please me. I can feel the progress, and that encourages me. 

Will I be able to skillfully practice my way from ‘Guitar Zero’ to ‘Guitar Hero ’? Ha, ha! Not bloody likely. That ship has long since sailed. I just want to make the journey as enjoyable as possible. Yeah, with patience and focus, I know I can. And, at this stage, I do realize that time is of the essence. Lauren Bateman, a fine online instructor, encourages her viewers by saying, “We all know that the best time to learn guitar was twenty years ago. But the next best time is right now.” I agree.

It's Complicated

Is anything ever simple? Well, less often than I would like to admit, especially when it comes to my panoramic photography. For that creative quest, I routinely embrace the school of thought that believes that it is better to seek forgiveness than permission. So, how is that working? Well, it varies.

When I first started taking spherical panoramas, some thirteen years ago, I sought multi-dimensional urban spaces since they offered wonderful spherical photographic opportunities and were relatively close by. Not yet fully confident of my emerging abilities and workflow, I simply wanted to keep a low profile, do my bit, and quietly depart. I would pre-visualize several possibilities, assemble my shot list, travel to my chosen sites, scope out the environs, compose each scene, without making a scene, take my shots, and disappear, as if I had never been there. I practiced becoming invisible.

Anticipating a visually dramatic interior, I entered the Seattle Central Library's “Living Room” space. I acted like I was just browsing for books as I walked around looking for the best vantage point to compose my spherical panorama. I intentionally avoided the librarian’s help desk and set my tripod up at the far end of a low bookcase about thirty feet away. I was partially hidden and my tripod was mostly shrouded from the librarian, all by design. Using my radio triggers, I clicked through my perimeter and up shots. However, I did not remain unobserved. The librarian discovered me as I was taking my final down shots. She approached and assertively announced, “We don’t allow photography.”

Just as I thought. So, I smiled and replied, “Oh, okay, I’ll just finish up and go.” Two more quick shots, and I collapsed my tripod. And then, I was out of there. It was a close call, but I got what I wanted. After post-processing, I was thrilled to see that the “Living Room” panorama had not only fulfilled, but exceeded, my creative vision. Subsequently, the final panorama received an ‘Editor’s Pick’ on 360Cities.net, the site that hosts my panoramas. It is among my most viewed, and I doubt there will be another like it.

The next day, feeling validated in my opportunistic approach, I strolled into REI’s Seattle Flagship Store and headed straight for the ‘Pinnacle,’ a vertical sport climbing peak housed in a glass-walled tower. I did not stop to ask for permission. I mean, who would I ask? A sales floor clerk? A cashier? My query would likely be received as a confusing request, and it might be all too easy for any employee to say, “No.” As I entered the glass box, I discovered to my delight that I was alone. Feeling lucky, I quickly scouted the perimeter for the best vantage point, set up, and took my shots. Mr. Invisible. I then disappeared from the store. So far, my stealthy approach was working, and I decided to continue.

I wanted to pursue a more dynamic venue and headed for my favorite fish vendor, City Fish, in Seattle’s Public Market. They were busy with customers and did not raise an eyebrow as I approached and set up my tripod. I acted like this was the most natural thing imaginable, all the while wearing my mental invisibility cloak. I started shooting. Customers conferred and bought fish. No one seemed to notice my presence. Or, if they did, no one was either curious or cared. I kept shooting. As I observed those around me, which I do with all shoots that include people, I took extra frames, safety shots that would provide more opportunity to select the best expressions. Once again, I bagged a great panorama, all on a busy day at the Public Market. I wondered, would everything be this easy? Ha, ha! I did not know.

One day, while scouting Seattle’s Volunteer Park, I ran into a guy getting dressed in a self-made suit of medieval-era armor as he prepared to join others in a role-playing event on the grassy fields of the park. Intrigued, I watched as a host of costumed combatants engaged in energetic mock battle scenes. I stood transfixed, fascinated by their aggressive choreography. Their outfits ranged from laughably lame to impressively creative. Curious, I asked who led the group and later, through their leader, received his permission to photograph his unruly band of warriors.

So, on a subsequent battle day, having secured permission, by proxy, from 36 costumed ‘Dargarth Warriors’, I began to construct my vision for a spherical panorama. Once I had their attention, I instructed them to form a circle around me and asked them to look fiercely at me and assume an intimidating battle pose. Unfortunately, few did. Hey, you can only art direct complete strangers to a limited degree. Get over it. Most young warriors just looked relaxed and amused as I rotated my camera around the human circle, clicking away, capturing them all. No one had any idea how my project would turn out. After completion, I became only a momentary fading curiosity before they returned to battle. Once the panorama was finished and uploaded, I sent the link to their leader, who quickly shared it with everyone. They had never been photographed together in such a way. Even though it was an imperfect first attempt at a panoramic group portrait, everyone who saw it loved it. That made me happy.

The Center for Wooden Boats on the south side of Seattle’s Lake Union looked like a charming potential subject. I have always liked photographing small workshops with their attendant purposeful clutter and the realization of a worthy project approaching completion. I took several panoramas of the dockside boats in the floating museum and then approached the restoration workshop. I had been to the amazing Museum of Flight Restoration Center in Everett, and taken several panoramas there, but had not yet encountered a woodshop like the one at the Center for Wooden Boats.

Rustic and enticing, it drew me in. I proceeded slowly, careful not to disturb the three craftsmen who were all heads down, each focused on some part of a project. I used what I call the ‘soft ask’ to get permission. “You guys don’t mind if I…” Nah. They did not mind, nor did they care. Relieved, I quietly captured the magic moments of their quiet work. There was no staging; everything was extemporaneous without any art direction. It was perfect, what I would call an intimate panorama. I loved it. I left, feeling ebullient.

That shoot turned out so well that when I learned the Center for Wooden Boats had another workshop boat shed on the north side of Lake Union, I headed up there and entered the anonymous, unsigned building. A group of three was intently engaged in replacing the bottom hull section of a vintage Egret Sharpie. I used the same ‘soft ask’ approach, and one of the guys recognized me from the earlier workshop shoot. He nodded yes. They were totally okay with me photographing the scene and returned to the task at hand as if I was not there. I liked that.

As they continued their labors, I composed my shot and meticulously took the frames that I needed. I did not rush as I wanted to be there. It was quiet and reflective in its industriousness, a peaceful place with purpose. Something magnetic urged me to stay. The lighting in the workshop that day reminded me of a medieval painting, a religious painting, that depicts the sanctity of meticulous craft. Reminiscent of Renaissance chiaroscuro lighting. Pure magic. The final image and the memory of that day are among my all-time favorites.

I soon planned a trip to Oregon’s Willamette Valley, specifically to Shea Wine Cellars, during their fall Pinot noir harvest. I imagined a dawn-to-dusk photo shoot in the vineyards and at the winery as the crew processed the harvested grapes. However, this concept would be a total non-starter without permission. Fortunately, I knew Dick Shea since I regularly traveled to his Oregon winery to purchase his fabulous Pinot noir. So, I called him up and made my pitch. He remembered that I had earlier taken a panorama inside the winery on a wine-buying trip. He seemed fascinated by the process. I explained that he could use thumbnail images on his website with descriptions and links to the spherical panoramas at 360Cities.net. Without hesitation, he invited me to his vineyard and winery to shoot whatever, wherever I wanted.

A photographer friend joined me, and we drove into the vineyard property, arriving before sunrise. The harvest supervisor, who thought we were part of the harvest crew, greeted us, ready to tell us where to begin picking. We laughed and told her we were only there to photograph the day. We soon found and conferred with Dick. He recommended a scenic hilltop location for the sunrise. We entered the vineyards with camera gear, a tall light stand, and a step ladder. I positioned the camera high above the vines as the sun peeked over a nearby hill and commenced my perimeter shots, each time mounting the step ladder to rotate the camera. We began the day with that sunrise shoot, shot throughout the day, and finished with a lovely Pinot noir sunset shoot. We returned to Portland, very late, totally bushed, and ready for the sack.

I returned early the next day by myself as the winemaking crew set up a conveyor to sort the grapes for the destemmer crusher sort or whole-cluster sort. The crew was completely absorbed and focused. The crush is serious business. They barely noticed me as I set up at the end of the conveyor and began my shoot. I took enough frames to make two distinct panoramas from different vantage points, and they are among my favorites. Pleased and now more confident in my ability to conceive and pull off a more extensive location shoot, I soon took my newfound passion to the next level.

Bertha was stuck, and that was a big problem. In the summer of 2014, Bertha, Seattle’s tunnel boring machine, had hit an unknown object and damaged its cutting head. It could not continue. The tunnel boring work abruptly halted, and work shifted to digging down, retrieving, and ultimately replacing the cutting head. As a former architect, the project had long intrigued me, but I had so far found no way to get access to the site through contacts from my friends in construction. I now saw this stuck situation as an opportunity. Surely, the project sponsors would be doing everything possible in the meantime to spin a positive PR story during the interim period.

I took a deep breath and cold-called the head person in the communications department at the Washington State Department of Transportation. I told her of my strong interest in the project and pitched my case that virtual reality panoramic photography would be a great way to showcase the project online. It would add more dimension to their current online presentation of the project. The WSDOT site already had still photo galleries on Flickr and construction camera pages with time-lapse images. My 360 panoramas would be a natural addition. Fortunately, my contact immediately visualized the possibilities and benefits and decided to explore how to make it happen.

After deciding how to proceed, my contact scheduled a photo shoot of the construction activity at the south portal, the launch site of the tunnel project, on August 7, 2014. She and an on-site WSDOT inspector signed me in, outfitted me, and escorted me through the job site during photography. The construction was in a closed site, so I had to sign in under their sponsorship, sign a liability waiver, wear boots, an orange safety vest, a hard hat, safety goggles, and gloves. Cumbersome. I just went with it. I now had access!

The shoot lasted only a scant two hours, during which I shot eight panoramas, five of which are featured in the virtual tunnel tour. A real speed shoot. Always racing forward, conceiving, and shooting on the run. Climbing ladders and navigating among construction materials and activity. I was grateful that my prior experience enabled my race-like tempo. Even though tense under the pressure, I found the experience strangely exhilarating. A second shoot at the north portal, where the tunnel emerges, took place with the same conditions on September 12, 2014. That shoot lasted about an hour and a half, during which I shot five panoramas, four of which were selected for the virtual tunnel tour.

Nine of my on-site panoramas were finally featured on the SR 99 Tunnel Project website. Each thumbnail image had a brief description and a link to the full spherical image hosted in my portfolio at 360Cities.net. Subsequently, 360Cities featured all my panoramas in a more extensive blog post about the project. Unfortunately, I did not return for any subsequent tunnel project shoots. Although I had hoped to shoot the retrieval and replacement of the cutting head, that did not happen. I was not invited back, and I did not press for it as the first shoots had taken quite a bit of effort on my part. And, there were a few bureaucratic hurdles involved, which I did not want to navigate again. Even though I was grateful for an unforgettable experience, I had achieved what I set out to do and knew it was time to move on to another subject.

Soon thereafter, I saw an article about a group of treehouse cabins in nearby Fall City. TreeHouse Point featured seven one-of-a-kind treehouses in an old-growth forest along the banks of a spring-fed river in Washington’s Snoqualmie Valley. The rustic wood treehouses were each nestled into an intimate canopy of conifers. They looked fairy tale magical to me, and I immediately thought about the panoramic possibilities. I could easily visualize what I could achieve once on site. I could feel my excitement welling up. Yes, I could do this. My panoramas would be stunning. The owner could feature thumbnails and the links to the 360s on his website. And, I would be doing it for free, just as I had the others, simply for my own personal satisfaction as a creative project. Fresh from my success with the SR 99 Tunnel Project, I figured my pitch would be compelling. So compelling that I would get a big “Yes.” Well, I was wrong. So wrong. I contacted the owner and made my pitch. He did not hesitate. He simply said, “No.” A ‘Hard No.’ No explanation. No opportunity to get beyond the no. Hmm… That set me back for a bit.

Of course, there are other variants of the rules and permissions model. One is the infamous ‘No Tripods’ stipulation. Know that the tripod is considered an essential tool for creating virtual reality panoramas when the final image is a stitched composite created from multiple high-resolution frames. A leveled tripod head assures continuity of ‘control points’ used to align and stitch the final image without errors. There are workarounds, but they are difficult nonetheless. And that is an understatement.

It was a rainy Sunday in Seattle, and we were visiting the soon-to-be-leave Intimate Impressionism collection on loan from the National Gallery of Art to the Seattle Art Museum. Also departing was Cai Guo-Qiang’s flying Ford sculpture Inopportune: Stage One, which hung in the lobby of the SAM. I always thought it might make an interesting photo subject, and since it was also leaving, I knew it was now or never.

Due to the 'no tripod' rules, I shot Inopportune: Stage One hand-held. I threw on my invisibility cloak, stepped to an opportune vantage point in the expansive museum lobby, and let a weighted cord drop from the nodal point of my camera lens to point an inch above the floor. I hand leveled the camera using a small spirit level as I held it as steady as I could and slowly rotated the camera lens around the stationary point on the floor, clicking off multiple shots, around, up, and down. I took extra safety shots to be sure I had enough to work with. I knew I would never return to see this exhibit again. I took enough exposures, but it was an absolute bitch to stitch, the worst ever, and required hours of Photoshop work in post to connect all the disconnects. Was it worth it? You need to ask? Totally! It is a visual memory of the ephemeral, and I have never tired of looking at it.

A few years ago, my wife and I visited my brother, who lived in Manhattan Beach, California. We visited the Getty Villa, an art museum in the Pacific Palisades, to experience ancient Greek and Roman art housed in a re-created Roman seaside home.  Of course, the Getty had a 'no tripod' rule for both exteriors and interiors. I fell in love with the environment as a photo subject and took five handheld panoramas, all of which were a significant challenge in post-production. I was getting better at it, and I now accepted that most art galleries would enforce a 'no tripod' rule, if they even allowed any photography at all.

When some friends from New York later visited Seattle, we made a pilgrimage to the Frye Salon, which features nearly one hundred fifty paintings from the museum’s collections hung floor to ceiling, in a dramatic, immersive display the museum refers to as a salon-style hang. Curiously, the museum provides easels to allow visiting artists to paint in the gallery. However, tripods are not allowed, as if that makes any sense given the presence of several easels. So, I created my immersive panorama as a composite of hand-held shots. I had no other choice. I embraced the challenge and succeeded.

You might think that the hand-held approach is only for indoor exhibits with no tripod rules. Well no. Sometimes it is all about weight. Packed weight. In late July of 2017, my hiking partner Peter announced that we needed to get some time on snow. I agreed and off we went to Mount Rainier, where we hiked from the Paradise Trailhead to Camp Muir, the base camp for the Disappointment Cleaver Route to the summit. The hike gains 4,400 feet during its eight-mile round-trip distance. And the destination is at an elevation of 10,080 feet, requiring a strenuous ascent up the Muir Snowfield at a substantially higher altitude than most of our local hikes. I took my full-frame Nikon with the fisheye lens and left the tripod behind. Less carried weight, a calculated decision. And, even as I struggled to align the frames during my shoot at Camp Muir, I knew I had made the right decision.

My Camp Muir panorama is the only one hosted on 360Cities and may be the only one today of that place, anywhere. I am proud of that. As I have spent less time photographing urban environments and more time in the mountains, I am continually visualizing wilderness and alpine-themed spherical panoramas where none may yet exist. I like to think of them as ‘Photographic First Ascents.’ That inspires and motivates me greatly. I can take all the time that the weather allows. But sometimes that is not much.

Moving clouds are both the drama machines and the time keepers as they sweep unfettered across the sky, dictating what you may capture and successfully stitch, if you are attentive and skillful. Situational awareness in the wilderness is paramount, as nothing is static. A vast, multi-faceted, dynamic environment creates ever-evolving scenes of heartbreaking beauty while completely ignoring your presence. I do not have to pretend to be invisible. I just am. And, I never have to ask anyone for permission.

Links to the panoramas mentioned in this narrative are listed below. Click the links to open the images. For the most immersive viewing experience, open to full screen and scroll around and up, and down. 

Asking for Permission:

Seattle Central Library “Living Room” space, Seattle, WA (5/23/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/seattle-central-library-living-room-space-seattle-wa

The REI Pinnacle, Seattle, WA (5/24/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/the-rei-pinnacle-seattle-wa

Pike Place Market, City Fish, Seattle, WA (6/11/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/pike-place-market-city-fish-seattle-wa

Dargarth Warriors, Volunteer Park, Seattle, WA (7/15/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/volunteer-park-dargarth-warriors-seattle-wa

Center for Wooden Boats, Boat Shop Interior, Seattle, WA (8/15/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/center-for-wooden-boats-boat-shop-interior-seattle-wa

Center for Wooden Boats, Egret Sharpie ‘Colleen Wagner,’ Seattle, WA (8/21/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/center-for-wooden-boats-egret-sharpie-colleen-wagner-seattle-wa

Pinot Noir Sunrise, Shea Back Block, Newberg, OR (10/8/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/pinot-noir-sunrise-shea-back-block-newberg-orPinot

Noir, Destemmer Crusher Sort, Shea Wine Cellars, Newberg, OR (10/9/2012)

https://www.360cities.net/image/pinot-noir-destemmer-crusher-sort-shea-wine-cellars-newberg-or

Northern Edge of Bored Tunnel, SR 99 Tunnel Project, Seattle, WA (8/7/2014)

https://www.360cities.net/image/northern-edge-of-bored-tunnel-sr-99-tunnel-project-seattle-wa

Bottom of Launch Pit, SR 99 Tunnel Project, Seattle, WA (8/7/2014)

https://www.360cities.net/image/bottom-of-launch-pit-sr-99-tunnel-project-seattle-wa

No Tripods:

Exploding Cars, Seattle Art Museum, Seattle, WA (1/5/2016)

https://www.360cities.net/image/exploding-cars-seattle-art-museum-seattle-wa-usa

Gods and Goddesses, Getty Villa, Pacific Palisades, CA (5/23/2013)

https://www.360cities.net/image/gods-and-goddesses-getty-villa-pacific-palisades-ca

Frye Salon, Frye Museum, Seattle, WA (3/28/2017)

https://www.360cities.net/image/frye-salon-frye-museum-seattle-wa

Camp Muir, Mt. Rainier National Park, WA State (7/28/2017)

https://www.360cities.net/image/camp-muir-mt-rainier-national-park-wa-state

A Loo with a View

It is not the first thing that comes to mind when planning a day hike or a multi-day backpacking trip in the mountains. However, the need is bound to arise, either on the trail or at camp. Yes, I am talking about wilderness pooping and backcountry privies. But they are not everywhere. So, what are the options when it comes to taking a dump in the great outdoors?

Back in the 70s, when we traversed the Sierra, fishing lake to lake, and eating trout for days on end, we would simply find an out-of-the-way location, dig a discreet trench, do our business, and bury it. There were few, if any, backcountry facilities back then, and there were not that many of us out there, so our standard protocol was to simply deep-six it. The same thing occurred as we traveled the trails in Washington’s Cascades and Wyoming’s Wind River Range. Of course, all that has changed with the dramatic increase of human traffic in the backcountry over the last few decades, and with that, the establishment of more rustic privies, but not always.

When planning an overnight or multi-day trip, you do not want to be surprised by the lack of options. Interestingly, most hike descriptions do not even mention backcountry toilets. You will have to stumble upon that beta in someone else’s trip report, or on a trail map, that is, if it is even marked. And, if there are no facilities, you might find a caution not to bury it, rather a requirement to use a WAG bag and pack it out. Before you go, you must know.

A few years ago, after luckily scoring a six-day Enchantments permit for late September in the Colchuck Lake Zone, I felt compelled to do a reasonable job of planning for our group of five. The big idea was to camp at Colchuck Lake and make daily excursions up Aasgard Pass into the Core Enchantment Zone to explore the alpine lakes and nearby peaks. We would need a base camp big enough to accommodate our three tents, with a cooking area, and reasonable proximity to one of the established outdoor toilets.

But how many of them were there, and where were they located? We had no idea. The six-day lottery permit was a stroke of uncommon good luck, and we needed to take it seriously. So, three of us embarked on a ‘boots on the ground’ recon mission, day hiking up to Colchuck Lake to scout out and document the campsites and toilets. We found multiple campsite options and three toilet sites, which I later mapped out for the group. Curiously, the current GAIA GPS topo map shows only two. A secluded woodland toilet near our camp served us well, both during the couple of days of decent weather and even after it furiously snowed, which eventually forced us out.

Many of the more popular destinations now have some form of privy, most often a stark rustic wooden box with a hole in the top and a wood lid to cover it. As you might imagine, these traditional toilets do eventually fill up, and a new pit must be dug and the box moved. Dirty work. Years ago, descending the trail from Evergreen Mountain Lookout, we encountered a couple of young Park Service employees with long-handled shovels headed up to service the facilities.

Some newer versions, like one we saw at Colchuck, have the traditional wood frame and hole cover perched atop a fiberglass poo box that can be removed intact and hauled out, presumably with others, by helicopter. The one we encountered had a spare receptacle sitting close by, ready to be pressed into service.

Most ‘trailside’ toilets sit isolated in the brushy forested areas at the end of a rough spur trail where you might expect a bit of privacy. While others at the end of a spur might sit right out in the open. You can see everything around you, and anyone nearby can easily see you too. As compensation, some of these have incredibly jaw-dropping views. These are the rare and remarkable ‘loos with a view.’ The consequence of the stunning views is that privacy is not guaranteed. But you will be okay with that. The tradeoff is a good one. Trust me.

Even exposed, these seats are worth the few moments during which you might sit and ponder. Some of the most celebrated ‘view loos’ include a famous Core Enchantments toilet which faces the dramatic sharp granite spire of Prusik Peak, the one on the boulder shoulder that looks out and down from Hidden Lake Lookout, the lonely one at Desolation Peak Camp, and the tanklike metal compost toilet at Sahale Glacier Camp, which peers from its rocky perch, over Sahale Arm toward the massive Mount Johannesburg.

And, there are others, while perhaps lesser known, but still with fabulous vistas. I will never forget my brief October visit to the backcountry toilet just off the trail through Headlight Basin. I found myself surrounded by stunning golden larches and unimpeded views of the mighty Mount Stuart and Ingalls Peak. Majestic though it was, I did not linger. But I have not forgotten that morning.

Even those nestled in the rocky woodland niches will have more texturally intimate views than you will find with any outside of the wilderness environs. Even if old and on the verge of falling apart, the backcountry toilet still beats digging a pit or packing out. Just consider yourself lucky whether the views are intimate or expansive. Take time to pause briefly, sit, and reflect on your good fortune to be at this special place during these brief moments.

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