The Trip Report

Somehow, back in August of 2013, I started writing trip reports for the Washington Trails Association website. My first account was of a hike to Kendall Katwalk with a friend and his dog, on a semi-foggy day. I just completed and posted trip report number 178, a narrative of my recent hike up to the historic Granite Mountain fire lookout, on a semi-foggy day. It was my fifteenth time at the lookout out of eighteen attempts, foiled at various places before the lookout on three prior occasions by rain and snow conditions. I had not been back for two years, and though I knew it well, I felt compelled to return. Why, my friends might ask. Haven't you done it enough? Well, no.

You see, there is a good reason. In a few weeks, I’ll be hiking up to the historic fire lookout on Desolation Peak. It’s remote, with challenging approach logistics, and the day will entail hiking 11.5 miles overall, round-trip, with almost 5,000 feet of elevation gain. If I were in my 30’s and carrying a light daypack, the hike would be no big deal. Now in my late 70’s, and carrying a 20-pound pack with heavy photo gear, it will likely be a grinder.

The objective is to hike up to the lookout and document the place by taking several spherical panoramas outside the lookout, and one interior, if possible. After all, it’s the 70^th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s 63-day stint as a fire spotter at the lookout. And, that’s as good a reason as any to make the pilgrimage. We’ll likely get one shot at this since it’s a somewhat complicated endeavor for a day hike. We’ll tent camp at a campground near Ross Lake, drive to the trailhead parking lot, hike one mile down to the boat dock, take an early morning water taxi 18 miles up the lake to the Desolation Peak trailhead, hike to the lookout, hang out, and then hike back down to the dock for the late-day water taxi back to the final trail out. 

So, it makes sense that I’d train for this hike. And, I’ve been doing that with progressively more strenuous early-season hikes, which have recently led to Granite Mountain. Though not as long or with as much elevation gain as Desolation, it is close enough to serve as a proxy, a comparative hike where I can gauge my relative physical readiness for the big one. And, it is close enough to where I live to readily tackle with no more than a 45-minute drive to the trailhead. So, I went.

As I made my way up the familiar trail, I thought about what I might say in my post-hike trip report. As I observe the wild surroundings, I now habitually make mental notes as if I am already composing my trip report. As I hiked, it seemed to me that if I wanted to create anything of value, I had two audiences and needed to speak to each of them in turn. The first would be those who have hiked to the lookout before and just want the beta on current conditions. The second would be those first-timers who want to know what to expect and if they should do it at all. What could I say about a trail that I knew so well? I’d want to make my story engaging and informational while keeping it relatively concise, as neither group would want me rambling on without purpose.

Of the many things I did not mention, one of the funniest was the head-down hiker beginning the ascent of the last steep section as I was descending. As I passed, he looked up at me, smiled, and said, “Piece of cake. I wish it were harder.” He wore a silly grin. I replied, “Yeah, right.” Of course, he was being facetious. Or was he? I did not specifically mention the flavorful joy of snacking on Oberto Teriyaki Beef Jerky as I leisurely sat at the lookout, admiring the distant Mount Rainier, dominant on the gray horizon. I also left out my encounters with off-leash dogs (which are prohibited), including my first sighting of an off-leash lap dog. I had to laugh. They’re usually big dogs. I did not mention the content of conversations and stories shared with many hikers I met during my hike down. Even while I attempt to make my trip reports engaging and fun to read, there really is a limit.  

I resolved that challenge by giving repeat hikers a brief update on conditions, followed by a more detailed description of the hiking terrain and my experience, section by section, for the first timers. Since the day was dank and gray, I added links to two spherical panoramas that I had previously taken when the weather was spectacular. I later concluded this might be a good template for future reports. Here is mye trip report.

Granite Mountain Trip Report: June 25, 2026

Nuts and Bolts:

There is no longer any snow on the mountain. Wildflowers are out and abundant except for Beargrass, where there are only occasional blossoms. Maybe no Beargrass super bloom on Granite Mountain this year? Bugs are emerging. There are a few remaining uncleared deadfalls, all of which can be easily stepped over. The trail is in good shape overall except for moderate erosion in a few sections. Oh, and no bear sightings.

Extemporaneous Narrative:

I hiked to the lookout on a cooler, overcast day after several hot days. I’m glad that I did. I arrived at the trailhead lot and set off just before 7:00 am. The early morning light did little to warm up the trailside environment. Colors were muted, and the scene felt a bit tired, as if still asleep. Having hiked this trail many times before, I knew that the views would only improve.

For those who have not been before, know that the first mile to the Pratt Lake connector is a relatively easy stroll on a moderately rocky trail, only gaining about 600 feet. The second mile is where Granite throws down the gauntlet. Things get steeper and progressively rockier as the trail switchbacks up the mountain. This is where you might well ask yourself why you are even doing this and if it will all be worth it. It will be.

I enjoyed the cooler climate of the morning, but even 60 degrees felt quite warm as I labored up the trail. I reminded myself that this is not a footrace and to slow down and immerse myself in the present moment. For that is where most of the wonder lies. The trail is a cornucopia of physical and visual texture that is ever-changing throughout the seasons. Since I hiked alone, I could easily abandon myself to this quest.

About halfway up, the trail breaks out to open alpine meadows and circuitously climbs toward the Granite Mountain Lookout ridge. Here again, the trail is a convoluted, rocky path, but athletically enjoyable. After crossing the nearly dry outlet from the upper tarns, the trail thrusts up the ridgeline. The path here becomes a bit braided. It eventually connects with an ascending traverse that takes you north past the massive piles of granite blocks to the summer route. After crossing a flat section of trail on the east side of the ridgeline, the final steeper and rockier section to the lookout begins. It is here that you’ll keenly feel your fatigue and frustration as every switchback feels like it should be the last, but isn’t. I knew this and thus could better cope with my frustration.

I finally arrived at the lookout a bit after 10:00 am and had the summit all to myself. I settled in on my favorite rock, threw on a windbreaker, and broke out the trail treats I would seldom eat at home. Nirvana! Surprisingly, even though overcast, the skies were clear enough to see many distant peaks, among them Mount Rainier to the south and Kaleetan and Chair Peak to the north. I settled in and soaked up the views in quiet contemplation. After 20 minutes alone, the persistent chill breeze suggested departure, and I complied.

The hike back down was fun in a different way. I encountered a large group of women hikers setting up to take a group photo on the large boulder at the tarns. I arrived and offered to take it so they could all be in it. They loved it. Serendipity. And, many other upcoming hikers paused and engaged me in conversation, perhaps as a means of resting during their arduous ascent. I could not say, but I enjoyed them all.

Granite Mountain is one of my favorite hikes, and I keep coming back for more. Why? It’s close to where I live. Only a short, paved road to the trailhead. A well-defined trail with no super steep scrambling or terrifying exposure. Exciting in the early spring on the snowy ridge to the lookout. Prolific with wildflowers during the approach to summer. And, resplendent with red and ochre hues in the fall. Stunning summit views. Easily doable as a day hike. Two caveats: One: The near constant sound of the river of steel, the cars, and long-haul trucks that race back and forth on the I-90 corridor. However, the annoying noise eventually abates as you get higher. Two: No matter how fit you are, this trail will kick your butt. It is an uncompromising litmus test of your mountain fitness. So, deal with it.

Bonus Materials:

I have taken several spherical panoramas at or near the lookout over the last several years. You can view two of them by clicking on the links below. For the most immersive experience, launch the image and locate the menu bar in the upper right of the image. Click ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ and scroll around, up and down. 

Granite Mountain, Fire Lookout Cabin, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, Washington State

https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-fire-lookout-cabin-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state

Granite Mountain, Summit Friends, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, Washington State

https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-summit-friends-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state

Abandoned Trails

They’re not often recommended. In fact, they’re mostly discouraged. There may be a small sign at the trail entrance or a preemptive statement on hiking websites, but often there is no mention at all. However, not everyone is discouraged. Some alpine aficionados find the cautions an intriguing alert to a tempting route they cannot resist. And, they seek them out.

The Teneriffe Falls page on WTA.org cautions hikers, “You may see people continuing up past the overlook of the falls on a boot path. This is a social trail that hikers have created, essentially making a straight, very steep shot to the summit of Mount Teneriffe. This is not an official trail, and hiker use will lead to erosion concerns. Please refrain from using this trail.” But that does little to stop those adventurous souls who wish to test their mettle, route-finding skills, and mountain stamina by taking the hard way up. I call it the ‘Mailbox Effect.’ But we’ll get back to that.

Other times, you’ll find nothing but a pile of scattered tree debris and brush at the entrance of what appears to be a trail. But the message is the same. Leave it be, do not tread. Most times, those in the know would prefer not to even speak of them. However, if you hike long enough, you will eventually discover them, often through some obscure blog post or secrets clandestinely shared by friends. You will hear them referred to as ad hoc trails, unmaintained trails, abandoned trails, climbers’ trails, boot paths, and such. The differences can be subtle, but what they have in common is that they are less travelled, and none are maintained. That means that over time, they revert to the wild.

Often, they are simply boot paths made by climbers, the approach to a given peak. And many of these receive little beta outside of conversations between climbers. That excludes most hikers. One that I discovered had no obvious trail from a pull-off by the road, so we just plunged in, traversing a slope littered with rocks and small brush. We soon stopped as I examined my pre-mapped GAIA route on my cell phone. Already off track right from the start, we revised our route to what the map app suggested as the right way forward. Onward.

That happened frequently in the lower sections of the approach as we navigated through brush, densely packed trees, and clambered across corrugated rock and dirt ravines, and a series of sloping boulder fields. Our journey was a master class in terrain observation and route finding, looking for and hiking between small rock cairns left by previous travelers. Of course, the various cairns might not necessarily mark the best route. They could be deceptive, simply indicating that someone, presumably climbers, had been in that place before and thought to stack a small pile of rocks on a large boulder to help others, and themselves on their return. Those travelers might be off the route as well. But without a GPS, who could tell? There were many, and we mostly trusted them for general direction. I thought of naming the place ’Hall of the Mountain Cairns.’ Just an inspiration of the moment. None of the cairns exhibited any artistic rock stacking intent, and as such, the small piles sometimes presented obscure and questionable messages. “Is that a cairn or just a rock, or some rocks, that fell onto that boulder?”

The little rock piles were not enough. So, we combined technologies, both Stone Age and Space Age, using both rock cairns and satellite maps to guide us in our sometimes meandering and at times maddening path. After a mile of some of the slowest hiking I had ever done, we exited the last of the lower boulder fields and found a rough, but distinct, trail. I gazed in wonder, “Who made this trail?” I would only later learn that the trail had once been longer and more visible, but many sections had been covered by the scattered debris of massive rock slides, the densely tumbled boulders that we had slowly, carefully hiked across. I found the situation interesting to ponder. Nothing is static in the mountains. Everything is in a continuous state of transition. More than you might imagine.

Once past the rock slides, the trail shot up with a purpose, steep and loose in sections punctuated with tree roots and rocky steps. Hard hiking in those sections. With a lot of stop-and-go as we found our way. After some time, the incline finally backed off, and we followed a circuitous path through golden groves of larches, often feeling their soft needles as we passed. I felt it was a form of reverence to thoughtfully touch them.

The rough climber’s trail steepened once again, and we continued, mindful of every foot placement. Even though I took and used my hiking poles, I found them both equally helpful and a hindrance depending on the situation. So, a draw. On a positive note, unlike thrashing through heavy brush, the steep trail was often open, affording sensational views as we paused to catch our breath, look back, and scan our surroundings. The larches were now prolific, artistically interspersed along the boulder-strewn slopes. The place just radiated pure magic. It seemed to me the finest larch hike that I had yet experienced. We had it all to ourselves as we saw no one else that day. It was a curious and satisfying accomplishment because it wasn’t that many miles away from some of the most popular larch hikes in the state, the ones with legions of fall ‘larch march’ hikers seeking the golden hues of the season.

Some abandoned routes were the first hiking trails, the ones that preceded the new, improved trails, like more recent sections of the Pacific Crest Trail. You may have heard of the Commonwealth Creek Trail, or perhaps not. This hidden treasure starts at Snoqualmie Pass and knocks almost a mile off the PCT route to the Kendall Katwalk. Yes, it's steeper and muddier with two substantial creek crossings, and while it is less known and less travelled, it remains wilder and more compelling to those who choose it. Trails like the CCT drift into the mists of memory over time, and the only maintenance that they ever receive is the ad hoc, occasional, freelance, improvisational clearing of deadfall and other obstructions from those who use them.

The hike to Marten Lake is an interesting tale of two trails. It is what I call a Jekyll-and-Hyde route. The first section is on an old roadbed that follows the Taylor River. The path is wide enough to walk side by side and converse, to the accompaniment of cascading water, letting the cares of the world fall away. The gradient is easy, gaining approximately 600 feet in a distance of roughly three miles. Then everything changes. The strenuous trail to Marten Lake is not maintained. If it were, like the improved trail with cribbed steps to Lake Serene, the pristine lake would soon be overrun with hikers. This is different; to reach the pristine lake, one must struggle, persevere, and sweat.

The so-called trail to the lake is a semi-distinct meandering path. You are best served if you stop frequently to parse out the best way up, because the direction is up, steeply up. The terrain is challenging in places, steep, gnarly sections with a plethora of tree roots, rocks, deadfall, and muddy spots. The tendency will be to look down for the next secure boot placement, and you must, but the best approach is to pause frequently to look up and around. The path that looks most traveled is usually correct.

We encountered several gigantic deadfalls that we had to shimmy over. And, large boulders. The trail often presented an indistinct puzzle that frequently required deft gymnastic moves to surmount what seemed to be a never-ending cluster of obstacles. Some scrambling required. And, I thought the trail to Rachel Lake was challenging. Compared to this, it is nothing. The convoluted descent requires commensurate attention and balance as well, solving the puzzle in reverse. Oh, you may want to bring poles. While mine got hung up in the organic stuff from time to time, I found them invaluable on the steep trail.

While there are occasional views of the tumbling waters of Marten Creek, you will mostly be focused on the dense forested trail that hosts some truly gigantic old trees. This is a truly wild place. Yet, sublimely beautiful with the contrast of soft woodland decay, verdant mosses, wild mushrooms, and the arrival of tiny spring wildflowers. While the reward at the lake is the big view, the gifts of the trail are the many varied forms and textures of the mysterious woodland, slowly revealed step by step as the soft light of morning slowly brightens.

While most of these routes range from not well widely known to totally obscure, a few are wildly popular. Probably the most famous of such unmaintained trails is the old trail up Mailbox Peak. Mailbox Peak is now mobbed with hikers who want that selfie at the summit. It has become a rite of passage for many hikers and mountaineers. I had hiked Mailbox Peak on three occasions in the years before it exploded in popularity and then decided I was done. What is 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-ridden, 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 torturous so-called trail. It could be called a suffer fest. And, sometimes there is a value found in suffering, bragging rights. Most serious mountaineers wear their suffer fest badges proudly.

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 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, an achievement 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.

But fortunately, most of these rugged trails less traveled, have much smaller stories and sometimes almost none at all. And that’s because those who travel on and treasure them don’t want them to become more known, and God forbid, popular with the hoi polloi. Since they have no mailbox or other silly icon with which to take a selfie, their other attributes would likely hold little interest for the Instagram crowd. What they do provide is the magic of discovery and the remote, breathtaking natural beauty of places rarely visited. And that, for many of us, is absolutely golden!

Old Trophies

What is it about trophies? Well, they have more expansive dimensions and weight than a paper certificate. We can gently cradle them in our hands as we accept them, basking in that proud and ephemeral moment where our accomplishment is both recognized and celebrated. We can regard them with pride as we thank the presenter and beam at whatever audience is present. Our time to shine. Yes, trophies are such a tangible measure of achievement that we always love them.

Back in the 60s, shiny golden statues on solid mahogany bases or plaques were more common than not, and many of us collected more than a few. At first, they found their new homes on our bookshelves, fireplace mantels, window sills, and desks. They may have stood proud for many years. Until many were later relegated to the darkness of cardboard boxes and stored in closets or basements, long forgotten as our lives moved inexorably forward. Forgotten that is, until an upcoming home move surprised us with their presence.

In the end, it was their physical bulk that did them in. When your spouse asks why you were still holding on to decades-old trophies, and you have no good answer, you know it is time to pare down and let them go. Perhaps not all, but certainly the less revered of the batch. After all, you still have ample smaller and less conspicuous memorabilia of achievement, prize certificates and ribbons, small medals, badges and patches, group photos, racing numbers from 10Ks, and that wonderful green Seattle Marathon t-shirt, now long gone since it was worn until threadbare.

If asked, I would struggle to remember the trophies that I eventually discarded. But the one I kept, I still treasure, even more than my science fair awards. In 1962, I won a significant trophy, the award for best constructed racer in the Washington, D.C. Soap Box Derby. That I never expected to win over the 250 other entrants made it even more special. But even that trophy may now leave me, as I have recently offered it to the President.

You see, there has been complete chaos in Minneapolis since dark masses of the 2,000-strong ICE goons stormed into the blue city to harass and injure civilians, and in the process killing an innocent woman, a mother, with several pistol shots to her chest, arm, and head. And then, seeking to further terrorize the populace, Trump quickly escalated the ICE presence with an infusion of 1,000 more troops to wreak more destructive violence. As with so many others. I have found it very worrisome as the pointless oppression has weighed on me. Even though I am not present, I still feel the psychic violence that this maniac has imposed on us all.

Then, other news revealed that yesterday, January 15, 2026, Maria Machado, the leader of the Venezuelan opposition party and winner of the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize, visited the White House and offered her framed Nobel medal to Donald Trump in a nakedly opportunistic attempt to curry favor and gain Trump’s support to place her in presidential power in post-Maduro Venezuela. The entire event was exceedingly shameful for both parties and has thus inspired both ridicule and cringeworthy satire.

Wait a minute. If I put on my clinical psychologist hat, I wonder if Donny ever won any trophies as a child. I certainly doubt it. And if so, perhaps such a void could have created the black hole of desire and entitlement that we witness today? 

I recall passages from ‘Too Much and Never Enough: How My Family Created the World's Most Dangerous Man’ by Mary Trump, where she tells of Donald’s time at New York Military Academy, a ‘reform school’ where he was sent for his rebellious and bullying behavior. During his five years at the school, he remained a bully, was an indifferent student, and an average sportsman. Nevertheless, he loved the dress uniforms. As a senior, he led a special drill team for the Columbus Day Parade in New York, supposedly chosen for that honor by his fellow cadets. He appears in his graduation photo, in his military cadet uniform, adorned with several medals borrowed from a friend. Always a hero in his own deluded mind. And here we are in 2026 with Donny happily accepting someone else’s Nobel Peace Prize medal. Who could have possibly conceived such a cruelly comic event?

Of course, Jimmy Kimmel wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to mock Donny by offering Trump his Daytime Emmy, the one he won for Best Game Show Host in 1999, and if that was not enough, a choice of a few others, including his 2015 Soul Train Award for White Person of the Year, if Trump would just get his ICE thugs out of Minnesota and back on the border. I liked that a lot. Inspired by Jimmy, I found my old Soap Box Derby trophy, in a cardboard box, in a closet, took it out, shot a photo, and posted it to Facebook with my offer to Trump.

“Hey Donald, since you recently accepted the Nobel Peace Prize medal from Maria Machado, I know you like awards. So, check out my 1962 Soap Box Derby ‘Best Constructed Racer' award. It is a big and heavy, solid mahogany wood plaque with a shiny golden statue. Nice eh! Would you like it? You would? Well, get your ICE troops out of Minneapolis, ASAP, and we’ll talk. Have your people call my people. PS: I also have science fair awards, but they're not nearly as cool as this.”

Will it work? Who knows? But I hope that my Facebook post inspires others to do the same with their bright, shiny trophies. Offer them up to the narcissistic black hole and see what happens. Donnie is such a transactional beast that he might be tempted by some. Maybe even my small offer. Wait a minute, what if ‘the Donald’ actually calls? Would I really part with my trophy? No. Not on his word alone. Trust Trump? I don’t think so. Oh, hell no! Not happening. He would have to perform first, and even then, I have significant doubts that he would not reverse himself in a blink and have his 'ICE pack' back on the Minnesota streets as soon as my old trophy was securely hung on a White House wall.

However, since I doubt that ‘the Donald’ will take me up on my offer, I have returned my rare treasure to its dark home in a closet full of cardboard boxes with other memorabilia that I have not yet been persuaded to discard. I mean, really? They help me date and recall a few of my proudest moments. It is really about the memories, and while most recent accomplishments, special occasions, and milestones are usually well documented with photos, those much older ones survive in the form of paper certificates, ribbons, medals, patches, and even the occasional trophy, a physical symbol of a singular accomplishment.

Perhaps our trophies are all-important because they help us remember who we once were and, more importantly, who we are now. And, it goes without saying that they must have been earned through both effort and excellence. And, these days, that is worth a lot.

Lighthouse

The tumult and roar of thrashing, crashing waves shook our fragile craft. The cold pelting night rains send chills through our bodies, and the disarming darkness felt ruinously ominous. Occasional bolts of lightning preceded the distant drums of thunder but did little to orient us in those perilous seas. There was nary a star to be seen. Time stretched out. Gripped by primal fear, we shivered and searched for hope and the chance to survive the night. And then, we saw it. A lighthouse!

A lighthouse offers the promise of safe transit through potentially perilous periods of darkness, and we need that shining light now more than ever. A good book can provide both refuge and passage through the turmoil of insanity that swirls around us, a restorative retreat into the fascinating, engaging stories of others, the lessons of which may help us better navigate our way forward. I was originally inspired to recommend one book this year, but it soon became more. I reluctantly stopped at twenty. I call them my ‘Top of the Heap Award Winners.’ I present my standout reads of 2025, each with a snippet of information.

I hope there is something here for you. Happy Holidays!

Science Under Siege: How to Fight the Five Most Powerful Forces That Threaten Our World by Michael E. Mann and Peter J. Hotez – For all those who believe in climate and vaccine science and strenuously oppose the efforts of those who spread anti-science propaganda for financial gain. The authors present five critical threats and propose battle plans to combat them all. My top ‘must-read’ serious book of the year.

Hotshot: A Life on Fire by River Shelby – This book interweaves intense stories of personal transformation over 1o years in a gritty, dangerous job as a hotshot fighting wildfire in the American west, often as the only woman on the crew, the science of firefighting, the influences of climate change, the history and ecology of the land impacted by fires, and the often-imperiled stewardship of those wild places. An exemplary read.

Wild Thing: A Life of Paul Gauguin by Sue Prideaux – Some years ago, I stood before three adjacent Gauguin paintings in the National Gallery of Art and soon found myself in tears as their beauty overwhelmed me. If you love his work as I do and yearn to learn more, this new illustrated biography is a must-read. This exceptional book chronicles Gauguin’s arduous spiritual and artistic quest, and his unique use of color and symbolism in his exploration of primitive indigenous themes.

Thirty Below: The Harrowing and Heroic Story of the First All-women's Ascent of Denali by Cassidy Randall – Intimate portraits of six well-experienced and capable women climbers and a detailed chronicle of every stage of their indominable, sometimes harrowing, quest. A revealing examination of the challenges faced by both the climbers and the difficult terrain and weather conditions of the high-altitude route. A fast and involving read.

The Wild Dark: Finding the Night Sky in the Age of Light by Craig Childs – An inspired backcountry adventure to witness the increasingly rare domains of dark night skies, while chronicling the science and history of human relationship to the cosmos. Riveting and beautiful.

Turning to Birds: The Power and Beauty of Noticing by Lili Taylor - A lovely series of short stories that drew me even further into the fascinating life of birds and birding as a portal to absorb and appreciate the intricacies of the natural world. Made me want to upgrade to 10x40 binoculars and get out more.

Viewfinder: A Memoir of Seeing and Being Seen by Jon M. Chu – Jon’s insightful memoir explores the essence of creativity and self-discovery as he journeys from his early fascination with film to a successful career in California’s film industry. He succeeds brilliantly when he directs ‘Crazy Rich Asians.’

Heartbreaker by Mike Campbell (author) with Ari Surdoval – Mike Campbell, the lead guitarist of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, writes a heartfelt and moving rags-to-riches story of the band. An intimate look at the artists and creative talents that propelled them from obscurity to accolades and finally, enduring fame.

Taylor’s Version: The Poetic and Musical Genius of Taylor Swift by Stephanie Burt – What? You could not attend ‘English 183ts: Taylor Swift and Her World’ at Harvard last year? Fortunately, you ardent ‘Swifties’ can now audit the course by simply reading this book. Comprehensive, insightful, and very cool.

John and Paul: A Love Story in Songs by Ian Leslie –Ian transports us into the intimate and complex creative relationship between John and Paul as they collaborated to create forty-three of their greatest songs. Impressively thorough and beautifully written.

Wait Until Next Year by Doris Kearns Goodwin – Kearns lovingly revisits her 1950s childhood, with stories of friends, family, neighbors, books, and her ardent commitment to baseball. She keeps score sheets and profiles the players of the Brooklyn Dodgers while sharing the collective angst of their fans during that era. Sensational read!

Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder – My first Tracy Kidder read was ‘Soul of a New Machine.’ This biography of a leading infectious disease doctor and his quest to bring lifesaving healthcare to the world's most poverty-stricken countries is equally involving and impressive. Not an emotionally easy read, but uniquely rewarding.

Not My Type: One Woman vs. a President by E. Jean Carroll - Once a jury foreman in a difficult abuse case, I had followed news of E. Jean’s trials and felt compelled to read this true-life courtroom drama. I was delighted that E. Jean Carroll achieved a well-earned guilty verdict. A story well told.

West with the Night by Beryl Markham – This is, of course, a reread. If this is not the very best memoir of an impassioned, adventurous life, it has a well-earned place in the pantheon of the all-time greats. And, the writing is heartbreakingly beautiful.

Empresses of Seventh Avenue: World War II, New York City, and the Birth of American Fashion by Nancy MacDonall – The world of apparel design once revolved around Paris, the undisputed epicenter of couture after WW2. Then, several talented, take-charge New York women upset the apple cart, creating modern style, and in the process, elevating America to a position of prominence in the fashion world. Fascinating stories.

The Commitments by Roddy Doyle – The story of a committed music enthusiast, Jimmy Rabbitte, as he conceives, creates, and attempts to manage a soul band in 1980s Dublin. What? Yes, it is about the power of music, the power of soul, teamwork, and the pursuit of passion. The engaging characters and regional dialogue make this book truly unique, endearing, and hilarious. Also, a hidden gem of a movie and a superb soundtrack.

The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler – My favorite Anne Tyler book, so far. Her quirky characters collide as they work out issues of grief and isolation, finding unexpected relationships that hold the promise of personal healing. Also, a charming movie, featuring William Hurt, Kathleen Turner, Bill Pullman, and Geena Davis.

Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz – A twisting, convoluted path compels us to solve a mystery within a mystery, or if we cannot, to just relax and go along for the ride. The paths of a book editor and a fictional detective intersect in oblique ways that offer clues to what happens in each of the parallel stories. At times frustrating but ultimately satisfying.

Onyx Storm by Rebecca Yarros –The third book after Fourth Wing and Iron Flame, an action-packed, dragon-filled, sci-fi romantasy thriller series puts the wildly imaginative and engaging plot first. I do not want to minimize the dragons. They are amazing! Though I am not the core target audience, I could not put any of the books down.

Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky – Kirkus Reviews sums it up nicely: “A savagely satirical take on the consequences of repressive doctrine and the power of collective action.” The complicated story pulls the reader along, even without any clues or confidence that anything will end well. If you like this kind of sci-fi, you must read The Final Architecture series, Shards of Earth, Eyes of the Void, and Lords of Uncreation. Mind-blowingly great!

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."

On a curious quest in 1973, my girlfriend became inspired to build dulcimers, and so I joined her, and we each crafted a pair of unique scratch-built hardwood mountain dulcimers of our unique designs. We poured our hearts into those instruments, making them fine works of art by cutting ornately designed soundholes into the tops and adding intricate iridescent abalone-shell inlays to the fretboards. They were, of course, symbolic of our union. And then we learned to play, starting with the old gospel hymn “I’ll Fly Away.” It was an ephemeral moment that seemed prophetic, as we broke up soon after. And all the while, my old flamenco guitar remained in its case.

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. And, many of those amateur podcasters playing and singing from their bedrooms are impressively good. 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.