The Matterhorn Conundrum

We had just arrived at our four-person college dorm room. It wasn’t at the University of Illinois. It was at our atelier in La Napoule, France. We had all come for a fall semester abroad to study architecture, both historic and contemporary, and to experience cultures foreign to ours. As I viewed our spartan accommodations, Harvey strode in, tall and exuberant. He announced that he had stopped in Switzerland, hired a mountain guide, and climbed the Matterhorn, all before arriving at our humble abode in a small town on the French Riviera. I paused, a bit astonished, not sure how to respond. I knew of the Matterhorn, but knew nothing about the route or the difficulty. Though Harvey had never shown any prior interest in alpine climbing, his earnestness led me to accept his proclamation. I just filed it away, soon to be lost in the recesses of memory.

Harvey was a classic extrovert and consequently often a fun companion. One of my favorite memories was from visiting Ventimiglia’s Colletta Square. As we stood admiring the Chiesa di San Michele, a 10th-century Romanesque church, a sleek green convertible swung onto the square and stopped. A tall, beautiful blonde woman emerged, followed by two men, one tanned and arrestingly handsome. After a brief conversation, the other man reassumed the wheel and drove off. Harvey said, “Hey, that’s George Hamilton. Let’s go talk to him.” And so, we strode forward. I figured Harvey would carry the day, so why not.

“You’re George Hamilton. My mother once danced with you,” Harvey announced as he approached and extended his hand. I winced, but George, only 29 at the time, was the consummate gentleman. He shook hands with both of us and took time to engage in friendly small talk. He explained that he was waiting for the delivery of his Ferrari after some local maintenance. And, as if on cue, a flatbed truck turned into the square, hauling a gleaming red 330 GTS Spyder. The truck crew quickly tilted the bed, offloaded the convertible, handed the keys to George, and departed. We said our goodbyes and watched George and his stunning companion slip into the low-slung car, rev the 12-cylinder engine, and shoot out of the square. It was suddenly quiet. I paused, stunned. Even though he was only nine years older than we, he seemed much more so. I had just met one of Hollywood’s most glamorous movie stars, and I knew it never would have happened without Harvey.

Some years later I mentioned Harvey’s Matterhorn ascent to another architecture classmate who knew us both. Without any hesitation, David responded, “There is no way Harvey climbed the Matterhorn.” I was a bit taken aback by David's clarity, so I tucked that one away, thinking he was probably right. Harvey was also something of a blowhard, prone to exaggeration. But why would he choose the Matterhorn as an accomplishment? I would likely never know. But his pronouncement left me curious. Every time the Matterhorn entered my mind, I’d remember that story. I haven’t seen Harvey in decades. And a search of his Facebook page reveals no evidence of any interest in mountaineering or even hiking. So, I am now even more skeptical about his Matterhorn story. But what do I know? And does it even matter? No, it does not.

I hike often, every season, and scramble to the occasional summit. And, even though I no longer climb the technical routes, I maintain an ongoing interest in climbing and mountaineering. So, it’s no surprise that the Matterhorn would show up on my radar once again. As I examined the climbing logistics of the Hörnli Ridge, the standard and oldest Matterhorn route, I wondered how it would compare to some of my finest alpine ascents. And could I have done it?

I felt compelled to resolve my question by using a comparative methodology rather than actually hiking to the Hörnli Hut and climbing the strenuous ridge to the summit and back. So, I picked two Washington ridge climbs: The North Ridge of Mount Stuart in the Central Cascades, and the West Arête of Eldorado Peak in the North Cascades. I had successfully completed both routes between 1974 and 1978. 

How do we compare different alpine routes? There are many route variables: distance, elevation gain, terrain, presence of technical pitches, episodic or sustained, exposure, objective dangers, remoteness, altitude, weather conditions, time constraints, the descent route, and overall difficulty. Then we add climber variables: fitness, stamina, balance, agility, co-ordination, technical expertise, preparation, experience, mindset, judgement, skill of other climbers, and route crowding. Whew! That’s a lot of variables. Perhaps the best approach is to dissect each climb and compare relative attributes and the unique experience of approaching, climbing, and descending each route

The Matterhorn is probably the most iconic peak in the world. It appears on Toblerone chocolate bars and its spiky form symbolizes what we expect in a mountain silhouette. Because it is so well known, it attracts thousands who annually flock to its flanks, many to simply day hike to and from the Hörnli Hut, as well as roughly 2,700 climbers each year to seek the summit via the Hörnli Ridge Route. That equates to around 100 climbers on Hörnli Ridge per day during the peak season in July and August. So, crowded.

The approach to the Hörnli Ridge begins in the Swiss alpine town of Zermatt, at an elevation of 5,271 feet. Most hikers and aspiring climbers take a cable car up to Schwarzsee to access the Hörnli Hut Trail. The 20-minute ride covers 2.5 miles, gaining a not insignificant 3,200 feet of elevation. The distance from Schwarzsee to the Hörnli Hut is just over 2.7 miles, with an elevation gain of 2,380 feet. It is a strenuous, steep, and rocky ascent that includes some lengthy cliffside metal platforms and steep steel stairs along several exposed sections. Exacerbating the terrain difficulty is the altitude, as the hut sits perched directly below the ridge at 10,696 feet. Nonetheless, it is a very popular trail and can get quite crowded.

The Hörnli Hut bills itself as ‘The Ultimate Mountain Hut.’ It has been in service for 130 years and accommodates 150 guests, with a restaurant for 130. It was remodeled as recently as 2015 and claims to set the standard for high mountain hospitality. On the website, the two hut wardens announce, “We intend to keep our intrepid guests feeling refreshed and energised so that they can conquer summits, celebrate success and make their dreams come true.” After all, it is all about mountain dreams, n'est-ce pas?

So, a short but steep hike up from the cable car to a deluxe hut that features prepared meals with both indoor and outdoor dining with spectacular mountain views, comfortable beds and plumbed restroom facilities, all to make one rested and ready for the early start necessary to tackle the daunting ridge climb. No waking up in a freezing tent, or bivy bag, and stumbling about getting clothed in the dark while heating up a spartan breakfast on a tiny one-burner stove. Nope.

From the Hörnli Hut to the Matterhorn summit, the route is about 12–14 pitches of mixed rock, ice, and snow, with 4,000 feet of elevation gain. The route requires fast, safe movement over exposed terrain in a demanding alpine environment. Most of the locals who climb are the mountain guides. Most of the rest arrive from distant places with a dream of scaling the rock and snow to stand on one of the highest summits in the Alps. Guided climbs are encouraged, and the client-to-guide ratio is one to one. But there is no guide requirement, so remaining climbers can set out without a guide, often in ropes of two, and some solo.

Summit day means a crowded climber’s hut breakfast at 3:00 am and then a clustering of climbers at the departure doors, ready for the alpine start. Guided groups start at 4:00 am, with local guides first, followed by outside guides, and only then are unguided climbers allowed to follow, no earlier than 4:20 am. As many as 100 climbers may gather during the peak season. The crowded conditions often result in bottlenecks on the route and increased potential for rockfall initiated by climbers above.

The first two, or so, hours up toward the Solvay Hut are climbed in darkness, with only the beams of headlamps illuminating the route. A serpentine string of moving lights defines the route. As climbers ascend the lower ridge, their headlamps reveal rocks well scratched from years of crampon points, back when snow was more prevalent. The steep, blocky rocks appear as an exposed staircase composed of gneiss, which presents a distinctive layered appearance that is quite different from the uniform structure of granite of Mount Stuart.

The route in the lower ridge can become somewhat improvised, with only occasional fixed ropes. The route is generally considered a class 4 scramble with some chossy conditions, and a few sections of easy class 5. The class 4 terrain requires use of both hands and feet over exposed terrain where any falls would certainly result in death. Guided teams are roped together but climb mostly simultaneously, with the guide occasionally stopping to assist their client with a short belay. Climbers do not swing long leads, placing protection, and belaying each other as on the American ridge climbs.

The upper ridge features alternating rock and mixed terrain, with more fixed ropes and loose rock. First light appears as the climbers approach the Solvay Hut, at 13,133 feet. The hut is intended to accommodate up to 10 climbers in case of emergency. It is ideally reached after 2 to 3 hours of climbing and marks the rough halfway point where every guide evaluates their client’s fitness and ability to continue up toward a successful summit and descend in a safe and timely manner.

The summit shoulder looms ominously above the Solvay hut, presenting a very exposed steep rock ridge that leads to the summit cross. Climbers can encounter some low 5th‑class moves over rock and compacted snow, depending on season. Sometimes crampons and an ice axe are required, but less so in recent peak months due to climate change. The summit ridge is a narrow rocky traverse from the Swiss Summit to the Italian Summit, only about two meters wide. In clear weather, the views are expansive and stunning. But climbers should linger only briefly before their descent, as Matterhorn afternoons often experience rapidly changing weather conditions which can bring freezing temperatures and storms that shroud overall visibility, making the downclimb a route-finding nightmare. The potentially inclement weather window is the prime reason for the alpine start, rapid climbing pace, and a predetermined turnaround time. Experienced climbers are expected to leave the hut, summit, and descend the ridge in 8 to 10 hours.

Beyond terrain and weather, climber fatigue is a key determinant of a successful descent. And that is exacerbated by the high altitude of the mountain. Downclimbing the ascent route is even more difficult from a technique and route-finding perspective, and this is where most Matterhorn fatalities have occurred. Steep rock steps, narrow ledges, loose rock, rockfall, storms, snow, ice, crowds, fatigue, and lack of preparation all contribute. 

The route is a long, exposed push at high altitude, and while the technical difficulty does not reach even intermediate fifth class, the exposure is high, as are the logistical demands of climbing a crowded route even with intermittent fixed ropes. After returning to the hut, many climbers elect to continue their descent to the cable car and return to Zermatt, making the approach and climb a two-day event.

So, what does the route demand of a climber? Ideally, acclimatization to altitude, significant mountain fitness, exceptional stamina, balance, and coordination, route-finding ability, climbing experience on rock, snow, and ice, comfort with scrambling quickly over steep, highly exposed rocky terrain, both up and down, constant awareness of potential rockfall, the ability to read changing conditions, and the judgement necessary to make an informed turnaround decision. And let us forget the ability to negotiate the crowded conditions that contribute to time-consuming bottlenecks, increased rockfall, and difficulties in passing other climbers on both the ascent and descent.

Okay, next up is the North Ridge of Mount Stuart. How does it compare? Mt. Stuart, at 9,415 feet high, is the largest exposed mass of granite in the United States. It’s the crown jewel of the non-volcanic peaks of Washington’s Central Cascades, according to Fred Beckey, and the North Ridge was already a Cascade classic fifty years ago. With a 50-meter rope, about twenty pitches of serious fifth-class climbing on solid granite, much of it on an exposed ridge crest and all of it with dramatic alpine views of the other jagged peaks in the range and beyond. While it is undoubtedly the most climbed of the two American routes profiled, the number of annual ascents is only a few groups of climbers.

The route is accessed from the Esmeralda trailhead, only two and a half hours from the Seattle area, driving east on Interstate 90 and then north up the Teanaway River Road east of the town of Cle Elum. Since Lake Ingalls is a popular day hike, it is best to go mid-week and arrive early. There is no trailhead hut, only a pit toilet. The four-and-a-half-mile hike to the lake starts alongside Ingalls Creek and ascends 2,500 feet to the lake, the jumping-off point for the balance of the approach and actual climbing route.

Here is the story of our climb. We skidded to a halt at the end of the dusty, rutted, rock-covered road. We emerged and stretched, ready. Socks and mountain boots now on, we shouldered our packs and headed up the woodland trail, optimistic. After the brief stop to stash beer in the rocky creek, we continued our approach up to Ingalls Pass. The air was fresh and clean, smelling of pine needles and anticipation. Unlike the densely forested trails of the west side of the Cascades, the Ponderosa pines of the Teanaway were more spread out. There was an openness to the woods, light filtering through the trees and the fragrance of resins. 

Approaching the pass, we ascended a rocky, wet trail that also functioned as a stream bed for the snowmelt of spring. From the pass, we could look back to the south, the vast glacier-covered form of Mt. Rainier dominating the distant skyline. Looking ahead, we saw our first view of both Ingalls Peak and the massive, dominating form of Mt. Stuart. We passed by a cluster of resident snow-white mountain goats that observed us from the rocky slopes above the pass. Always curious, they posed no danger unless one approached too closely. Their horns were needle-sharp. We traversed the blocky talus amphitheater. Then dropped down into the stands of subalpine larches in Headlight Basin and crossed the grassy meadows to Headlight Creek.

Lake Ingalls rested cupped in a rocky bowl high above us at the base of Ingalls Peak. Once past the boulder field, we traversed further and finally scrambled up a steep and loose rocky incline to access the lake. And once there, we pitched our tents, a pair of Early Winters Omnipotents. These days, no camping is allowed at the lake, so any tent camps must be situated in Headlight Basin campsites.

We woke early, ate quickly, and departed. As the sun rose, we were well on our way, alternately traversing talus fields, slopes lush with alpine wildflowers, and then sun-cupped snowfields up and over Stuart Pass and on up to Goat Pass. Looking back, we could see a sun-bathed, partially snow-covered Lake Ingalls cupped in the bowl beneath Ingalls Peak. The entire glaciated massif of Mt. Rainier gleamed in the distance. The weather was with us, blue skies with only the wispiest fragments of clouds.

A couple of hours after we left the lake, we paused at Goat Pass. I got my first look at the North Ridge of Mt. Stuart. The silhouette of the dark form cleaved the horizon and looked daunting. The long, jagged expanse of the ridge was visible from below the snow-filled entrance gully and beyond the great gendarme, the prominent rock buttress from which we’d rappel to continue the route to the summit. Before the fearsome ridge spanned the broad expanse of the Stuart Glacier. The first section across the glacier was steeply angled, and we needed to be cautious crossing it.

We descended from the pass to the glacier, ice axes ready for self-arrest, and carefully traversed the glacier, kicking shallow steps in the firm sun-cupped snow. We didn’t rope up, trusting that we could travel fast and without mishap. We kept alert for falling rocks from the rock gullies above and traversed without resting. As we approached the ridge, the angle of the dirty snow-covered glacier backed off to 30 degrees, and we felt more secure.

At the end of the traverse, we began our ascent of the entrance gully that led upward to the ridge. I looked back towards Goat Pass and across a horizon studded with granite peaks. The volcanic summit of Glacier Peak stood out in the distant northern skyline. Looking down to the shining glacier, I saw the dirty gaping maw of a large crevasse a few yards below the section we had just crossed. And there were more deep crevasses in the broken mass of ice below it. They had not been easily visible from above, and our attention had also been on every step.

Once we gained access to solid 4th class rock, we climbed up the giant granite blocks towards the ridge crest. Though the ridge jutted up at a 70-degree angle from the glacier, the climbing did not yet warrant roped ascent. We who had been but specks on the snow were now specks on the dark granite shield of the ridge. We approached the top of the ridge and roped up, Nicolai and I on one rope and Will and Pat on the other.

The climb along the jagged crest of the ridge was truly exhilarating. Despite an aggressive wind blowing across the ridge, the granite was solid and a joy to climb. I looked back at Will following on the knife-edge, hunched forward, facing the crest, totally focused. His ice axe pointing skyward from his pack, his blonde hair blowing sideways, his stance and movements symbolized the athleticism required on the route. The rock on Mt. Stuart has a sharp crystalline characteristic that produces a bit of a cutting sensation on your fingertips. It might sound unpleasant, but it was not, being both distinctive and reassuring, something that stood out for me like savoring a unique and memorable wine.

Peering down from the crest of the ridge, the view resembled the broad face of an axe as seen from the sharp cutting end. No gullies or shelves, just a sheer uninterrupted drop to the glaciers below, the same on each side. The Stuart Glacier on one side and the Ice Cliff Glacier on the other. I found it good to be roped up and belayed as I climbed the edge. We swung leads until we could clip into the bolted hanger at the base of the great gendarme and take a bite to eat. The perch was small, just enough space to sit down.

The next step towards the summit was a descent. We could have elected to climb the gendarme directly up the 5.9 cracks, but that was not our chosen route. We carefully rappelled down seventy-five feet from our belay station to slabs at the base of the great gendarme. After completing the rappel, we retrieved the ropes and belayed each other, making an exposed traverse across the slabs high above the Stuart Glacier.

We climbed up a steep couloir and across a friction move to a diagonal crack system that led to large granite blocks where we could unrope. We gathered, discussed our next steps, and decided to climb individually, unroped, up the remaining granite blocks to the summit. The exact route wasn’t obvious. I checked that my ice axe was secure on my pack, started climbing up, and soon lost sight of the others. The climbing was steep in places and punctuated with areas where icy granular snow packed the crevices between the granite blocks, making them cold to the touch. My hands and body grew chilled as the evening shade of the day cloaked the north face. Tight in places, the shaft of my axe banged against the rock as I twisted in a narrow chimney section. Some of the blocks were loose, and I gingerly tested them before trusting my body weight to them.

I encountered some palpable fear in that section, unlike any other part of the climb. A fall there would be disastrous. Truly alone and making up my route as I went, my only sure direction was up. I consciously turned my fear back to determination and continued without a pause, pushing myself higher. Tired and breathing hard, I didn’t feel that I could stop. No good would come of it. After an indeterminate period, the angle of the blocks lessened, and the climbing became progressively easier. I could now see the summit pyramid and made my way rapidly towards it. Where were the others? I paused, almost at the summit, wondering as I scanned the horizon, taking in the twilight panorama that surrounded me. The view was incomparable.

Then I saw them. All three appeared around the corner of some jumbled blocks lower down, about 100 feet away. I exhaled, relieved to see them. I waved, and we joined up again for the summit. The final slab-like block, the highest point on Mt. Stuart, pitched up at an angle, as did the other blocks that surrounded it. The jutting summit blocks provided no flat place, so we sat on their sloping faces and briefly savored the mountain’s highest point. Nicolai and Will sat before me, backlit by the setting sun, rays of light cascading over their dramatic silhouetted forms.

The skyline, already turning yellow, would soon be orange. We departed the summit and began to descend the 4,200-foot gully known as Ulrich’s Couloir. Nicolai referred to it as “Ulrich’s bowling alley.” Not an encouraging remark, as it instilled the fear of falling rocks. I negotiated the top sections of the couloir, grateful for the remaining light. I realized they would be hell to descend in the dark. The light was fading fast, and we made our way down the couloir in one continuous push. The rock in places was steep and loose, and we stumbled in sections. No one fell, but we did not slow down. It was a race against time.

We relentlessly pushed on, reaching the trail at the base as the day gave itself over to the dark of night. After the successful summit and injury-free descent, I should have been ecstatically happy. But I was too tired to feel anything but a desperate desire to get back to camp. I was out of gas. As much as I felt like quitting and lying down right there on the trail, I wouldn’t let myself. My companions had the same hard day, and they seemed to be going strong. I gritted my teeth and leaned forward. To keep from falling face down, I simply put one boot out in front of the other and stepped forward, focused on continuously moving. I kept up my quietly determined, controlled, almost falling and stepping forward routine until we made it back to camp.

I had climbed the classic upper North Ridge route, Grade III, 5.7, with my friend, and fearless leader, Nicolai, his girlfriend Pat, and Will, a climber that Nicolai met and recruited at the Blue Moon tavern the night before the climb. It was an 18-hour straight push from base camp at Lake Ingalls to the summit of Stuart, then the descent via Ulrich’s Couloir and the hike back to camp. Because of the length, many parties bivouac somewhere on the route. We did not. We crashed at our lakeside camp and departed on day three to hike out and retrieve our celebration beers. We had seen only one other climbing party, a rope of two, distant, ahead of us on the section after the rappel. We did not see them again. This was 1974.

This route is listed in the Fifty Classic Climbs of North America and actually belongs there. The climbing is on excellent granite in fine exposed positions. The elevation from Lake Ingalls to the summit is 2,915 feet, and the overall gain from the trailhead is 5,415 feet. For comparison, the overall gain to the Matterhorn summit is 6,376 feet. Compared to the Hörnli Ridge on the Matterhorn, the North Ridge of Mount Stuart is more remote and technically difficult, a lower-altitude self‑supported climb with different terrain challenges and negligible climbing traffic, if any.

Next up, the West Arête of Eldorado Peak. The renowned climber Fred Beckey writes, “Eldorado is one of the great mountains of the North Cascades; its W flank features a dramatic rise of 6,400 feet in 2 miles from Marble Creek. Eldorado is of colossal size and has an individual aloofness above the rivalry of adjacent ridges. If Mt. Buckner is the king of the Stehekin Valley, Eldorado, crowned by ice, should have the sobriquet “Queen of the Cascade River.”

The route is accessed from a trailhead several miles up the Cascade River Road east from Marblemount, only three hours from the Seattle area, driving north on Interstate 5 to the Mountain Loop and then east on Highway 20. Since Cascade Pass, at the end of the road, is a popular day hike, it is best to go mid-week and arrive early. There is no trailhead hut, and at the time, no pit toilet.

Here is the story of our climb. Our climbing party was comprised of Mark and his girlfriend Marie on the lead rope and Nicolai and me on the second rope. Mark, a well-accomplished alpinist, had climbed with Fred Beckey and was the leader of the challenging ascent. Despite the route’s intimidating dimensions, Mark and Nicolai referred to it casually as the ‘West Ridge of Eldo’ since Mark owned an older red Cadillac Eldorado convertible, which they all referred to as ‘Eldo.’ The plan was to drive to the trailhead and approach the climb on day one. Climb the West Arête and descend the knife edge of the Inspiration Glacier of the East Ridge route to an alpine bivy on day two. Then descend the Eldorado Glacier, hike out and drive back to Seattle on day three.

The approach to the West Arête of Eldorado Peak was no trifling affair. It was long and strenuous and, one could submit, more dangerous than the climb itself. The approach was not a trail up a valley that followed creek drainage to a pass leading to the base of the climb. No, picture instead a series of rugged traverses up and across many treacherous, steep, and loose faces and gullies with lots of objective dangers like rockfall thrown in for good measure.

After parking my Ford Econoline van, we scrambled up a climber’s trail to the west of the Eldorado Creek drainage for a couple of miles. We gained roughly 4,000 feet on that steep ascent. We then traversed a mile and a half west below the Eldorado Glacier to reach Dorado Col at 6,700, another 700 feet of gain. We dropped 700 feet from the col, a loose fourth-class downclimb into the Marble Creek Cirque.

We then began our traverse toward what would be our first bivy site, perched near the toe of the West Arête. At least with a ridge climb, steep and scary as it might be, and with its unique problems, you don’t have to deal with falling rocks. But this approach route was full of them. In sections, it was a veritable bowling alley. Only the balls were coming at you, irregular, sharp-faceted bowling balls of all sizes, and coming fast! Nicolai and I traversed across one steep section when suddenly a loud, nasty humming sound stopped us in our tracks. We both heard the sound of a giant angry insect. We knew instantly what it was and looked up to see a football-sized boulder careening down, bouncing erratically, side to side, gaining speed as it tumbled towards us. There was no time to backtrack or run forward.

Our only hope was to keep focused on the beastly thing, wait until the last possible instant, try to gauge its rapidly approaching path, and then, if possible, in the last fraction of a second, duck away. Both completely immersed in the present moment, we waited and then rapidly ducked just before the ominous blur passed over Nicolai’s left shoulder, narrowly missing him. That mile-and-a-half stretch to our bivy site was the scariest of my young life, and I was glad that we would not repeat it.

Not long after our incident with the errant careening rock, we got our first view of the West Ridge of Eldorado. Sharply silhouetted against the sky, it rose jaggedly upward from left to right towards Eldorado’s dramatic knifepoint summit. Both the size and shape of the steep, dark ridge appeared ominously forbidding. The impact upon my reptilian brain was immediate. I was afraid. It struck me as the most fearsome-looking ridge climb that I had ever seen.

Was I ready for this? Doubt swept over me like a heavy chainmail shroud, forcibly weighing me down, and I became even surer that no, I was not ready to be any part of this climb. Sure, I had climbed the North Ridge of Mount Stuart and other challenging routes, but this was different, enormous in scale, more jagged, steeper, more dangerous, and more damn scary. My mind shifted into overdrive. Excuses, excuses, what plausible reason could I possibly manufacture to avoid this climb? I felt a desperation to bail out of the ridge climb.

I tried to weenie out, but the group mandate was that I was climbing the ridge with Nicolai. He would be my partner, and that was the end of my nonsense suggestion. Darn. I gulped and started trying to convince myself that it would probably be okay. I was still working on that as we crawled into our sleeping bags for the night.

We awoke early, knowing that today was the big day. We’d be climbing a lot of jagged vertical rock on the fearsome buttress to reach the summit. I tried to assure myself: just another day at the office, rope up, go to work, get moving up, doing what you know you can do. For some reason, I did not bring my trusty little Rollei 35 camera, so I have no photos of this climb. The images exist only in my mind. But I vividly remember the very photo-worthy route, from the expansive view of the fearsome silhouette to the airy pitches along the ridge. 

Climbing the lower sections was a work-like affair from a technical and enjoyment standpoint, and those pitches are less memorable. But the climbing around the granite gendarmes in the middle section was nothing short of spectacular. The 5.8 crux chimney traverse on thin face holds required a bit of attention, but we were all on our game. Everything flowed seamlessly as we swung leads rhythmically up.

You can’t say that about every climb, and you feel the gift of the gods when it happens. I paused during one belay, feeding out the rope to Nicolai, and gazed in awe across the magnificent terrain defined by the jagged surrounding peaks of the North Cascades.

As I sat on the warm granite, anchored to the rock by slings and the force of gravity, the shimmering peaks in the distance appeared to float weightlessly before me. In those moments, I had mentally slipped into a form of sitting meditation. My conscious insight was that my reason for doing these climbs, with all the dirty, strenuous, and dangerous work, was not to rack up a list of summits with progressively harder difficulty ratings to make myself feel good, or to tell my friends.

The real reason for the climb, the extraordinary gift of it, was to see the world from a different vantage point, a vantage point that would be gained only by hard work, requisite skill, and the ability to take risks and overcome fear. And to trust and rely on the help from my fellow climbing partners, who were in those moments my very best friends. The stunning views of and from the sharp ridge were the everlasting rewards.

And in those moments, I was infinite. The climbing that day was long and technical, challenging and immensely gratifying, and surprisingly, at the end of the day, over way too soon. The physical touch of the solid granite beneath my feet and fingertips was so reassuring, and that day we savored the rock as if we had attended a banquet. It was sublime.

What I remember most from that day was not the athleticism and challenge of the climbing, but the place and my perceptions of it. The being there was the gift. After entering the perceptual mystic and achieving what had been some of the most satisfying climbing I had yet done in the Cascades, we reached the summit. We stood at the top of the snow and ice that cascaded down the other side. We basked in the epic moment. As I surveyed the scene, I was delirious with joy. With clear skies and unlimited visibility, the views from the summit were expansive and dramatic, Wagnerian in their visual intensity!

Nicolai, soon after summiting, exclaimed that the West Ridge of Eldorado Peak was the ultimate alpine climb of his mountaineering career. At the time, I agreed with Nicolai that this climb was among the great ones for me as well, and perhaps the highlight of my all too brief technical climbing career. And, now, I agree completely.

As we descended from the summit, unroped, ice axes in hand, taking the knife-edge of the snow-covered East Ridge route down the Inspiration Glacier, the sun drew progressively lower on the horizon. After finding a suitable dry location off the glacier snow, we prepared our bivy. We ate a spartan, late-day meal and silently watched the departing sun paint the evening sky in hues of ambers and oranges and finally into blues as the sun disappeared. We entered the sliver of time known as the blue hour. And as we passed through both nautical and astronomical twilights, we finally entered into a dark, unclouded night sky that sparkled with diamonds, the ancient lights of faraway stars hovering magically above us. I soon slipped into a deep and satisfying sleep.

Trudging out after descending from the East Ridge of Eldorado, down the Eldorado Glacier, and finally the rough climber’s trail near the creek drainage, I could faintly see a familiar yellow shape as we hiked towards the Bubble Mobile, my Ford Econoline van, still parked on the forest road where we left it.

I had climbed the West Arête of Eldorado Peak, Grade IV, 5.8, with my friend, and fearless leader, Nicolai, his friend Mark, and girlfriend Marie. It was an all-day ascent from our bivy site in the Marble Creek to the summit of Eldorado Peak, then a descent via the Inspiration Glacier to a second bivy, and then down the Eldorado Glacier and the hike back to my van the next day. We saw no one else during our three days on the ten-plus-mile route. This was 1978.

Timberline Mountain Guides describes the climb in glowing terms. “Soaring nearly 3000′ from glacier to summit, the West Arete of Eldorado Peak is surely the longest continuous rock climb in the North Cascades. Guarded by a long and strenuous approach, this route is only climbed a few times a season by very competent parties. The setting is incredible, and the climbing is amazing.”

The roped climbing was technical from bottom to top, on occasionally loose granite in exposed positions that always presented sensational alpine views. Our overall elevation gain was 7,413 feet. For comparison, the overall gain to the Matterhorn summit is 6,376 feet. Compared to the Hörnli Ridge on the Matterhorn, the West Arête of Eldorado Peak is much more remote and more technically difficult, a lower-altitude, self‑supported climb with different terrain challenges and scant climbing traffic, if any.

With the deluxe hut, crowded route, fixed ropes, and occasional helicopter rescues, the Hörnli Ridge climb seems somewhat like a tourist attraction, even with serious exposed rock and ice. This is a stark contrast to the two North American climbs, all of which have no huts, are in remote locations without easy access to rescue, are more technically demanding, and thus host very few climbers. Guide services are few, and most climb unguided. While all of these climbs have some risk of rockfall, the Hörnli Ridge probably risks far more due to the number of climbing parties on the route.

The Hörnli Ridge popularity is convincingly expressed with over eighty YouTube videos taken by climbers on the route, making terrain beta easy to acquire without even leaving your desktop computer. By contrast, the North Ridge of Mount Stuart has about twenty videos, and the West Arête of Eldorado Peak has none. That’s right. Zero

The other major difference is that the Hörnli Ridge climb descends the same route, which is even more dangerous than the ascent. Most of the deaths happen from falls on the descent, with over 600 deaths since the first ascent in 1865, when three out of six climbers perished. The Matterhorn is perhaps the deadliest mountain in the world. By comparison, the American climbs have more technically demanding ascents, but none descend via the ascent route. They exit over alpine terrain that is significant, but less challenging, and therefore much safer.

I climbed the two Cascades routes over a period from 1974 to 1978. The sequence was North Ridge of Mount Stuart, and finally the West Arête of Eldorado Peak. Both were climbed roped with a single partner. We placed protection, belayed, and swung leads. Mount Stuart had a glacier crossing on the approach, while Eldorado Peak had glacier crossings on the descent. And, of course, back then the peaks held far more snow.

So, what’s my takeaway? After studying the Hörnli Ridge route from stats and several videos, and comparing it with Cascade ridge routes in my portfolio of completed climbs, I confidently conclude the Hörnli Ridge route was well within my capabilities. But would I now want to climb it? No. Absolutely not. I would never choose to ascend any route with conga line crowding, be it the South Col of Everest or the Matterhorn’s Hörnli Ridge. It stands at the opposite end of the spectrum of the experience I seek. I value remoteness and a Zen-like solitude in my chosen alpine environments. In conclusion, I do not regret that I have never climbed the Matterhorn. And I will not be travelling to Zermatt to climb it anytime soon. The spectacular climbs of my youth are more than enough.

The Light Dimension

Workingman’s Dead rolled on the cassette player, the Grateful Dead cranking out an energetic version of “Uncle John’s Band.” Always one of my favorites, I turned up the volume.

“Well, the first days are the hardest days, don’t you worry anymore…”

I listened attentively to the close harmony as I sat on the short steps that led up from the sewing floor to the small offices at the back of our little shop. Once a mom-and-pop grocery store, the small wood-framed building at the base of Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill was now our factory.

I wasn’t idle. My hands were fully engaged in assembling pole sets for Omnipotents, gluing aluminum ferrules onto spiral-wrapped fiberglass pole sections with a crack-filling epoxy. The west-facing windows captured and magnified the late afternoon heat on that cloudless sunny day. Even though I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, probably a Grateful Dead or Ski Hut t-shirt, I perspired freely and fought my torpor. It felt too hot to work.

A visitor interrupted the ordinariness of the afternoon. A man in a rumpled brown suit approached our front door, looked in tentatively, and walked in. His tie askew, he looked a bit weary and apprehensive, carrying his boxy brown briefcase in the heat of the day. I wondered, who is this guy?

He certainly didn’t resemble our regular customers. They varied from disheveled climbing bums who needed good gear to well-heeled outdoor couples wearing their barely used mountain parkas. We didn’t get any suits. Probably lost and looking for directions, I thought.

The man who looked as if he might be lost introduced himself.

“Hello, I’m Joe Tanner. I’m from W.L. Gore.”

Joe was an engineer from a technology company based in Wilmington, Delaware. After a three-week trip to introduce a new fabric to the outdoor companies of the Rockies and the West, he finally arrived at Early Winters, a whistle-stop if there ever was one. How had he heard about us?

While waiting for his Denver appointment in a sparse reception area, Joe picked up a copy of Mountain Gazette. Paging through the niche publication, he noticed a small black-and-white space ad. Great Pacific Ironworks. He did not know of them, but they seemed a likely candidate for his fabric, so he added them to his list of companies to visit.

Joe drove his rental car north to Ventura. The Pacific Coast Highway was a two-lane driver’s road that curved back and forth, up and down as it snaked along the coast with the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean below. As he approached Ventura, he wondered if this small town held any promise for his quest to find the companies that would embrace his new product. He pulled into the parking lot at Great Pacific, looking forward to meeting Tom Frost.   

Tom, already a legend in the Yosemite climbing community, was a disarmingly approachable and friendly guy. He welcomed Joe and gave him the company tour. As they walked, Joe noticed a periwinkle blue tent pitched in a showroom. It was an Early Winters Omnipotent, the same tent that I had left with Tom Frost several weeks earlier on a stop after a Sierra ski touring trip before I returned to Seattle.

As an experienced engineer, Joe quickly assessed the structural principles, determining it was
no ordinary mountaineering tent. Intrigued, he asked Tom to tell him about it. Tom gave Joe the highlights and finished by suggesting,

“These are some guys that you should talk to. They might be interested in your fabric.”

He gave Joe our company name and address.

After visiting every potential client that he could find in California, Joe headed for the Pacific Northwest. He stopped in Portland to call on Hirsch Weiss, who made the White Stag products, and then with Tim Boyle at Columbia Sportswear. Flying towards Seattle, Joe looked from the window at the stunning massif of Mt. Rainier, glaciers gleaming in the sun. It spoke to him that he had come to the right place, a vast, rugged wilderness where intrepid adventurers would welcome his new product. He felt this was a good omen that portended success.

Seattle began at Eddie Bauer, REI, and Sportcaster, all with significant research and manufacturing facilities, capable of quickly developing and bringing new products to market. Would one of them be the first to incorporate the new Gore-Tex fabric into a commercial product? As with the outdoor industry folks that he visited in California and Oregon, they all accepted Joe’s offer to send sample yardage.

But something important was missing. Where was the wild enthusiasm that Joe thought he might hear? Yes, everyone was very cordial, but no one seemed truly excited. He decided to visit the tiny company that Tom Frost had pointed him towards, Early Winters.

As Joe drove to the Queen Anne area of Seattle, he wondered what he’d find. He noticed the Seattle Center and the Space Needle, the landmark tower built for the 1962 World’s Fair. Lower Queen Anne wasn’t an industrial area where one could expect to find a manufacturing facility. He drove slowly as he scouted for Early Winters, searching for the corner of Queen Anne and West Thomas; he saw only apartments and small shops. Was he lost?

And then it appeared, a small one-story, flat-roofed, wood-frame building on the corner at 300 Queen Anne North. The façade had a windowed double door flanked by two front picture windows, and on the fascia above were large hand-painted plywood letters. They spelled out Early Winters, Ltd. At first glance, it was not very impressive, but Joe, someone who always followed through, parked his car and prepared to meet the folks at Early Winters.

When he opened the front door and looked in, he saw three sewing machines, a fabric cutting table, and only a few workers. Everyone was wearing shorts and T-shirts. They all looked like hippies. Hippie music filled the small factory floor.

A scruffy young man approached him. He looked friendly, but Joe thought to himself,

“This is probably not going to be my best sales call.”

He did not expect much from this last Seattle sales pitch. It looked for all the world like a real long shot, a complete waste of time. Hot and tired, he sighed and entered.

The Omnipotent, the world’s best two-person mountaineering tent, was our only Early Winters product. Made in small production runs, we sold them directly to customers in our shop, at outdoor shows, and through mail order. Our limited wholesale program hadn’t taken off, and we now realized that it would never take off. Consequently, our sales were limited.

Not enough people knew about the Omnipotent or needed the world’s best mountaineering tent. Even if they wanted it, few felt they could afford it. We desperately needed a second act, another more mainstream product. Tents were our expertise, so we set out to create a lighter-weight, more affordable two-person backpacking tent. There were more casual backpackers than dedicated mountaineers, and weight was always an issue for backpackers.

Inspired by Jack Stephenson’s Warmlite tent, an ultralight two-person tent with a hoop design and tapered body, I developed a two-person backpacking tent. Constructed with the same materials that we used in our Omnipotent, it was smaller and lighter. A single-wall tent, made from coated nylon ripstop and two fiberglass pole sets, it tapered sharply from front to back to reduce weight. Two differential vents would create airflow from back to front to eliminate or minimize interior condensation.

We pinned our hopes on this new design and christened it the Potent. We liked the name. After some brief prototype testing, we made a short production run of three and quickly sold them all. Within a couple of weeks, all three were back in our shop, having been returned by angry customers who complained of excessive condensation. The Potent was a total bust. Impotent. We reluctantly shelved the patterns and put that concept on the back burner, despondent with its failure.

Nicolai, Z-man, and I now huddled around Joe in Nicolai’s small back office, anticipating something which might be special. Without any flourish, Joe slowly opened his bulky briefcase and pulled out a large black-and-white photograph and a flimsy 6” square swatch of thin white plastic-like material, a membrane. Polytetrafluoroethylene, Joe explained, was a synthetic fluoropolymer of tetrafluoroethylene. PTFE is an inert material more commonly known by its DuPont trade name as Teflon. This material was no ordinary Teflon; it was their company’s proprietary Gore-Tex membrane, a sheet of expanded PTFE, with nine billion pores per square inch.

The founder’s son and lead engineer, Bob Gore, conceived a unique way of stretching the Teflon to create a porous membrane. Joe offered the photo, a photomicrograph. The microscopic view of the material showed an intricately interlaced system of fibers and nodes that constituted a semi-permeable membrane. The microscopic structure and hydrophobic chemical properties allowed for the passage of water vapor but not water droplets. Joe’s pitch was more than interesting. It was riveting. This material had functional properties that loudly shouted ‘Breakthrough Technology!’

After the theoretical explanation, we witnessed a physical demonstration that would change everything. Joe asked Nicolai if he could get a cup of hot coffee. Nicolai returned with a mug that was steaming with the hot beverage. Instead of hoisting the coffee mug up for a sip, Joe laid the thin white membrane over the opening at the top and secured it around the perimeter with a heavy rubber band.

Wisps of steam emerged from the hot coffee, rising through the membrane. Joe reached for the mug, held it up, and slowly turned it upside down. The coffee was trapped inside by the membrane, but not a droplet escaped. The steaming vapor continued to pour through even though the hot liquid coffee was in full contact with the interior surface of the membrane. Joe’s demonstration absolutely stunned us. Our jaws dropped. We looked at each other in silence, our eye communication speaking volumes. This semi-porous membrane had the technological magic we had been seeking. The road ahead now looked clear and bright. We had the material for our second act.

The membrane itself had little structural integrity. So, W.L. Gore laminated the membrane with a sandwich of 1.5 oz ripstop nylon on one side and a non-woven polyester scrim - they called it nexus - on the other. The fabrics and membrane were bonded together with thousands of tiny adhesive dots arrayed in a matrix pattern. The sandwich of materials was named the Gore-Tex laminate. It was the first application of the expanded PTFE in a fabric.

When Joe asked if we were interested in receiving some sample yardage, we all nodded a big ‘yes.’ Key people at many larger companies had all seen Joe’s pitch. Presumably, all were smart and none lazy. Had they passed? Or were they jumping on this new technology in a race to market? We did not know, and we couldn’t assume anything. We had to move. Right now!

I ordered fifteen yards, explaining we had prototype tent patterns that I could quickly adapt to test the new Gore-Tex laminate. We emphasized our will to act. As Joe left, I remember saying, “If this works, it could be big, really big.”

After counting the days, I tore open the end of the brown cardboard tube and pulled out the sample yardage from W.L. Gore. A bright yellow fabric with an orange cast emerged. We named the color Acapulco Gold. It signified the hue and also something powerful and desirable. I quickly unrolled the fabric onto the cutting table and laid out our new patterns. Anticipating the Gore-Tex fabric, I had already revised the old Potent patterns. I ditched the differential vents and made other changes to improve the tent and make it ready for the Gore-Tex laminate. 

We cut and sewed up three prototype tents and tested them in my backyard in Seattle’s Wallingford neighborhood. That night was perfect, damp and chilly. We crawled into our respective tents, zipped the doors shut, and spent the night in our sleeping bags. We awoke with the dawn without any noticeable condensation inside the tents, even though the outer shells of the tents were wet with water droplets. This first test encouraged us forward.

We now needed a name. We brainstormed in earnest, all wanting to be the author. Most names struck out. Z-man proposed the Light Dimension, and it stuck. Our new tent weighed three-and-a-half pounds, which was significantly lighter than the six- to eight-pound weights of the conventional 2-person A-frame backpacking tents. And it introduced a new dimension to the outdoor experience, one without annoying condensation inside the tent.

While we exhibited the Light Dimension at the Sunset Magazine Outdoor Show in Menlo Park earlier in the year, we effectively launched the Light Dimension to a larger audience with a direct marketing mailer on May 1, 1976. Since we already had a small mailing list, Z-man suggested augmenting it with rented subscriber lists from Off Belay and a few other outdoor magazines to target and pitch the performance attributes of our new product.

Z-man pulled out all the stops for our Light Dimension mailer. The mailing envelope featured a young parka-clad man smiling and holding a small bag in his extended hand. On the lower right of the envelope, a large bold type proclaimed,

“In this Bag is an Amazing New Tent. Its Weight? Just 3-1/2 lbs. Details Inside…”

Inside the envelope was an introductory letter, a product brochure, a $20 off coupon, a certificate with “Your Guarantee of Satisfaction,” an order form, and a pre-stamped business reply envelope. Ron included every element of the selling cycle. The letter had a handwritten message printed below the letterhead, “Special introductory offer – Try this amazing new 3-1/2 lb. tent at no risk and save $20.” The letter praised our Omnipotent and introduced the new ultralight Light Dimension and described the revolutionary new laminated fabric as “The Barrier that Breathes.”

The “Save $20” certificate looked a bit like currency. Its engraved image of Ben Franklin gazed past the typed message. Who wouldn’t trust Ben Franklin? There was a call to action that stated the offer expired at midnight on July 1, 1976. And if all that wasn’t enough, the opening statement inside the brochure announced in bold type,

“Introducing a New Dimension in Outdoor Pleasure…”

It sounded very intriguing and vaguely sexual. Was that intentional? Who knows? But who could resist?

And resist, they did not. Customers responded in droves. We soon had so many orders that we papered three walls of our tiny office with them. We mapped the dates of their backpacking plans onto a planning calendar. And with push pins, we rearranged their orders on our office wall to align manufacturing and fulfillment priorities. To hell with filling orders based on the sequential time of receipt. If we could help it, no customer order would go unfulfilled. And none did.

Fifty years ago, in May of 1976, our little company, Early Winters, created and introduced the world’s first Gore-Tex consumer product, the Light Dimension tent. It fulfilled a latent demand so strong that it propelled our fledgling enterprise from obscurity to overnight success. We soon introduced the world’s first Gore-Tex mountaineering shell garments in the spring of 1977. And the rest, as they say, is history. Footnote: Many of us still have them and use them today. The last photo is from a camp in the Mount Baker area, taken last year.

This story is an excerpt from ‘The Light Dimension,’ a chapter in my mountain memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is available as an eBook on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and Kobo.com.

Banquet of the Infinite: Dropping Out to Find Myself tells the stories of my adventures in the mountains and outdoor business in the ‘70s. I played a key role in growing a Seattle outdoor company called Early Winters, where we designed, manufactured, and brought to market the first Gore-Tex fabric mountain tents and shell garments in the world. The book covers the mountain subculture of ‘70s Seattle and many of the wild hiking and climbing venues in an era before permits. It is very much a Seattle / Pacific Northwest story. For gearheads, there are interesting genesis stories about outdoor apparel and equipment. For hikers and climbers, a collection of dangerous, sketchy alpine adventures. And for others? Humor. The inside stories reveal our youthful naivete and some really stupid stuff that will cause many readers to break out laughing. And who doesn’t like laughing? - Bill Edwards

Fire Watcher

It seems we are all fire watchers now, even if we don’t peer through high-powered binoculars or use an Osborne Fire Finder in a remote fire lookout perched atop some faraway rocky peak. No, just us down here in front of our computer screens, leaning forward, perched on the edge of our ergo chairs, scanning online resources, looking for wildfire incident reports, smoke plume progressions, air quality indexes, and updated weather forecasts. We’re busy juggling and adjusting our hiking plans, regretfully scratching destinations off our wish lists as wildfires now run rampant throughout Washington State. It’s that season, from late July, now early August, and soon to be September, and we’re busy gaming lightning strikes, burn zones, wind, and weather to find beautiful places to hike without endangering ourselves. It’s frustrating, not fun.

Earlier this year, back on July 23, we hiked up to the historic fire lookout on Desolation Peak, perhaps the most remote lookout in the state, situated deep in the North Cascades, high above Ross Lake, not far from the Canadian border. One of my photographic objectives was to take high-resolution images of nearby Mount Hozomeen, but I arrived to find the peak almost completely shrouded in a haze of gray. At times, I could make out little more than its looming silhouette and substantial form. The resident Ranger, Jim Henterly informed us that there were two recent wildfires in the Ross Lake area: the Luna Fire, located west of lake, southwest of Luna Camp along the Big Beaver Trail, in remote, rough, and steep terrain, and the Border 2 Fire, a blaze east of Ross Lake to the north of Hozomeen Mountain, again in steep, rocky, remote terrain near the Canadian border. Both had been ignited by lightning strikes a few days prior, and the Border 2 Fire was spreading rapidly. Although annoyed by the smoky Border 2 smoke as it cloaked Hozomeen, I would later marvel at the coincidence of witnessing an active forest fire from this iconic North Cascades fire lookout.

I’d hoped, earlier in the season, that we might skate free, but no, it seems not to be. Wildfires have become all too common in recent years, and yet my wishful thinking had remained undiminished until Desolation. The Border 2 Fire, at 6,433 acres, is currently listed as out of control and seems destined to spread beyond its current perimeter. The Luna Fire, while smaller at 1,390 acres, is less aggressive. Of more concern is the Little Giant Fire. Located 41 miles NW of Leavenworth, WA, in the Chiwawa River drainage, the lightning strike fire has consumed 74,284 acres and is only 1% contained due to “increased winds and poor access in steep inaccessible country.” Another lightning strike blaze, the Sinlahekin Fire, 12 miles west of Tonasket, is even larger at 120,692 acres, but now 20% contained as firefighters continue work on strengthening and constructing more containment lines. These four are only a few among the many wildfires already actively burning across Washington, Oregon, and Idaho. A recent blaze north of the Mount Fremont Lookout shocked us, closing one of our favorite access points to hikes on Mount Rainier. WTA.org now flags hikes all in that area: “8.7.26: Trails and roads in the White River & Sunrise section of the park are closed due to the Grand Park 2 fire.”

The NW FireWatch Staff Report from August 6 states: “Fire weather conditions across the Pacific Northwest have reached levels not seen since 2020, with the National Weather Service issuing its highest-tier fire weather alerts — Particularly Dangerous Situation (PDS) Red Flag Warnings — for large portions of eastern Washington and northeastern Oregon. The warnings signal an elevated threat of rapid, erratic, and potentially uncontrollable fire spread.”

The report further explains: “The catalyst for this week's extreme fire weather was a dry cold front that moved across the region starting around August 1-2. Rather than bringing meaningful precipitation, the front delivered strong gusty winds with gusts of 40 to 55 mph across eastern Washington, the Columbia Basin, and northeastern Oregon. Combined with daytime temperatures approaching 100°F in the Willamette Valley and even higher in the Columbia Basin, and relative humidity values plummeting to 4-10 percent across the Sierra Front and Columbia Plateau, the front created a nearly ideal ignition and spread environment.” So, it is not over yet and will likely get much, much worse over the weeks ahead, before late-season rains arrive to quench the flames. 

This year seems a perfect storm for the emergence of unprecedented wildfires. A very low snow year, historically low moisture levels, and the abundance of fine fire fuels, grasses, sagebrush, and light timber just waiting for a spark from dry lightning- thunderstorms which arrive without rain to ignite what will become a rampaging mass of flame. Seasonal winds exacerbate the situation with frontal passages that periodically bring wind without meaningful rain, and are often accompanied by high-pressure conditions that push easterly winds and smoke into Western Washington and Oregon.

And during all this carnage, we confront the sobering fact that our firefighting resources are now more stretched than ever before. Headlines like, ‘Wildfires Burn at Record Rates, Trump Cuts Forest Service Funds’, both shock and anger those of us who care about our national parks and public lands. Massive Forest Service staff cuts occurred last year, and more are destined to come. The Trump administration aims to continue shrinking the Forest Service, eliminating programs and decimating services. It is obvious that his workforce reduction initiatives will reduce the Forest Service’s ability to manage and care for our public lands. And that will likely have a significantly negative impact on current and future fire management capabilities. After all the cuts, who will be left to rake the forests to clean up dead brush and trees? I jest, of course. Trump’s inane solution to the 2025 wildfires in California seems now to be long forgotten. Not that his foolish notion would have worked anyway. The tragedy is that we and the wild places we love will greatly suffer the consequences of Trump’s idiocracy, he and his obsequious ship of fools.

The devastation of our treasured wilderness forests is the heartbreaking part; the loss of a long-anticipated hike not as big a deal. But still, it is a crushing disappointment for all of us who yearn to visit those magical wild places. So, what shall we do?

Well, we do what we can with the resources available to us. My current approach is to identify and eliminate locations that are impacted by the current wildfires. I often start with a fire map and then utilize the hike search tools on WTA.org, the Washington Trails Association website. The hiking guide page is the best place to start as it offers multiple ways to search. I can enter a hike that I am curious about, or specify a broader search by region and subregion. For example, a search for Little Giant Pass yields a link to the hike page along with an alert in red type. “7.30.26: The trail is closed until further notice due to the Little Giant Fire.” The same message will be repeated for many other hikes in the Central Cascades, Stevens Pass, East region. That tells me there will be no Spider Gap, Buck Creek Pass loop for me this year. Sorry dude, I tell myself. And I look elsewhere.

Sometimes we hunker down and wait for conditions to change. And when they don’t, it is always good to have a plan B. In fact, it’s always good to have a plan B, even without wildfires. That’s why I maintain an active list of trails arranged by region. If a group of trails in the North Cascades, or elsewhere, are closed due to wildfires, or road washouts, or trail maintenance, we might opt for the Olympic Peninsula to backpack the North Coast from Shi Shi Beach to Ozette. But, as wonderful as beach hikes and sublime oceanside sunsets may be, they’re just not the North Cascades, or the Alpine Lakes, or Glacier Peak Wilderness, those places where we celebrate the brilliant subalpine lakes, remote glaciers, pristine peaks, and intoxicating high routes.

Sometimes we return to sites where wildfires have previously ravaged the forests. In July of 2020, I hiked to a former fire lookout site in the Chinook Pass area to the east of Mount Rainier. The Norse Peak Fire started by lightning strikes on August 11, 2017, and was not contained until November 1, 2017. The fire killed most of the hemlock, silver, and noble firs in the 55,909-acre blaze. Nearly three years from that time, I solo hiked the Norse Peak trail to view the burn zone. The scorched trees remain as silent sentinels, displaying a tragic beauty. The high-angle alpine meadows flanking the open trail through the burn zone were resplendent with broad swaths of wildflowers including lupine, paintbrush, asters, columbine, arnica lilies, and more, providing an exuberantly colorful show. The regal snowcapped Mount Rainier stood proud, cresting the horizon to the southwest in the upper sections of the trail, and Mount Adams was easily seen from the summit to the distant south. The hike, though through a site of tragic devastation, was made strikingly beautiful by the reemergence of the wildflowers.

Sometimes a hike through a burn zone is far from enjoyable. It can be what we refer to as Type 2 Fun, challenging and unpleasant on the day, but later remembered with some appreciation. In September of 2023, my hiking companion, Roy, and I punished ourselves on a short trail from our Stuart Lake basecamp up to the pristine Horseshoe Lake, perched high in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness close to the north side of Mount Stuart. It was an easy trail at first, then a half mile of dense burn zone deadfall, with over a hundred downed trees in our path. And, after that, a steep climber’s trail that gained 1,200 feet in seven-tenths of a mile. Even that challenging path to the remote alpine lake was occasionally encumbered with charred deadfall. But still, there was a sublime beauty to the place, dramatically enhanced by the presence of vast clusters of blooming Chamaenerion angustifolium, commonly known as fireweed. Even the charcoal flanks of the burn zone trees had an eerie, visually interesting quality.

The torched woodland was the sorry remnant of the Jack Creek Fire, ignited by a lightning strike on August 11, 2017, the same day as the Norse Peak Fire. By the end of September, the fire had burned a total of 4,606 acres in the Stuart Lake and Eightmile drainages. Though short, the rough trail up from our Stuart Lake campsite and through the burn chewed up an inordinate amount of time as it was completely unmaintained. No one had come, or would be coming, to clear the wildfire debris that lay like giant scattered matchsticks across the trail. And, as an out-and-back route, we had to deal with the deadfall obstacle course twice. We stooped low and gymnastically circumvented those that we could. We stepped over, traversed along, and butt swiveled over many rough, charred trunks and crawled under and wriggled through gaps in the thicket of wood that impeded us. We got filthy dirty. We got snagged, poked, and scraped. The deadfall drew blood. Was it worth it? Though it wasn’t a whole lot of fun that day, it was a journey through and up to a place of rare beauty that I will long remember. So, yeah, Type 2 Fun.

Anyway, I sit here writing about wildfires and wondering if the smoke will clear enough that we can hike tomorrow. I had proposed a hike up to Red Pass, the old unmaintained Snoqualmie area trail that preceded the newer section of the PCT that now traverses the Kendall Katwalk. Mark and I had hiked up there back in August of 2021. Our objective was to get a closer view of Mount Thomsen. Mark had often gazed at the peak from the Alpental chairlift during ski season and wanted to get a closer look. I took my heavier camera gear and captured source images to create two spherical panoramas. While I found the finished panoramas quite beautiful, the skies were blanketed with a streaky orange-gray wildfire haze. I planned to someday return to find clearer and more pristine skies and reshoot the place. So, I suggested it to hiking friends earlier this week. And then, things changed. Things got smoky. The irony is that all of us now sit robotically querying the AQI (air quality index), wishing it to drop from an unhealthy 167 so we can hike tomorrow. But I don’t see it. Not going to happen. (And, it did not.)

The high AQI is not just a meaningless statistic; the Air Quality Index tells us how clean or polluted the air is. And, that matters. A lot. We should always take heed when the AQI is unhealthily high. Listen up. Back in September of 2020, National Geographic published an informational piece titled, ‘How Breathing Wildfire Smoke Affects the Body.’ This excerpt cuts to the heart of the problem: “Wildfire smoke is a very complex type of air pollution,” says Sarah Henderson, an environmental health scientist at the University of British Columbia. “It has many different gases in it, and the composition of those small particles can be highly variable, depending on what’s burning [and] how hot it’s burning.” Of particular concern, she says, is particulate matter 2.5 microns in diameter—also referred to as PM 2.5. Those small particles, and ones even smaller, are capable of penetrating deep into a person’s lungs. Henderson says the body responds by releasing the same immune cells it would deploy to attack a virus. Unlike a virus, however, particulate matter isn’t broken down by that immune response and results in long-lasting inflammation. “That inflammation affects your lungs, kidneys, liver, and probably your brain,” says Henderson. Yikes!

Although the severity of wildfire seasons fluctuates, the recent trend is toward more fires and increased devastation. It feels prophetic, as if this is the heavy cross we will now bear before every remaining outdoor adventure this season. And, unfortunately, that crushing burden will probably remain for as many years as we have yet to come.

I created several spherical panoramas in the Norse Peak burn zone, at Desolation Peak, and on the Red Pass hike. If you wish to view them, I have posted the links to a few below. For the most immersive viewing, click the link to open the image, then locate the menu bar in the upper right of the image. Click ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ and scroll around, up and down. 

Norse Peak, Summit Knoll with Wildflowers, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/norse-peak-summit-knoll-with-wildflowers-wa-state

Norse Peak, Burn Zone with Mixed Wildflowers, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/norse-peak-burn-zone-with-mixed-wildflowers-wa-state

Manning the Fire Lookout, Desolation Peak, N Cascades, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/manning-the-fire-lookout-desolation-peak-n-cascades-wa-state

Ranger Jim on Call, Desolation Peak Lookout, N Cascades, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/ranger-jim-on-call-desolation-peak-lookout-n-cascades-wa-state

Red Pass Vista with Peaks, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA State

https://www.360cities.net/image/red-pass-vista-with-peaks-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa-state

 

A Few Fire Watch Resources:

NW FireWatch https://nwfirewatch.com

InciWeb https://inciweb.wildfire.gov

Western Fire Chiefs https://wfca.com/fire-map/detection/599ee11abfb61c1d

Plume Forecast https://plumeforecast.com/

B.C. Wildfire Service https://wildfiresituation.nrs.gov.bc.ca/dashboard

AirNow https://www.airnow.gov/

Northwest Active Fire Map FireRisk.AI https://firerisk.ai/fire-map/washington