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, 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 wildfire 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/

Room at the Top

I had been thinking about it for years, and so had Mark. Of course, he was a step ahead of me as he’d been halfway up to the famous fire lookout before reluctantly abandoning his quest. He and a friend, Mike, had paddled their kayaks eighteen miles north from the Ross Lake Resort to arrive at Desolation Dock, the site of the trailhead. Their paddling hours chewed up so much daylight that they knew they could not succeed by their turnaround time. As is often the case, the lake waters that had been relatively smooth in the morning had now turned choppy with both waves and wind beating against them as they struggled to paddle back before dark. Fortunately, their concerned friend, Gerry, had motored north in his aluminum boat in search of the two kayaks. And, once he found them, he tied Mark’s kayak to the boat with a tow rope, and Mike’s kayak to Mark’s. Even though Gerry motored back at a reasonable rate, the kayaks were always in danger of capsizing. They eventually made the long tow back without mishap. But the exhausting and perilous experience had shaken them all, and none had since ventured forth to attempt the summit route to Desolation Peak. Or even considered it seriously, until now.

Somehow the magnetism of the quest had resurfaced for Mark. And after all my spring training hikes, I finally felt physically ready to embrace the challenge. When planning this summer’s outings, we agreed the time had come to tackle what we expected to be a beast of a hike. It was not only the strenuous nature of the trail but the difficulty of even getting to the trailhead. But in a way, we saw that as a good thing. We would likely have the place mostly to ourselves. The most difficult and rarely visited places are always more attractive.

This iconic hike would see much more human traffic if it were easy to get to. But it is not. While there are all sorts of ways to get to the trailhead, none are straightforward. We could hike up the East Bank Trail over 16 miles to overnight at Lightning Creek Camp. And then hike another two miles to the Desolation Trailhead. Or, we could rent a small outboard, or paddle a canoe, or kayak north to the trailhead dock. But all of those would chew up a lot of time on the water before even reaching the trail. We took the easiest and probably the most expensive route. We reserved two spots on a water taxi. It wasn’t cheap, but it was direct and fast, and therefore time-efficient. So, we readily swallowed the $190 water-taxi fee each way to Desolation. We thought, hey, it’s only money.

We pitched our vintage Early Winters Winterlights at the Newhalem Creek Campground the night before the hike. It had reached an annoying 94 degrees earlier that day, and we had visited the air-conditioned North Cascades Visitor Center to browse the amazing exhibits and, more importantly, keep cool. By 9:00 pm our campsite temperature had waned a bit, and we somehow slept. During the night we received a brief respite as it rained lightly. I found the soft patter of raindrops on my tent somehow comforting as it suggested the promise of a cooler day ahead. The next morning, I awoke way too early but too alert to return to slumber. We downed coffee and ate our modest meals in silence, broke camp, and departed. We drove Hwy 20 northeast for 23 minutes to reach the Ross Dam Trail parking lot. We donned our packs and quickly hiked a mile down the trail to meet the water taxi pickup at 8:00 am.

We breathed a sigh of relief as the water-taxi approached the dock, right on time. We clambered aboard and sped north on Ross Lake, taking roughly 30 minutes to reach the tiny Desolation Dock. As we churned up the rare placid waters of the morning, we exchanged stories and news of backcountry adventures. Our gregarious boat driver, John, whom I named Captain John, told us some group from New York was presently trying to beat the North Cascade High Route record set by Kaytlyn Gerbin and Jenny Abegg.

Back in July of 2022, the two intrepid alpine climbers, also both serious distance runners, took a water taxi up Ross Lake to the northern most dock on the west side and plunged into the brushy forest, to begin the first leg of their linkup of four existing North Cacade traverses that would cover over 125 miles with a mindboggling cumulative elevation gain of 60,000 feet, of which roughly 100 miles was off-trail alpine travel over remote and rugged terrain. Their seemingly audacious goal was to complete the route in under seven days. They finished on July 26, 2022, in 6 days, 19 hrs., 38 min, and 28 seconds, an astonishing achievement. Fortunately, they filmed the stunningly beautiful route, and you can view it on YouTube.

I asked John if he had ferried Kaytlyn and Jenny to the dock. He replied that his partner had. John had an opinion on the likelihood that the current group would pull it off. He turned his head to face me and announced with all seriousness, “They’re fucked.” We all laughed, and none disagreed. He went further, disparaging the chances of some gym rats from New York, of all places, to achieve success. He dismissively said, “I don’t care how much time on the treadmill or how many reps you do with weights.” Yeah, I could not see it happening unless they had some serious alpine chops, and that seemed unlikely. But what did we know? Nonetheless, it was hard to conceive of anyone completing the difficult high route any faster than Kaytlyn and Jenny.

John slowed as we approached the lonely little dock and brought the boat upside. He quickly jumped out to steady the craft as we grabbed our packs and stepped onto the undulating platform. And, after wishing us success on our hike, he powered up and was suddenly gone. Now enveloped in the silence of the place, we shouldered our packs and quickly departed. The task at hand was to make good time as we had only a little more than we would need. We’d have to hike up to the summit, spend brief time at the lookout, and hike back to the dock in time for a 4:55 pm pickup. We had an 8 hr. 25 min window before John would taxi us back to the Ross Dam Dock for our final hike up the trail back to the parking lot. Our daily total would be over 11.5 miles with nearly 5,000 feet of elevation gain.

The hike to the lookout began right at the Desolation Dock. The lower half of the trail was forested, and on the west side of the mountain, so we benefited greatly from the morning's relative coolness. The ascent began in earnest, relentlessly switch-backing up through terrain that could well be part of a classic Tolkien adventure. We soon encountered the intersection with the East Bank Trail. As I regarded the weathered trail marker, I was surprised to discover a tawny woodland deer, standing only a few feet away. It held its regal head high, with ears at attention, as it paused to regard me briefly, and then nonchalantly resumed munching forest foliage. In that most brief of encounters, I was grateful the deer had not spooked at my presence. I felt fortunate, and we continued up. The trail became both narrow and increasingly intimate as it drew us forward. At two miles we encountered what would be the only trailside water source. It was merely a trickle of a water crossing, but it would be good enough to slake our thirst if we needed it.

About halfway up, the trail broke out to exposed meadows, more brilliantly profuse with wildflowers, many tentatively reaching into the slender path. The sun was now fully upon us, and the increasing heat made the already strenuous hike even more grueling. An occasional breeze refreshed us as we gazed at Ross Lake, now far below, and the magnificent peaks, far distant on the western skyline. The switchbacks continued to the signpost for Desolation Camp at 3.6 miles. We skipped a tour of the camp because our hike had become a race against the day's increasing heat. The last section to the lookout was an exercise in patience as we were more than ready to arrive. I joked that this hike was Hors Catégorie (beyond category), a reference to the most difficult mountain stages in the Tour de France. At 12:09 pm, I finally peered into the lookout to meet the resident Ranger, Jim Henterly. It had taken me 3 hrs. 35 min to cover the distance while carrying my heavier photo gear (a 20-lb pack).  

My hiking partner, Mark, soon joined us. Now relieved, we abandoned ourselves to the present moment, to soak up the magnificence of the place. As Baba Ram Dass once counseled us, our mission was to be here now, to catch life as it flows. After years of dreaming and weeks of planning and training hikes, we had finally arrived to find the skies mostly clear, the clouds doing their bright dramatic thing, the historic lookout open, and Jim Henterly calm and welcoming. Jim noted our sweaty state and quickly offered mugs of cold water, which we gratefully accepted and quickly consumed. We rested and talked for about 20 minutes, and then I unpacked my tripod and began taking images which would eventually become spherical panoramas. I wandered around like a star-struck teenager evaluating vantage points, determined to make the best use of the limited time that I had in the wild, remote place that seemed to truly be the top of the world. I took enough frames to create six panoramas, both inside and outside the lookout, while Mark visited with Jim. Always curious, Mark peppered Jim with questions about his experiences as a fire watcher at the remote Desolation Peak Lookout. Jim episodically paused their conversation to direct his binoculars north and later take time on his radio to address an uncontained blaze. Even with my photography and the ongoing wildfire, I was fortunate to have some time with Jim and was touched by his presence and thoughtfulness.

I took my last photo frame at 1:36 pm, and we headed down four minutes later. The high heat of the day was ever present, and at times the magic of the place paled due to the state of our fatigue. I ran out of water a bit over a mile from the trailhead and resolutely soldiered on. I finally arrived at the dock at 4:04 pm, and immediately filled my water filter bottle with lake water. I drank heartily and sat on the undulating dock, feeling both woozy and happy. Mark approached, and without a word or any hesitation, quickly stripped off his sweaty clothes and waded into the refreshing cold waters of Ross Lake, seeking total immersion.

Mark had barely dressed when Captain John roared back up the lake for an early pickup at 4:40 pm. We were more than ready and happy to board and depart. As the boat sped south, John announced the pickup of an unscheduled ride-share at Lightning Creek Camp. He hailed the young couple and their dog as he approached. Heading straight to the dock, he gently bumped the prow against the end of the dock. He instructed the startled young woman. "Just sit your butt down and swivel." The water was too rough for any other dockside entry. She promptly sat on the foredeck and deftly swung her legs into the cockpit. Her boyfriend handed her their dog and packs. He then joined her, and once everyone was seated and secure, John throttled the boat south. The water, which had been smooth as glass this morning, had become a sea of white-capped waves that crashed relentlessly against the aluminum hull, bouncing us up and down. Heads bobbed, bodies gyrated, long hair flew askance. Deafening noise prevented any conversation. We entered the flow.

After the seemingly interminable ride, John slowed and paused the boat in the calmer waters before the final dock and scanned our credit cards. I joked that there would be no dine-and-dash. He explained that it would be easier without the bumping at the dock. Sure, okay, that makes sense. Upon docking, we quickly disembarked, stood in some sort of realization, got our bearings, and then slowly made our way up the Ross Dam Trail to the car. In those unhurried moments, I found the trail enchantingly beautiful, especially the section by the wood bridge across Happy Creek. I mused that it probably receives scant attention as the trail is only a means of access, an approach to the prime objectives. Once at the car, with packs stowed, we could finally say that we had done it. I was happier than on any recent hike that I could remember! We returned to the Newhalem Creek Campground to grill kabobs, drink wine, and savor our accomplishment. Although the weather forecast had predicted a high of 75 degrees, it had actually reached 86 degrees. Despite the heat, we had achieved what we set out to do. No small accomplishment!

The beat writer, Jack Kerouac, spent 63 days as a paid fire lookout on Desolation Peak during July and August of 1956. He later wrote of his experience in both ‘Dharma Bums’ and ‘Desolation Angels.’ That made this year the 70^th anniversary of his time on Desolation Peak, and that somehow added to the magic and motivation that propelled us forward. I even read the last three chapters of ‘Dharma Bums’ aloud to Mark as he prepared our campground dinner the night before our hike. The unexpected gift of our ascent to the lookout was to meet Jim Henterly, the former wildland firefighter and current seasonal lookout. Jim is one of the last fire watchers in the North Cascades, a very talented artist and impressive person. We both immensely enjoyed meeting and visiting with Jim. Very cool guy. 

What we could not have predicted, with any certainty, was the emergence of nearby wildfires and their sooty smoke. One of my photographic objectives was to take high-resolution images of Mount Hozomeen, but I arrived to find the peak almost completely shrouded in a gray haze. At times, I could make out little more than its silhouette and substantial form. Jim informed us that there were two recent fires: the Luna Fire, located in a rock scree 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 Fire as it cloaked Hozomeen, I would later marvel at the coincidence of witnessing an active forest fire from this iconic North Cascades fire lookout. While we did not get the bluebird conditions that we had hoped for, we got so much more. The place was nonetheless stunningly beautiful. The whole experience was absolutely amazing and would be one long remembered.

Final Notes: Jim Henterly is featured in a short film, ‘Ode to Desolation’ by Lindsey Hagen, now streaming on YouTube. It is worthy of a watch.

The story title “Room at the Top” is a tip of the hat, an homage, to the late, great Tom Petty who sang, “I got a room at the top of the world tonight. And I ain’t coming down.”

 If you wish to view my six spherical panoramas, I have posted the links 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. 

Ranger Jim Henterly, Desolation Peak Lookout, N Cascades, WA State https://www.360cities.net/image/ranger-jim-henterly-desolation-peak-lookout-n-cascades-wa-state

Pondering the Infinite, Desolation Peak Lookout, N Cascades, WA State https://www.360cities.net/image/pondering-the-infinite-desolation-peak-lookout-n-cascades-wa-state

Northwest Corner, Desolation Peak Lookout, N Cascades, WA State https://www.360cities.net/image/northwest-corner-desolation-peak-lookout-n-cascades-wa-state

Helipad View, Desolation Peak Lookout, N Cascades, WA State https://www.360cities.net/image/helipad-view-desolation-peak-lookout-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

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

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!