Stepping into History

The single-engine, high winged de Havilland Beaver, speaks of wilderness adventures in the deep outback. Developed by de Havilland Canada as a STOL, short takeoff and landing aircraft, it debuted on August 16 of 1947. Designated as the DHC-2 Beaver, the all-metal aircraft soon became the preeminent bush plane for pilots who flew into Canada’s wild northern territories. Powered by a nine-cylinder R-985 Pratt and Whitney, it’s a sturdy aircraft that can haul up to six passengers and capable of carrying heavy loads into confined and sometimes rugged areas. Most are equipped with floats to facilitate landing on remote lakes. Over time it has become a Canadian icon.

Through some inspired planning, we stepped into history by hiring a Beaver from Seattle’s Kenmore Air. Dan, Greg, and I realized the import of the moment, all more than eager to take flight in the vintage de Havilland Beaver. Our Filson lakeside floatplane photoshoot would take place on Lake Isabel, an alpine lake that rests deep in a mountainous boxed canyon just north of the tiny hamlet of Index. Local knowledge is required and, it’s a steep drop in with a floatplane, but we had the proprietor of Kenmore Air, Gregg Munro, at the controls, so we had no worries. The water came up damn fast, but we were soon leisurely cruising towards a small sandy beach. What a thrill!

After unpacking float tubes and fly fishing gear, we spent the afternoon capturing images of fly fisherman floating and fishing a high alpine lake, and of course, photographing the Beaver bobbing peacefully on the sparkling water. The scene seemed from another era. Greg snapped images with his Nikon as the sun dipped below the neighboring peaks. We reluctantly looked back. Gregg sped across the lake, building up speed, to make an arcing takeoff to fly above the nearby mountain peaks. I had climbed Mount Index many years before and was now thrilled to finally see it from the air. What a memorable day. Such an iconic aircraft. The flight was amazing! We all felt the magic and are eternally grateful for the opportunity.

Bears in Our Yard

Uh, Houston, we have a bear problem. Startled from my sleep, I bolted from bed at 5:30 am to what sounded like an intense struggle. What? Urgent unidentifiable muffled hoarse screaming noises seemed to come from within our house. It sounded like an urgent, scratchy, painful, “yeah, yeah, yeah.” Was it a home invasion? I cautiously looked into our hallway. No. I looked out our 2^nd story window and saw an unmoving black shape in our backyard. I struggled to identify it in the darkness. What was it? Not a neighborhood dog?

And then it was moving, and I noticed, not alone. Three black bear clubs made their way across our yard, moving casually, as a group into the trees of our border garden and climbed over our fence. They had been exploring and squabbling. Evidence of their presence were claw marks on the fence, some tree damage, and a destroyed suet feeder. Last year we didn’t see them but noticed a large detached tree limb from a favorite tree and a destroyed seed feeder on the ground, chewed in half as if it were a snack.

Okay. I have hiked the trails behind our house into Cougar Mountain Wildland Park over 800 times, mostly solo, and never seen a bear. Others have seen them, but I had not. I knew they were out there and yet was not concerned. Now I find myself more cautious and reticent. I know I should be more concerned about the wily, fearless bobcats, but bear cubs should not be trifled with as mom will never be far from them. Nuts.

The bear in the photo lived up in the madrone grove near a trail I often hiked. About five feet tall, he was no problem as he was a static sculpture. I thought he’d always be there to greet me as I passed by. But no. His owners moved away and took him with them. Now the only bears in the woods remain unseen. But out there nonetheless.

Surviving Stupid

We were up hours before dawn and quickly traversed the snowfield on Shuksan Arm in the near dark. I looked back in the pre-dawn light to see a full moon still hanging above Mt. Baker's right side. The sky was clear and a deep purple-blue, the magical blue hour that precedes the sunrise. So far, so good, I thought. After we crossed the snowfield, we began to climb Fisher Chimneys, a steep section of fourth-class rock that would lead to the snowfields and glaciers above.

Fisher Chimneys is where the real problems of bringing a dog along became painfully apparent. Sport's owner had sold Dave on their capabilities by telling him that they had made several Yosemite Valley ascents. What kind of ascents were never qualified, and they had most likely been backside walk-ups. Surely not steep rock chimneys, nor high angled glaciers. I felt sorry for Sport as he balked and whined. The rock chimneys were too fragmented and steep for him to climb by himself. Sport knew it and would not budge.

Sport and his owner were with me and Jeanette, who would be first on the snow together when I mean if, we reached Winnie’s Slide, a steep icy snow slope that led to the Upper Curtis Glacier. The others stood behind us, looking impatient.

“This isn’t going to work,” I told Sport’s owner.  Now was the right time for the both of them to call it a day and turn back.

I was astonished when he stubbornly insisted on going ahead. To do so we’d have to help him push his dog up Fishers Chimneys. Dave, still supportive of their plan, encouraged us to get on with it. He and I took turns helping the owner push Sport up the chimneys. Looking back now, I’m astonished that we did it. I think I finally caved in by thinking it was easier to keep moving than to stall out arguing in a stalemate situation. And even after pushing the big dog up the steep broken granite chimneys, we would find it would not be the end of our ordeal.

As any sane person would expect, Sport’s problems continued on the steep icy slopes of Winnie’s Slide. We were roped together in two teams; Denny, Jeannette, and I on the first rope, and Dave, the dog’s owner, and Louise on the second rope. Sport had no harness and traveled solo since there was no good way to add him to a rope. I admired Sport’s desire to please his owner as he tentatively moved forward on the icy surface. This approach slowed us down to the point that I developed a sinking feeling that our climb would soon be over. We had our crampons and ice axes. The dog had only his paws and couldn’t get any purchase on the snow.

I have since heard of brave dogs in the Alps and Himalaya ascending steep snow and summits successfully. Sport had no knack for it and was terrified. The first Shuksan ascent with a dog project was going nowhere. And yet, his owner persisted in his quest to climb this glaciated peak with Sport. We inched forward. Finally, only after Sport began whining and sliding around so much that it was apparent that he wouldn’t be on his feet much longer did his owner agree to stop.

We all stood there on the icy slope, the upper sections still in the shadows of Mt. Shuksan. It was pretty damn cold, and we needed to start moving, one way or another, up or down. Suddenly, Denny and Dave each left their respective rope teams and huddled together to hold their private summit conference. Forgive me, but that’s what it was. I could see them together, speaking quietly but urgently. As they spoke, they moved their ice axes with some agitation, much as I could visualize the rattling sabers of two young cavalry soldiers, eager to charge into the fray of battle. I had a sinking feeling that we would soon be left behind as they formulated a new rope team for a summit push.

And that’s what happened. Dave, Denny, and Louise roped up and made for the summit, leaving Jeanette and me holding the bag, I mean dealing with Sport and his hapless owner. There was no way we’d complete the climb with that pair, so we considered parking them and seeing if we had time to make the summit on a rope of two. So, we briefly left the dog owner and his faithful German shepherd and climbed up a bit higher to explore that possibility. And it might have been quite doable for the two of us despite the time constraints, but the fate of the dog and his owner weighed heavily on us as we considered our next moves.

This is an excerpt from ‘Surviving Stupid,’ an adventure story from my recently released memoir, Banquet of the Infinite, which is now available as an eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

Bear Grass Meadows

We hiked to Little Bandera, the false summit of Bandera Mountain, for the express purpose of ascending high angle alpine meadows blanketed with an incredible bounty of blooming bear grass. Overcast and cool, the low clouds of the inversion layer cloaked the valley below, the magnificent Mount Rainier visible from the ridge above them.

The hike to Bandera is a seductress. The first mile and a half a gentle grade which then ramps up the vertical a bit more. The trail fork is the moment of truth. Left takes you to Mason Lake, an easy amble, right takes you deeper into a profusion of bear grass that thrives on the high-angle meadows of Bandera Mountain. Lupine, Indian paintbrush, dogwood blossoms, thimbleberry, and heather blossoms were all present on the approach. But the bear grass above created the big show, an amazing expanse of white blossoms.

It took our breath away and it’s why we came. We choose the Bandera trail and hiked straight up, a relentless vertical quest through the spiky flowering plants. Not technical, just steep, rocky, and loose. Thankfully the only exposure was to the sun. We wondered what it would be like to descend this stuff but kept going. We pressed on. Seduced… 

The trail eventually backed off a bit and climbed through a wooded section before emerging for the final ridge climb. We reached the false summit and stopped for lunch. The views from the ridge incredible. Scattered snowfields still clung to the north side talus above Mason Lake, far below. The south side views extended to the glaciated massif of Mount Rainier and down over one of the steepest natural flower gardens we had ever seen. Yes, there was some punishment, hiking both up and down the high-angle meadows, but the experience of moving through terrain surrounded by bear grass and the magnificent views from the top made it all well worthwhile.

The ephemeral Xerophyllum tenax seems to favor the south-facing slopes of the hikes north of Mt. Rainier National Park and in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness. Nearby Granite Mountain hosts the distinctive plants on its south-side approach, but a bigger show lies even further south. The trail to Kelly Butte Lookout climbs a steep south-facing slope that switchbacks through rocky escarpments up to an open meadow that is a veritable sea of white flowers. The view south to Rainier is close and more dramatic. The blooms appear in full in spring from mid-June to mid-July depending on annual weather conditions. I search the WTA Trip Reports to target locations and peak season and then go. It’s a sensational experience.

Here is a link to a 360 panorama of the Kelly Butte Bear Grass Meadows I took in mid-July: For best viewing click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to experience the immersive image. 

Bear Grass Meadows, Kelly Butte Trail, South Cascades, WA State: https://www.360cities.net/image/bear-grass-meadows-kelly-butte-trail-south-cascades-wa-state