Spires of Eden

While not much to look at, the provincial mountain town of Index was, in our unconstrained imagination, a stripped-down version of Chamonix, the famous French commune, a mecca for alpine climbers. Located on the North Fork of The Skykomish River in the western foothills of the Cascades, the little town was not even visible from Highway 2.

There was only a sign. But once you drove into town, you could see the dramatic and easily accessible sheer rock cliffs of the Upper and Lower Town Walls. Those granite destinations hosted over forty vertical rock routes like City Park, Snow White, Japanese Gardens, and Breakfast of Champions.

Across Highway 2, the three peaks of Mt. Index - Main, Middle, and North jutted prominently skyward. A dramatic rock palisade, clearly visible to the south of Index, their profiles were so classically alpine and visually stunning that they could make a climber’s heart flutter. The desire they created was palpable. Who among us would not yearn to ascend those peaks? And the loftiest of goals was the traverse, to climb not only the North Peak but to complete a series of ascents across the summits of the other two peaks, all in one push.

Denny and I first met one spring at the Peshastin Pinnacles when we climbed various practice routes. Later, as a two-person team, we had successfully climbed the long and strenuous Gerber-Sink North Face route on the massive granite face of Dragontail Peak, only four years after the first ascent. As a climber, he was tall, lean, capable, and experienced. He possessed an inner fire that drove him to tackle and summit as many peaks as he could fit into his time away from work. I admired his ambition and felt well aligned with his resolve in achieving alpine objectives. We seemed a good fit, a good team.

Having discussed what we wanted to tackle next, the climb that stood out was the North Face of the North Peak of Mt. Index, the most legendary of the Index trio, and then the traverse of the other two peaks. The Index Traverse was an ambitious concept, a challenging multi-day event, but we felt it within our capabilities. Full of alpine dreams and the unflagging optimism and energy of youth, we packed our gear and headed to Index.

The base of the North Peak of Mt. Index rose dramatically from the rocky shores of Lake Serene, rising over 2,800 feet to the summit from the lake basin. The three-and-a-half-mile route to the lake was more of a rugged climber’s trail than a hiker’s path, nearly a complete bushwhack, steep, brushy, and muddy. In many sections, the footing was so steep and slippery that you would have to grab the branches of the ubiquitous slide alder, Alnus viridis, grasping hand over hand to help pull yourself up.

Lake Serene was a lovely name, a name that exuded the promise of a placid alpine destination with a picturesque view. A place to bring someone special, a place to pause and picnic. As I struggled up the so-called trail, I laughed to myself, musing that Lake Serene was a day hiker trap, a cruel joke that probably lured legions of the unsuspecting out for what they imagined would be a walk in the park. It was that damn name. If it had been called Lake Fearsome, Lake Loathing, Lake Despicable, or something like that, people would have thought twice about it.

If there is any truth in advertising, you could note that yes, it was serene once you got there, and the view was picturesque, in fact stunning, but the hike was most definitely not a serene experience.

Sweat ran down my forehead as I fought my way through the slide alder and up the muddy slope. Were we ever going to get out of this stuff? It seemed a very inauspicious beginning to what we had envisioned as an alpine dream climb. It annoyed me. The lake was not even our destination, merely a way station before our primary goal, the technical climbing of the peak. The exasperating route to the lake was what climbers, offhandedly and sometimes dismissably, referred to as the approach.

We soon forgot the annoyance of the arduous brushy hike. We broke out of the slide alder and dense conifers to confront the three stunning summits. They completely dominated the view across the sparkling waters of the high alpine lake. Even in summer, there were still snowfields above the talus at the base of the mountain. It was a quintessential storybook alpine scene that held us in awe.

The weather was bright, the air crisp with the scent of tree needles, and the stunning view held forth the promise of why we had come. We paused at the lake, drank from the cold waters, and topped off our water bottles. Now that we had the warm-up of the approach behind, the real work could begin.

The plan was to climb the North Face of the North Peak, bivy at the top, and complete the traverse of the other two peaks the next day. It was a decent plan, as plans go, but the condition of the route up the North Peak was far from what we had expected. We were naive. We expected a straightforward ascent of clean solid granite with most pitches to be crack climbs. Instead, early on, we encountered long sections with significant exposure that I would later describe as a vertical bushwhack.

Scary pitches of dirty, loose rock and insubstantial vegetation offered no opportunity for roped protection. So, we climbed simultaneously and very carefully. It was both physically and mentally exhausting, as appalling conditions often are. While good rock can inspire confidence and augment your physical enjoyment, crappy pitches suck away at you, both physically and psychically.

It was only near the top, the last three pitches before the summit, that we encountered any decent rock and opportunities to place protection with confidence. We climbed those fine pitches roped, and they were a joy. Would that the balance of the climb had been so satisfying. But no, it was not. It was regrettably a Jekyll and Hyde route.

Mt. Stuart and Dragontail Peak had ruined me. Those north face routes themselves were pretty darn clean, mostly clear of vegetation and soil, and the quality of granite was superb. They were immaculate by comparison. Although there were always loose blocks in the couloirs, most of the rock was solid, and you could depend on it. That was not the case on Mt. Index. The dismal quality of the route led me to despise the climb, and by extension, the peak, even before our summit bivouac.

Beckey’s climbing guide had pointed out the dirty, loose brushy conditions but had minimized them. We did not know that, and even if we had been told about it in advance, we probably would have ignored it since we had a predetermined vision of what this climb should be, and that drove us forward. It had looked so pristine from the little town of Index. We would have been in complete denial.

And we also revered Fred Beckey. He was a legend even then. No, he had not yet achieved national name recognition, but everyone who climbed in the Pacific Northwest either knew him or knew of him. He had climbed this route and so, like other acolytes, we followed in his footsteps. If Beckey had climbed it, we should climb it. Of course, that completely ignored the reality that it might be a scary and unsatisfying event. I did not even consider that possibility. Denny probably didn’t either.

Arriving at the top, we unroped and found the summit register, a short section of galvanized pipe with two threaded end caps. Inside was an old curled paper book and a stub of a pencil. We entered our names and exchanged the grim smiles of our fatigue. After the momentary satisfaction of the successful ascent and taking a couple of summit photos, my thoughts shifted to the traverse. I climbed down a few steps from the top to further examine the section that we would need to downclimb or rappel to continue our traverse to the Middle Peak. I did not like what I saw.

I gazed at a ragged jumble of granite blocks that appeared to have been angrily tossed down into the saddle by the forces of gravity that continually erode mountains. The whole daunting mess down to and across the deeply knifed Middle-North Peak notch looked highly unstable. I was not a big fan of steep loose rock this size, especially with the kind of exposure we had at that elevation. It was one thing to plunge step down a scree field near a run-out, but this looked treacherous. I could not see riding one of these fractured blocks to the bottom. 

Getting from the North Peak to the Middle Peak had all the appearances of a delicate and significantly risky undertaking. Maybe I was an alpine elitist, but I already had mixed feelings about the route we had just completed and found myself rapidly losing interest in the traverse. Even though we had just bagged the North Peak, I felt no enthusiasm to continue.

“So be it,” I said to myself. “There’s nothing more to see here folks, move along.” There were other, much better climbs to spend my time on.

As the sun departed, we slipped into down jackets and half bags over thin foam pads amongst the tumble of boulders at the summit and pulled our nylon bivy sacks over us. We prepared for a sleep that would not come. It was another one of those nights on a mountain bivouac. If it were not for my anxiety about the conditions of the climbing ahead, I might have laid in wonderment looking up at the star-filled universe above us, merging with the infinite, before slowly drifting away.

Instead, I lay awake, silently awfulizing about what could go wrong on the traverse, a continuous disaster loop playing in my overactive mind. Hours later, I finally made my decision. “Fuck it!” My fun meter indicator had been dropping rapidly and was near pegging zero. I was definitely done. My new game plan was to feign sleeping in and hope that my climbing partner Denny had an interminably rough sleepless night and would agree to abandon the traverse until sometime in the indeterminant future.

“Hey, we can always come back again,” I would say and then we would pack our gear and descend. Well, I lucked out as that did happen. We departed that morning, rappelling down our brushy ascent route. It would be countless years before I returned, and even then, not to the peak that had once captured my youthful mountain dreams.

That was so long ago that I have now embellished the best parts of that climb in my memory and can laugh at the absurd conditions that contributed to the worst parts of that experience. These days a vastly improved trail with countless cribbed steps makes the lake access far less arduous. And so, Lake Serene is now one of the most visited destinations in that part of the Cascades. 

Last year I impulsively decided to return and revisit that pristine sapphire beauty and the sharp peaks that towered above it. Having ascended Mount Defiance on a solo outing the week before I thought the hike to Lake Serene would be a comparative walk in the park. Given the stats on WTA, 8.2 miles round trip, with 2,000 feet of gain I thought “Easy, no problem.” and decided to take my heavier camera gear. I vaguely remembered the trail from a prior visit in 2014. I would venture forth alone to savor the place at my own pace.

Perched in a small basin at the foot of the three rocky peaks of Mount Index, Lake Serene is one of the most iconic lakes in Washington’s Cascades, a dramatic spot to rest and reflect. The now popular hike is easily accessible from the Seattle area, the trailhead only a quarter mile off Highway 2, the forest road taking a right just before the narrow steel truss bridge that crosses the South Fork of the Skykomish River.

My Garmin GPS measured the hike to the lake that day at 7.85 miles round trip with 2,402 feet of cumulative elevation gain, with most of the gain happening in the last 1.5 miles just before the lake. The first couple of miles were deceptively easy, the proverbial backcountry stroll. But when the trail began its determined ascent to the lake it really got down to business. Relentlessly rocky and steep, it featured more than 300 wood cribbed steps that intermittently navigated the narrow switchbacks. That part of the trail was surprisingly strenuous. Later, during my descent, I encountered many groups of upcoming hikers, often with hopeful smiles. looking up with fatigued expressions and all asking the same question, “How much further?” Fortunately, the lakeside destination was well worth the effort and I encouraged them all.

I started early, just after 7:00 a.m., and had the trail to entirely myself until near the top when I was passed by another hiker, a friendly woman from England. I soon caught up with her at the sprawling lakeside rock apron, ‘Lunch Rock’ and we visited for a while before I set up my tripod to take enough images for a spherical panorama. Soon other hikers arrived. We had the brilliant place to ourselves for only a few minutes.

I adapted, incorporating the other hikers into my images. I willed myself to become invisible to them all as I immersed myself in my workflow, taking many extra frames to allow for the selection of the best during my editing process. I did not art direct any of them. Extemporaneous poses were always so much more interesting. The process was intensive but far easier than the ascent of the peak so many years ago. There was more time to be in the present expansive moment than absorbed in the focused, sometimes sketchy work of ascent. 

Once satisfied, I slowly hiked back to the long log bridge that crossed the jumbled deadfall of the lake outlet. I paused before the narrow span, reluctant to leave. I scanned the scene, one last look I thought, and in the process discovered a faint spur trail that I had not noticed before. The brushy path seemed to radiate an energy of mystery and discovery. Pushing past leafy branches, my curiosity willed me forward. I soon heard the noise of cascading water that I could not yet see. The trail ended. Searching, I continued. Finally, venturing further up a forested knoll and climbing over a large downed tree, I descended through steep brush to a jutting rocky precipice. Now gifted with a viewpoint that looked across the wild terrain, the hidden waterfall finally revealed itself, furiously tumbling over steep granite slabs, I stopped, held there by the beauty of it all.

This was a spot few had yet visited, an overlook clearly overlooked. It deserved my attention, and perhaps a panorama. As I slowly, carefully rotated my body, examining the visual sphere before me, seeking an inspired photographic composition, I noticed a window between the towering lakeside conifers. They embraced a dramatic view of the three peaks of Mount Index.

As I prepared for my shoot, I took horizontal exposure tests using that mountain view. My trusty 15 mm Sigma fisheye lens created the usual pleasing curving distortion. The trees arched skyward toward each other, intimately framing the stunning granite peaks. The scene that day, as seen through my viewfinder, took me back to France, to Chartres Cathedral, where I had once stood still in the soaring space, gazing in awe of the brilliant stained-glass windows framed by a host of graceful stone columns. Today I stood in awe of an unexpected wild and magnificent alpine cathedral. I paused in silent reverence, transfixed, so grateful for the ethereal scene. This little gem of a place was not far from the usual spots where most hikers stopped. I mused that even small places that may seem to be of no consequence can still bring the magic. They are out there everywhere, just waiting to be found. I reminded myself that all it takes is unleashing my imagination, opening my consciousness, and truly seeing what lies before me. 

Author’s Note: The first part of this story appears in ‘Banquet of the Infinite,’ a memoir of my adventures in the mountains and outdoor business in the ‘70s. It is an excerpt from a chapter titled ‘The Choices We Make.’ Available as an illustrated eBook at Amazon Kindle Press, Barnes & Noble Press, and Kobo Books.

Here are links to the spherical panoramas that I took on my latest visit. For the most immersive experience, click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to enter those places.

Lake Serene and Mt. Index from Lunch Rock: https://www.360cities.net/image/lake-serene-lunch-rock-mt-baker-snoqualmie-national-forest-wa

The Alpine Cathedral and Hidden Waterfall from the overlooked overlook: https://www.360cities.net/image/mount-index-valley-overlook-trail-mt-baker-snoqualmie-national-forest-wa