When I started up the trail at 7:30 am, I was alone. There were no other cars in the spacious trailhead lot. In the cool of the morning, I settled into a comfortable pace, slowly absorbing my sense of the new place. My impressions soon formed, as most sections of the hike presented as a relentless ascent through a corridor of verdant green. Various wildflowers were still blooming, with the trailside foxglove increasing during the ascent. They punctuated the leafy trailside vegetation with their vibrant, cheerful colors, and I welcomed that.
I briefly
passed a couple of sections, shouldered with dusky fractured orange rock walls,
and then the trail returned once again to the forested green vegetation, which
sometimes crowded the upper sections. Once the path finally gained the summit
ridge, the surface changed from loose and embedded rock to a narrow winding
dirt trail, soft and dark with forest duff. Even while
savoring my solitude, letting my right brain run free, to think about creative
projects, I realized there was simply a limit. I desperately wanted a more
interesting experience, more sensory stimulation.
After
about six miles, I found myself losing patience, eager to be done with the
trail. It seemed never-ending, always heading higher. And then about half a
mile from the summit, it annoyingly snaked down to a saddle, losing precious elevation,
before finally opening to skyline views and climbing the rocky scramble up the
summit blocks.
I reached
the summit alone to find the panoramic views completely shrouded in a sea of
white. Glad to finally arrive, I sat and snacked and waited for a forecasted clearing
of the cloud cover. After about ten minutes, I was delighted to discover the appearance
of Mount Rainier on the southern skyline. It seemed to have happened in a
flash, as I ate my Clif bar and pondered the unknown. I found the sight exhilarating and a validation of my decision to come. Two young hikers soon joined me. They
had taken the unmaintained Kamikaze Trail up from Teneriffe Falls. I envied
them their shorter route, but not the steep, sketchy conditions. They acknowledged
the difficulty and announced their plan to descend the longer trail. Then another
two hikers joined us, having ascended from the Mount Si Trailhead, and we five
shared the hard-won summit as the clouds further cleared to reveal jaw-dropping
views. The rocky summit was without wind or bugs. A fine summit indeed.
During my hike, I had considered the lack of people on the Mount Teneriffe trail. I casually compared it to nearby Mailbox Peak, which is now mobbed with hikers who want that selfie at the summit. I had hiked Mailbox Peak on three occasions in the years before it exploded in popularity and then decided I was done. What was 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-riden, 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 tortuous so-called trail.
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 presence, 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, a rite 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.
“Did
ya hear that someone put a mailbox up on Pratt Mountain?”
“That
rock pile? Jeez!”
“I
know. But we can’t let that stand. We’ll have to get up there and take it down.”
“Screw
that! You, maybe, but not me. I ain’t gonna scramble that thing for a mailbox.”
“Well,
if we don’t, next thing you’ll see is more mailboxes on Mount Defiance and
Dungeon Peak. Where will it end?”
“Well,
jeez! If we don’t, there goes the neighborhood!”
It
seems that we all have a bottled-up need to get silly and laugh together,
heartily and without restraint. It is a highly effective tonic for rejuvenating ourselves,
a self-medication, and we all desperately need our daily dose. This realization
caused me to consider my experience on the summit of Mount Teneriffe . While it was
briefly celebratory, and we laughed together, it lacked the simple over-the-top
silliness of Mailbox Peak. Would we have benefited from that? Probably. Wait a
minute. No doubt! If only Mount Teneriffe had a mailbox or some other compelling
novelty feature, it would probably be as mobbed as Mailbox Peak. But, would
that be a good thing?
Well,
now that I think more about it, probably not. Absolutely not! You see, I like
it just the way it is.
Postscript: Here are links to a few spherical panoramas I took at the famous Mailbox Peak in years past. And, a link to the YouTube video on the intrepid young crew hauling the couch up Cashmere Mountain. A must-watch.
Summit
Mailbox, Mailbox Peak, Snoqualmie Area, WA State
https://www.360cities.net/image/summit-mailbox-mailbox-peak-snoqualmie-area-wa-state
Mailbox
Peak, Lunch Break, Snoqualmie Area, WA State
https://www.360cities.net/image/mailbox-peak-lunch-break-snoqualmie-area-wa-state
Mailbox
Peak, Mail Call, Snoqualmie Area, WA State
https://www.360cities.net/image/mailbox-peak-mail-call-snoqualmie-area-wa-state
Couch
to Mt. Cashmere
