Burn Notice

It is always a shock when you make the abrupt transition from a trusted mountain companion—climbing partner, backpacker, day hiking buddy—to persona non grata. And you might not grasp the full extent of it in the present moment. Perhaps only later will you realize that you are truly burned. Of course, sometimes it happens right to your face. Those are the worst.

You wonder why it happened, though it is likely you will never really know. You have been irrevocably cut off. Dumped! End stop. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens, and when it does, it stops you cold.

Many years ago, Denny and I attempted a traverse of the three peaks of Mount Index in the Cascades of Washington state. Upon arriving on the summit of the North Peak, exhausted and running out of daylight, we bivouacked. After a sleepless night, we abandoned the traverse, rappelling back down the route we had climbed the day before. Except for the brushy descent, I was pleased to be off the peak. It had looked pristine from a distance but the route was a messy, unenjoyable affair, a veritable vertical bushwhack. If Denny wanted to try it again, I was out. Though we did not speak of it, I could tell he already knew.

In the early 1970s in Seattle, I was part of the team at Early Winters, which made tents for the local alpine community, and through our factory shop, Denny had become connected to the mountaineers in our circle of climbing partners. Subsequently, he joined me, David Stevenson, Rainer Burgdorfer, and another friend, Roy Plaeger, on an aborted attempt on Liberty Ridge. After that, Roy and Denny teamed up to tackle the Index Traverse. I was no longer interested in the route myself, but I endorsed their enthusiasm and wished them the best of luck. 

The date of their departure arrived, and I kept track of their days on the route. They occasionally cropped up in my thoughts as I pondered where on the climb they might be and how they were handling it. Soon, they were overdue by two days. Since this was no extended expedition, two days was a meaningful delay, an ominous development.

What should I do? What could I do? I called and conferred with my friend and mountain mentor, Bill Nicolai. He reviewed the timetable and then suggested that we call search and rescue. It was good to have a partner in that decision, and I trusted Nicolai’s judgment. After alerting the SAR team, Nicolai and I hopped in his car and drove to Index. We wanted to be there for our friends.

As we found out later, Denny and Roy were surprised by a sudden storm and were forced to bivouac on the Middle Peak. They couldn’t go forward because of the lack of visibility, and the wet rock made climbing treacherous. For protection from the elements, they squeezed into a void under some boulders and got progressively wetter and colder as the water ran down the rocks and onto their huddled forms.

Incredulously Denny had been wearing blue jeans instead of wool knickers. Frankly, not a smart move in the Cascades. And he knew better. Roy later told me he had extra clothing and food, which he shared with Denny as they sat together, wet and freezing in a relentless nightmare of a storm they did not expect. Legendary Northwest climber Fred Beckey had warned in his book, Cascade Alpine Guide, that Index should only be attempted in steady weather. And if caught in a storm, there would be no easy and rapid descent. Denny and Roy discovered the truth of that, and were stuck.

In dire situations like this, time often seems to collapse into itself and crawl nearly to a complete stop. To keep time moving, they did as many who are pinned on a mountain often do. They talked about food—the food they yearned for, hot cheeseburgers, and going out for food they could not possibly get. These were cruel fantasies they imposed on themselves for distraction from the agony of their wet, cold circumstances. The night passed like a sloth.

The storm persisted throughout the next day, forcing them to stay put for a second night. They worried the weather wouldn’t clear, and the threat of hypothermia loomed. Luckily, on their third morning, the fog cleared and they scrambled along a narrow ridge and reached the Main Peak that afternoon.

After the drive to Index, Bill and I hiked up toward a large congregation of mountain rescue members—lots more people than we expected. In evaluating the situation, it was obvious it would be a time-consuming and difficult technical feat for an unaided rescue team to locate and retrieve Denny and Roy from the steep, rugged, and now wet black peaks. Even that might be an understatement: It was hard to imagine success even for a very skilled team, and the chance of mishap for anyone on the rescue crew was too high to risk.

Denny and Roy might well be hypothermic, and perhaps near death. Facing the constraints of time, technical difficulties, and safety, someone in SAR called for a rescue helicopter, which we discovered only when we heard the loud whup, whup, whup of the long blades cutting through the white mist. We waited for word from above, and soon the flight crew radioed they’d located the climbers.

Denny and Roy had made it off the traverse and were spotted amidst a large boulder field on their descent from the Main Peak. They were alive. We did not know they’d successfully summited and reached the boulders by nightfall. They bivouacked there the third night, shivering, cold, and wet as the last two. By day four, they were exhausted and hungry.

The helicopter approached the climbers and hovered a few feet over a flat, house-sized boulder as a rescue crew member extended his hand to help them. The noise was deafening, and the downwash from the rotors challenged them to stay upright and climb in. The moments were tenuous, but they made it. Once aboard, the chopper whirled up and away from the boulder field and ferried them toward our gathering.

The noisy machine slowly touched down, and both climbers and crew emerged. Denny and Roy were ambulatory and appeared unhurt. I felt both relief and joy and yet wondered what would have occurred without a rescue. Would they have made it out without becoming hypothermic and perishing? Would they have soldiered on, beating the odds to return with an epic story of ascent and survival? Or would tragedy have befallen them?

Of that, I cannot say. But with the perspective of one who has spent time in the mountains in horrific conditions on more than one occasion, I remain convinced rescuing them with the chopper was a good decision. Even without other physical trauma, the space between fatigue exhaustion and hypothermia and death can be sliver-thin.

Roy approached, wearing a fatigued smile and a sheepish demeanor. He offered his hand, thanking us both for our concern, for paying attention, for taking action, and for coming out in support. As we talked, Denny walked toward us. Expecting a similar greeting, I was taken aback when, with his head held high and a stern expression, he walked by us without a word or acknowledgment we were there.

I surmised that he was angry at us. I guessed he felt rescue was beneath him, an affront to his dignity and mountaineering abilities. They’d made it off the climb without aid, so why would they need any help from us? I often wondered how Denny viewed what happened that day, what was going through his mind. I still wonder.

His unspoken words to me that day were not, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” They seemed to be, “Don’t call, ever.”

It was over. Even though we had been roped partners on many prior climbs, we would not climb together again, and it was the last time that I would see him. It was to be the last time for Roy as well.

That was long ago. In recent years, I have resumed hiking and scrambling the peaks of the Cascades and teaming with other old climbing partners. One guy seemed well suited to my interests. And he lived close by. For several years, he was always game for mountain adventures, selected great routes, eagerly sallied forth, and often brought beer for the post-event celebration. What could go wrong?

As with previous mountain mishaps, this one involved a dog—always a variable in the mountains. I like dogs. I just choose not to own one, which to some dog lovers means I don’t like dogs. I could never figure that one out.

One spring day I texted my friend an invitation. “Let’s hike up to the Granite Mountain Lookout. There’s still snow on the ridge. I’ll wear mountain boots and take poles, an ice axe, and traction. I plan to go light. Are you in?”

He said he was. So, he shows up in low-cut trail runners, with a 60 lb. pack, no poles, ice axe, or traction, but with his dog, a springer spaniel. If I hadn’t been so gung ho to get into the alpine, I might have noticed we had very different agendas and this supposed light and fast outing might go sideways.

“What’s with the heavy pack?”  I asked as he hefted the beast. He replied he was training to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from the Columbia River to the Canadian border in one push, without resupply. It was an audacious plan at 505.7 miles and a lot of elevation gain and loss on the way. Lugging a sixty-pound pack up Granite Mountain was clearly training—all climbs are— but I had pitched a light training day with some time on snow as we ascended the last ridge section to the lookout. Even with a minimal pack, the hike would be strenuous. I could not imagine lugging sixty pounds up thirty-eight hundred feet of elevation in a little over four miles. What was he thinking? I should have asked him at the car when he first picked me up at my house. But no, while I saw his huge pack, I also did not see it; the tunnel vision of my overeager brain didn’t allow it to register. I was more focused on the snow climb ahead.

We shouldered our packs at the trailhead, my flyweight, and his behemoth, and headed up. About a third of the way up I could tell he was struggling with weights shifting inside his pack. I suggested he could pull some out, stash them along the route, and pick them up on the return. He concurred. We continued with episodic stops to rest and water his dog. We finally reached the meadows above the treeline. He stopped again. I waited. Finally, he said, “You go ahead.”

I felt released and stretched my pace, eager for the snow-covered ridge. After crossing the first significant snowfield, I looked back. He had stopped again on the other side. I turned and continued onto the ridge, his dog now my frisky companion, as she always tracked the leader. The snow challenged me, yet I welcomed the experience. I soon reached the lookout and scanned the skyline, pleased with my ascent. We waited there together, human and canine.

A small figure appeared far below, my friend waving his arms. It sure looked like a signal to come down. We reluctantly descended and once close I could tell he was not happy. He was furious. What had I been thinking? Had I watered his dog? Well, no. I was out of water. I had only some bottled tea and didn’t think that was appropriate. Anyway, couldn’t his dog lick snow if it was thirsting? His tirade continued. Although I couldn’t square his earlier “you go ahead” with his volcanic anger, I apologized. It didn’t help. He stomped off, post-holing through the snow as he disappeared down the mountain.

I tried to enjoy the rest of the hike on my solo descent, puzzling over what had just happened. Maybe there was something else going on, his emotions a tinder-dry forest ready to explode into an inferno and I was the spark. That gave me solace as I mentally prepared to exit the trail to an empty parking lot. Much to my surprise, he was still at the trailhead, waiting to drive me home. I offered a token, “Hey, I can buy beer.” Perhaps that would help absolve the rift. He responded, “I don’t feel like it.” His anger was palpable so I thought it best not to push it. We rode in silence.

A couple weeks later I texted him with a proposal to make a loop up Longs Pass, down to the Ingalls Creek Trail, up to Lake Ingalls, and back to the trailhead via Ingalls Way. It was decent bait, I thought, sure to get a response. I was wrong. My text went unanswered, my olive branch untaken. Months and later years went by. There was no response. I had been burned. Scorched.

Even now, I still wonder what went wrong.

Some burn notices are more subtle. The slow drifting away. Unanswered calls, texts, emails, and even letters. It’s as if the great trips of the past had never happened. It seems the burns all have a common theme: You are never, ever going to know the why. Instead, you are left with a void. All you can do with inexplicable loss is find a way to be okay with it.

That will have to be enough.

Just Ruck It!

The arrival of spring always signals the need to accelerate training for upcoming mountain exploits, both for simple one-day scrambles and potential multi-day high routes in Washington’s Cascades. My usual response is to start loading various packs with gear and packing the weight up the local trails, and even wearing one on my garage elliptical as I pound out the miles during the early season rains. Sure, I might look peculiar lugging a big pack on the nearby woodland loops. But who cares? I am older and practically invisible as it is. Anyway, it is the results that count.

Curiously, I recently stumbled across an article that announced what purports to be the latest fitness craze, ‘Rucking.’ What the Ruck? I had never heard of it. Had I been living under a rock? Intrigued, I soon discovered that it is merely the practice of carrying a weighted rucksack for exercise. The online buzz seems primarily aimed at urban fitness buffs. If you search online, you will soon run across dedicated websites such as Ruckformiles.com and learn more, much more. And, you will not be surprised to discover several commercial ventures exist to assist one in outfitting for rucking with products specifically designed for the activity. What? Seriously? Yes!

GORUCK, the Rucking Company, assertively proclaims ‘Crush Calories. Get Strong. Rucking burns more calories than walking and builds strength.’ They sell purpose-built packs for rucking that feature internal sleeves constructed to accept ‘ruck weights,’ flat metal plates (They begin at $75 for the entry-level 10 lb. weight. Note: a gallon of water in a plastic jug weighs 8.34 lbs. and costs zilch.). A website popout exhorts ‘Join the Rucking Revolution.’ And asks for your email address, presumably to keep you informed on the latest in rucking, and rucking gear. GORUCK points out that rucking is a great way to get stronger and is easier on your knees than running. Sounds good. Really good. Need to learn more? Their website even provides links to GORUCK events and GORUCK Clubs. GORUCK encourages you to ‘Download the Sandlot app to find and join your local GORUCK club.’ It could make prospective ruckers wonder how they could have missed this next big thing. “All this was happening and I didn’t have a clue?”

GORUCK is not alone. Another entrepreneurial company, Kickstarter-funded ‘Wild Gym’ announces ‘Rucking Backpacks for Wild People.’ Their website urges ‘Build Strength. Get Outside’ and ‘Stay Wild. Join the League of Wildness.’ Who would not be swayed by that? Among other products, they sell a complete ‘Ruck System Bundle’ and in addition to metal ruck plates offer a self-fill weight bag with ‘Chop Wood. Carry Water' silkscreened on the back. ‘Holds up to 100 lbs. of sand. NOT to be filled with water.’ What? No wood nor water? Nonetheless still a very Zen pronouncement. And, the founder, Dan, a former Wildland Firefighter and Wilderness Ranger projects a friendly and inviting vibe.

Dan makes the case that their packs make rucking easier as they are custom-designed to carry the weight in the right place. He makes a compelling argument that a Wild Gym Rucking Pack is superior for this purpose when compared to a regular backpack, which may be difficult to pack properly with training weights. Keeping it simple, he offers two sizes of Rucking packs. By comparison, REI offers over 300 models of day packs and backpacking packs, a bewildering array to sort through and decide. I always laugh at REI’s so-called assortment planning. “Everything is not an assortment.” For any beginner interested in rucking the simple approach makes a lot of sense. For those of us who have a gear closet with an array of packs, less so. And, if we have been using them, are already well versed in how to load them with gear.

Both companies thoughtfully present a system approach that would appeal to anyone looking to get started with this hot ‘new’ training concept. Buy the gear, find a club, and join this cool tribe. But wait a minute. What they present is not groundbreakingly new. Anyone who has participated in, or knows of, basic military training is well familiar with the marching and double timing everywhere hauling a pack weighted with field gear, much of which you would never use, all the while shouting out raunchy call and response cadences with your case-hardened drill instructor. We have been here before. In fact, one could submit that it goes way back. Way back. Think of the Cro Magnon, early humans struggling forth, shouldering the burdensome loads of that era.

There are comparative attributes that help further differentiate the various activities that involve carrying loads on one's back. Urban vs. Wild. Elective vs. Required. Training vs. Task. Cool vs. Uncool. The new ‘rucking’ seems to be primarily urban, elective, training-focused, and presented with a healthy dose of cool. Alpine rucking is wild, elective, training-focused, and likely perceived as eccentrically uncool. And, young army recruits are participating in required, rather than elective, training. Cro Magnon hunters and the hod carriers of yore were most definitely task-focused, not training-oriented. But these varied activities can all achieve physical fitness, that is if done in moderation. Otherwise, they may just break you down. So, there is really nothing unique here. The load-bearing practice has just been updated and rebranded for a new generation.

Nevertheless, it seems that new age rucking is a worthy and effective approach for achieving physical and mental fitness, especially the getting outside part of it. Detach from the computer, put away your cell phone, and start moving. Feeling your body, seeing with new eyes, and smelling wild fragrances are a big part of the practice. I can endorse all of it, even buying the gear, if you feel so inclined. Whatever helps you overcome your body inertia and get moving. The practice itself is a worthy pursuit.

However, I will pass on the specialty rucking stuff as it is not designed for actual alpine adventures. I will keep loading my mountain packs with actual mountain gear and a few dead weights, random stuff lying around the garage, framing hammers, water jugs, and such. Such weight training refamiliarizes my body with my favorite alpine packs. That is worth something in achieving readiness for upcoming adventures. And, using gear that I already own is way less expensive than buying specialty gear just for rucking. I would rather have another lighter ice axe than a rucking pack. You see, I already find it too easy to be tempted by new mountaineering paraphernalia.

But no matter what path you choose, I encourage you to throw a weighted pack on your back, step outside, and get moving. ‘Just Ruck It!’

Alpine Reality Check

The grand plan, the big idea, was to complete the Stuart Range Traverse, to climb to the 9,415-foot summit of Mt. Stuart and then traverse along the ridge crest and summit each of the four other Stuart Range peaks to the east: Sherpa Peak, Argonaut Peak, Colchuck Peak, and Dragontail Peak. All in one single push. Nicolai proposed it to me and, from the comfort of my Seattle home, it sounded glorious, even epic. The traverse was probably unclimbed, but who knew? Probably not, and that added to the appeal.

“What a cool idea. Let’s do it!”

That was my usual response to Nicolai, as his projects always had some hook that took them a step beyond the ordinary, that thing to which I could not say no. So, I always just said, “Yes.”

I waited and impatiently waited some more. “Where is Nicolai?” I asked the question aloud even though I stood on the front porch of my house alone. Nicolai was late, and not the first time, and when he finally did show up, he wasn’t even ready to go. No, he needed to drive around town to pick up his rucksack somewhere, climbing gear somewhere else, and perform various other errands. Why was his climbing gear scattered all over town? Why doesn’t he have his gear stashed all in one place? It was a question that I asked myself but did not ask him.

I was fuming, but Nicolai was still my mountain mentor, the fearless leader, the high priest. And I was the acolyte, trailing behind, always trying to keep up, intent on learning and adding to my alpine experience and skill set. We were not equal in the realm of mountaineering. I did not feel like I was entitled to complain much. I was usually projecting forward to the journey ahead instead of being fully in the present moment. I would put up with Nicolai’s annoying ways today.

I breathed with some relief when he finally showed up. No apologies. That wasn’t his style. And so, I pitched my gear into the back seat and climbed in. I sat beside Nicolai, working on my patience skills, as Xanthus, his ’63 Ford Galaxy, lurched around town on a gear hunt before finally heading east and toward the mountains of the Stuart Range. My mood lightened as we entered the narrow forest road, my eagerness now in the forefront. Almost there.

The tires crunched and skidded on the rocks as we pulled up to the packed dirt trailhead in the mid-afternoon. I thought, “Great, what now?” I knew from a previous climb that we had a long, long approach ahead of us before we even set foot on Mt. Stuart. I wondered what Nicolai had been thinking. It was certainly no alpine start, far from it.

As he finished packing his rucksack, he turned and asked me, 

“What time is it?”

He had no watch. I consulted mine and informed him that it was three o’clock. He looked up, wearing a genuinely surprised expression, and after a pause exclaimed,

“Shit, we gotta haul ass!”

At that point, I knew I was in for it. I watched his muscular form disappear up the trail. I hurried to join him. I was used to trailing in Nicolai’s wake as he dragged me along on various climbs. He was always stronger, faster, and more skillful. But I figured that if I kept at it, I would catch up, at least the getting stronger and faster part of it.

That day would finally come, but it was not to be today. Today I was still straining to keep up. We barreled up the trail as the light faded towards sunset. When it got to the point that it was getting dark, we were still on our approach, nowhere near the base of the climb. No matter.

“We’ll stop here,” Nicolai announced as he took off his pack, unrolled his pad, and shook out his sleeping bag, making a spot to sleep right next to the trail. He crawled into his sleeping bag, and that was that. His snoring provided a distinctive audible counterpoint to the otherwise silent night. I zipped up my sleeping bag and wondered about tomorrow.

I woke to the sound of birds on a bright, sunny day and watched Nicolai’s sleeping form for a few minutes. I did not feel like waking him. After a moment, he stirred, looked around as if not sure where he was, and then suddenly jumped up. As he wadded his down sleeping bag into its stuff sack, he declared,

“It’s late. We gotta haul ass.”

And with that, we resumed our approach, hauling ass, phase two.

Still a relative novice and very much under the sway of my alpine mentor, I stashed my growing skepticism and continued, still wondering what might happen. How would this adventure unfold? While I did not know, I was still game. It was my alpine apprenticeship. And I accepted that.

We finally arrived at the base of the West Ridge route on Mount Stuart. I cheekily suggested that we might want to climb it nude. Nicolai readily agreed. He was known for his nude ascents, especially his nude ascent of Mount Rainier, the first and probably only one by anyone ever. A stunt that seemed a bit crazy, and one with no small amount of bravado and risk. I heard that the weather on Rainier, that day of his nude climb, had been perfect, or he would not have been able to pull it off. But pull it off, he did.

The weather on this day was warm and clear, the risk of freezing to death was, unlike on Rainier, slim, and I was eager to try this outrageous naked climbing thing by making a nude ascent of the West Ridge of Stuart. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We dropped our packs and took off our clothes. We stuffed them into our rucksacks and began climbing upward. I was self-aware in a whole new way. At first, I felt a bit smug. The heat of the sun warmed my skin, a satisfying sensation. This nude climbing was a cool thing to do. Definitely.

We climbed un-roped since the difficulty level of the route was well within our capabilities, and it also helped us make up some lost time. We stayed close together, climbing in tandem. Pitch after pitch went by, and as we got higher on the ridge, the immense scale of the mountain became ever magnified as I looked around and down. As we climbed further, a thought occurred to me. What if I fell? I did not expect to take a fall. Falling was a remote possibility in my rational mind, but the seemingly irrational thought would not go away.

By now, the novelty of climbing naked from one jagged granite block to another had worn off. No longer smug, I was just a small, naked climber, a mere speck, on the West Ridge of the mighty Mt. Stuart, the single greatest exposed mass of granite in the United States. My thinking had progressed to envisioning my small crushed body found bloody and naked on the rocks below after a horrendous, terminal fall.

For some reason, I thought it would certainly be okay for my lifeless body to be found, fully clothed, but not to be found stark naked. No, that would not do. I continued mulling this over, perhaps overthinking it. Yes, I was absolutely overthinking it. I climbed on and upward and as we neared Long John Tower, reached a decision. I called out,

“Hey Nicolai, hold up. I’ve had enough of this naked climbing. I’m going to put my clothes back on.”

Without a word, he patiently waited, and after I had hurriedly rejoined the world of the clothed, he turned, and we both continued up the ridge. We had not seen anyone else on the climb and thought that we might have the entire route to ourselves. That was not to be. We soon encountered another climbing party, fully roped and belaying their leader. The four all turned and stared as we approached, mouths open, no words.

The buck-naked Nicolai shouted out, “Do you mind if we climb through?”

And with no objection, we swiftly passed them by. Nicolai and I finally roped up and belayed each other for the more difficult 5.6 layback crux pitch near the summit and then, un-roped again, deftly made our way up the jumbled granite blocks to the top. The sun was slipping towards the horizon, painting the sky in warm orange hues. As we paused on the summit, Nicolai, bronzed and naked, crouched like a primate eating peanut M&Ms from the bag. We briefly rested there, savoring our accomplishment and the view ahead.

Resuming our mission, we carefully descended towards the notch between Mt. Stuart and Sherpa Peak. And it was there, in that rocky granite saddle, we bivouacked for the night, settling into our down sleeping bags, staring wordlessly up at the pinpoints of ancient lights in the moonless sky, as our conscious thoughts slowly faded to black.

The next morning, we confronted our painfully obvious situation. We had simply started too late to complete the traverse in the time we had left. Unfulfilled ambitions are not an uncommon part of the drill in the mountains. Usually, it’s the weather that forces you off the climb, but sometimes it’s just your poor groundwork, probably more often than you’d like to admit.

And sometimes it was both, the weather forcing you off first so you’d receive a reprieve from realizing that, without the weather as an excuse, you would have had to confront your slipshod planning. Often a climb could be sandbagged by decisions and actions that occurred at the beginning, before even one step of the approach. In that situation, it simply amounted to a lack of time, the product of the very late start.

If I had recognized my inner voice, the one with the cognitive feasibility litmus test, I would have acknowledged right at the trailhead that our quest would not succeed. No amount of hauling ass could make up the time that we needed. So, with some deep regrets, we descended from the saddle and hiked back down the Ingalls Creek Trail, trudging our way back toward civilization, now both fully clothed. While my partner Nicolai added another nude ascent to his portfolio, I made probably the only 50% nude ascent of Mt. Stuart ever. Of that, I am confident. Do I regret that I did not make a 100% nude ascent that day? I am still on the fence about that. And that’s okay.

Fortunately, we both emerged without any falls or minor injuries. I chalk it up to being in my bulletproof years. And yet, I continued saying “Yes” to a host of the gnarliest ideas imaginable. After all, we could always back off. And, that did happen on the Mount Index Traverse (after the North Peak), the Liberty Ridge route on Mount Rainier, and a few others. Of course, Nicolai and I suffered greatly in reprehensible weather on the Ptarmigan Traverse back in 1976. But somehow, I survived all those years of risk-filled adventures. I was fortunate as not all did.

That was long ago. These days I am more circumspect. Okay, I’ll just say it, more risk averse.  There are some routes that I will not undertake on a solo outing, and some not even with a partner. And, it goes without saying that I do not climb naked anymore. While I don’t want to die in the mountains, it is simpler than that. I value my mountain time so much that I want it to last forever. And, while forever is a long time I don’t want to miss any part of it that I might yet have. That means that I measure my steps and take extra care not to get injured. I am more realistic and selective in my choices, which is not always easy. What is easy is to sit in front of my computer gathering beta on various alpine projects while in my twenty-something frame of mind. My youthful mental construct where almost everything seems possible. I often suffer the dreams of my young mind in my now older body. Yes, I would like to climb Eldorado Peak again. No, not a repeat of the amazing West Ridge, but perhaps the snow-covered knife edge of the East Ridge. That should be quite a bit easier, and doable, right? Well, that depends.

This year, my friend Mark seemed determined to summit The Brothers, specifically the higher south peak, Mount Edward. Since he lives on a waterfront that overlooks the Olympic peninsula, he spent years gazing at the twin peaks every day. Those moments fed his obsession. Having climbed The Brothers in his youth, Mark now longed to share the iconic summit with his sons. He invited me to accompany him to recon the climb before inviting Tyler and Chase.

At first, I eagerly agreed to join him. However, after researching the route and terrain, I declined. It looked like too much unsavory territory to cover in quest of a summit, both on the approach and the climb itself. Too much suffering for too little fun. I would save myself for better routes. I called him and said so.

“My dear friend, I really want to do this for you, but I really don’t want to do it for me.”

I waited a beat for his response. He understood straightaway and let me off the hook. Relieved, I thought no more of it until I had returned from a recent solo ascent of Mount Defiance and received a text from Mark. He and the boys were heading up to do The Brothers. I paused in thought and then wished them luck and a safe climb.

I was not surprised to learn that both the route and conditions challenged them all. Mark’s hamstrings both suddenly seized up very near the summit, only 500 vertical feet away. To his consternation, he discovered he could not climb any further. He chalked it up to inadequate hydration on an unusually hot day. I could empathize, as the same thing had previously happened to me at the upper saddle below Hidden Lake Lookout. No amount of will could propel you forward. You just had to sit it out and then descend.

Tyler and Chase conferred with Mark, and with their decision made, the brothers continued up while their dad waited and worried. After an hour and a half of fretful anxiety, Mark looked up to see a small figure, Chase, energetically waving from the summit. His sons had both summited despite some fearsome moments. It was no small feat as another group of seasoned mountaineers had missed the final key to the summit, a narrow chimney, and had abandoned close to the top. That summit day and the subsequent hike out constituted a physical beatdown for all. They had persevered, surmounting steep loose rock, thick understory brush, and two trailside hornets’ nests. When I later heard the details, the conditions, and the obstacles they faced, I knew I had made the right choice, my decision criteria clearly validated.

Of course, there are some easier local hikes that I equivocate about but that is usually more about overcoming the inertia necessary to get out the door. My wife, Diane, provides encouragement by assertively urging, “Don’t wimp out.” That usually spurs me to action and I have another fine day in the mountains. Thank you, Diane.

Where is the dividing line that cleaves between ‘just do it’ and ‘don’t do it’ decisions? It varies. I have ascended the steep and loose climbers trail to the summit of Kendall Peak on a couple of solo outings and thought little of it but stopped short at the summit pyramid at McClellan Butte. Perhaps if I had been with a friend, I would have continued to the top. The steep rock face certainly looked well within my capabilities, but the significant exposure gave me pause. I was alone and the uncertainty of what might go wrong weighed on me. I regretted leaving it behind but justified the decision by telling myself that Diane would certainly kill me if I fell and died.

Now far older than when I embarked on my first alpine quests, I feel the heartbeat of time. I temper my ambitions by acknowledging the stark reality of my age and physical limitations. I think about that for my older companions as well. Even though my body still has all its original equipment it does not mean that every new arduous adventure makes me stronger. Hardly.

I later joked with Mark that every plan should heed to a personal ARC, my acronym for an ‘Alpine Reality Check.’ It is a mirror we should regard to help us snap out of denial and confront that both our alpine capabilities and mountain time are now regrettably limited. While it is not difficult to acknowledge that the days of fifth-class mixed alpine may now be well behind us, it is not quite so easy to mentally prepare to finally leave the stage. Perhaps we can ignore that a bit longer if we select the routes that allow us to stay in the game. Staying in the game. I cannot think of anything better.

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

The Last Ice Axe

It hit me with a wallop. Stunned, I barely held back my tears. It had once been so robust and magnificent, a vast field of ice. Now only a fractured patch. An emotional despondence overtook and overwhelmed me in that moment. I had come so far to gaze upon it once more, and most of it was now gone, probably forever.

The steep climber’s trail took me to Horseshoe Lake, a liquid sapphire in a high alpine bowl. I wanted to regard the north side of Mt. Stuart, a mountain I had climbed by three different routes in my youth. The classic North Ridge had been my first, and I wished to see it again. Not easily visible from Lake Stuart, the much higher and closer lake would provide a stunning view. And later, perhaps the opportunity to hike nearer, climb onto the Stuart Glacier, and photograph the stunning granite buttress.

I imagined myself high on the ice, setting my tripod beneath the towering flank of the fabled North Ridge, and looking up the steep and slender Stuart Glacier Couloir, recalling my climbs from so long ago. I yearned to bask in the remembrance of those glorious exploits as I readied my camera to make several spherical panoramas. Sadly, it was not to be. My plight was to stand back in shock and absorb a tragic loss. Not an inexplicable loss, because I knew the reasons why, the irrefutable ravages of human-caused climate change. It shook me nonetheless. Yet, I felt a surge of denial in the face of the reality in front of me. It seems that we will not easily accept that for which we are not yet emotionally prepared.

I remained on my rocky perch regarding the glacier. It looked so sad, so forlorn, I could not approach it. Remembering the day that I had once traversed the vast glacier from Goat Pass to the North Ridge, I sighed. Ice axes in hand, we four quickly crossed the sun-cupped surface unroped, always mindful of potential rockfall from above and the gaping crevasses below. It was as if we had entered the gates of an alpine cathedral, the day bright and shiny, with the promise of a crystalline granite ascent and a magnificent summit ahead. That spectacular day was now only a memory, never to be repeated.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had hiked to the Source Lake overlook to see The Tooth, my first multi-pitch alpine rock climb. I expected to ascend to Pineapple Pass, the base of the South Face route. Visualizing a photographic composition from that site, in my mind already stunning, I continued. The narrow trail abruptly ended in a steep talus field high above the lake. The balance of the route would be up and across a daunting expanse of sharp, loose rock. Only rock. No snow. Hardly inviting, certainly time-consuming, and surely not much fun.

Where was the vast snowfield that we had ascended in 1974? My thoughts drifted to the past.

When Nicolai first invited me to climb The Tooth he added,

“Bring an ice axe.”

I responded in the affirmative, not letting him know that I had no ice axe. That would be lame, I thought, to straightaway admit that. At the first opportunity, I hurried down to the REI on Capitol Hill and perused their selection of ice axes, all freely hanging on a wall. No one helped me, and perhaps I did not want to be assisted and thus reveal myself as a lowly novice.

I picked up a nice-looking axe, which was my primary criterion, not knowing anything. It had a sleek lacquered hickory shaft with a polished steel head sporting a sharp adze and a slightly curved pick. A pointed steel spike at the other end completed the package. The pick blade was stamped ‘CAMP Made in Italy.’ Looks good, I thought. I swung it a bit. It felt good. But what did I know? And then, the decision made, I headed to the cash register. The feeling in that moment was somewhat euphoric. I had my first ice axe. It was a beauty, and I was on my way.

We headed up the Snow Lake trail from the Alpental parking lot and passed into a truly alpine environment. A brilliant sunny day spoke of possibilities. We left the hiking trail and, after passing Source Lake, encountered snow.

Nicolai pulled his ice axe from his pack, and I did the same. He began ascending the steep snow slope, kicking steps, and plunging the spike into the snow. I watched and, a bit unsure of myself quickly called out.

“Hey, how do you use this thing?”

The cat was now out of the bag. I did not know shit about travel on snow or ice.

Nicolai did not give me the business about it or laugh in my face. Like a patient mentor, he explained the rudiments of ice axe use for glacier travel, demonstrating the techniques. I picked it up quickly, relieved that my little bit of instruction had gone so well, and we continued toward the base of the granite spire known as The Tooth.

I remember that brilliant day well. The three-pitch technical climb, relatively straightforward, athletic, and satisfying, led to a descent that proved to be big fun as well. We rappelled back down the climbing route, taking it slowly, savoring both the place and the process, and were soon back on snow, the softer mushy snow of the hot afternoon. I was elated. The day had been perfect, and in a real sense, I had been spoiled. Not all alpine rock climbs would be of that quality and rarely conducted on such a fine day.

Gazing at the approach, once a vast snowfield, now only jumbled granite, I exhaled and paused. Would I climb the tortuous talus to reach Pineapple Pass today? My yearning to be there again fought with my now older self, the self that felt the photo opportunity was probably not worth the extra effort. That and an ounce of caution due to the potential for injury on a solo outing. I took some panoramas of the cirque from where I was, and once satisfied, departed. It had been a fine day even without revisiting Pineapple Pass. Perhaps sometime next season, with an enthusiastic companion, I said to myself.

Previously, Mark and I hiked up to Cascade Pass and then Sahale Arm in one of the most magnificent alpine environments in the North Cascades. Our plan, hike to the Sahale Glacier Camp, high on the shoulder of Sahale Mountain, and use that location for some dramatic mountain photography. We tent-camped at Marble Creek Campground the night before to split up the long drive from the Seattle area and get to the trailhead early. Up before dawn, we drove the rutted road to our departure point. The weather remained in transition, uncertain, but encouraging.

It reminded me of the day when Nicolai and I had embarked on the Ptarmigan Traverse so many years before. That day the ephemeral promise of fair weather rapidly evaporated at Cascade Pass, changing to pelting rain and blowing snow for our next three days of the rugged mountain traverse. We nearly froze to death.

Today would be different I thought as we hiked the first miles to the pass. The next section would be more challenging. After ascending the steep granite switchbacks, we followed the trail up the Sahale Arm’s exposed ridgeline and encountered a stiff cold wind. After the warmth of the switchbacks, the transition required layering up, and wind shells. 

Several bands of mountain goats, many with kids, passed over the trail, often nearby. One senior goat came close, regarding me, evaluating whether I was a troublemaker or not. After determining that I was no threat, the decisive leader guided the group past. We resumed hiking. I took to a prominent knoll on the arm, about three-quarters of a mile from the high camp, set up my tripod, and took several sets of photographs. The fast-moving clouds both tormented and pleased me by alternately obscuring and revealing Sahale Mountain, Mix-up Peak, The Triplets, and Johannesburg Mountain. After thirty minutes in the icy wind, my hands were freezing. Satisfied, we chose not to continue to the Sahale Glacier Camp and headed back down. The frigid wind had beaten us.

Though the Sahale Glacier appeared smaller than I had expected, I did not realize the full extent of it until I returned home. I compared my current photographs to those I took looking back from the Cache Glacier as Nicolai and I climbed toward Cache Col on our 1976 Ptarmigan Traverse. The difference was significant, staggering. And, the same was true when I examined the present state of the Cache Glacier. I knew then that my romantic desire to repeat the Ptarmigan Traverse might never be realized. And, even if I embarked on the route again, it would never be the same. The glorious ermine robes of snow that once so fully cloaked the spiky peaks would now be forever diminished.

Though I had traversed the massive South Cascades Glacier during that Ptarmigan Traverse, I had not seen it in person since. Recent photographs were my only source of information on the state of its glacial ice. In those, the retreat, the loss of glacial mass balance, was dramatic. And yet those pictures seemed somewhat abstract, only a view from a distance, captured in a photograph by someone else. While I cognitively processed the dire situation, the photographs conveyed little of the emotional impact of perceiving the loss firsthand. To return to those places I had traveled before, to see them up close, my eyes immersed in the moment, the changes made real, my emotions unleashed. It felt like witnessing the death of a loved one. 

I did not think of it at the time, but looking back, I realize this mountain season was, for me, a regrettable trilogy of loss. And, of the three, the last, the Stuart Glacier was the one that truly burst the dam of my emotions. If I am honest with myself, they all broke my heart. I felt my own personal solastalgia.

Solastalgia is a new thesis that we are destined to encounter with increasing frequency. The environmental philosopher, Glenn Albrecht developed the concept to provide clarity to the psychological impact of environmentally induced stress. It is an emotive experience we feel when we encounter the negative effects of human-caused environmental change. It can range from observing and feeling the impact of strip mining to retreating glaciers, experienced as a form of distress that is exacerbated by our perception that we are powerless before the process of irreversible environmental change.

I experience it as a profound form of loss of which I am not yet capable of wrapping my emotions around. It takes time. Years ago, I spoke about loss with a friend who was a developmental psychologist. I observed that as I aged the experience of processing loss was becoming more frequent. He replied, “It becomes constant.” I absorbed his sobering statement. It resonated with truth. And, I did not minimize it.

While my earlier observation was about the loss of people we knew and often loved, it has now become even more true in the high alpine context. It now confronts me every year. I regretfully acknowledge I will not likely revisit most of the mixed alpine climbs that remain forever enshrined in my fondest memories. Those icy places are no longer the same, much smaller, shadows of their former selves, and often worse, gone forever. That disconcerting recognition and the pain of it has stayed with me and probably always will.

I later wryly mused that ice axe sales might well be plummeting given the atrocious conditions of recent years. Perhaps there would be no point in making any more of them. Curious, I sought confirmation. It seems that I was wrong. Industry reports project ramping demand for ice axes as the number of people flocking to mountain sports steadily increases. Sales certainly cannot be driven by the accumulation of ice. It is not happening. Many of the most revered ice climbs have completely disappeared from the planet, or are in the process of doing so. Okay, many steep snow and ice climbs might still be viable in a very narrow early season window of time, after consolidation, and before they rapidly melt out. You certainly will not see the same amount of north-facing ice we used to see in years past. The Stuart Glacier Couloir, once viable in summer is now nothing but rock. The Black Ice Couloir on the Grand Teton is not always filled with the ice of yore. It has melted out and reformed, many times, depending on seasonal weather. What once we took for granted, we can no longer expect. Those days now seem irrevocably lost.

These now shorter windows for peak conditions will make the steep ascents even more tricky. I recall the three unfortunate climbers who lost their lives on Colchuck Peak’s Northeast Couloir this recent February. They had come from the East Coast, were unfamiliar with the local mountains and snowpack, and had a short climbing window based not on mountain conditions but on their travel agenda. The lead climber released the avalanche as he planted his ice axe. Though the slide was relatively small, the couloir was narrow and steep, and their falls long, and traumatic. The exposed rock and choked walls were deadly that day. I submit that they ignored the unfavorable conditions as their planned ascent was driven by a self-imposed timetable, rather than what the mountain might wisely suggest.

I did not make light of their deaths. As always, I felt grief, a grief that I had experienced before, for all those who had perished, many of whom I had known. I wished their deaths were not true and that I had not heard of them. But they held a very important lesson. If you were going to stay in the game, you could not turn away from the deaths. You really needed to pay attention to those mishaps, learn from them, and take the lessons with you as you would with any piece of acquired gear or technique. You did not want those thoughts to dominate your consciousness, and you did not want to treat them blithely either, because they mattered. A lot.

Despite that cautionary knowledge, we still yearn to ascend those icy faces and couloirs. We know it will demand even more scrutiny of conditions, seasoned judgment, considerable patience, the requisite skill to succeed, and the wisdom to know when to walk away. It all seems more difficult than ever before.

As we imagine our future alpine objectives, paging through dog-eared guidebooks and online beta searches, it is all too easy to imagine we might need another ice axe. Yeah, that Colchuck Glacier sure looks inviting. Maybe a newer, shorter, lighter axe? Perhaps no other piece of mountaineering gear better symbolizes the alpine quest, the timeless romance of the adventure ahead. Each new axe is accompanied by a compellingly glorious vision of what might be.

My old climbing partner Nicolai once derisively observed, “People often buy gear and think they’re climbing.”

Yes, our mountaineering visions and acquisitive yearnings are often difficult to subdue. Ice axes are fun mountain tools, and it is all too easy to think that you might need another. But, if you pay attention, your rational mind will tell you that your gear closet is nearly full, and ask if you really need one more ice axe, probably destined to remain pristine and new, unscathed by the hard edges of the alpine world. And, the current dismal state of alpine ice makes it even easier to say no to that acquisitive impulse. Perhaps our yearning is a form of sorrowful denial in the face of that which we can see but cannot change. I have considered that thought, held up the mirror, and concluded I already have the last ice axe I will ever own.

Author’s Note: Links to three of several contemporary spherical panoramas I took at each of the places mentioned in this story are provided below. I find the images haunting. 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.

Mount Stuart, Horseshoe Lake Overlook, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/mount-stuart-horseshoe-lake-overlook-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa

The Hidden Waterfall, Source Lake Cirque, Snoqualmie Region, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/the-hidden-waterfall-source-lake-cirque-snoqualmie-region-wa-usa 

Sahale Mountain, Sahale Arm, North Cascades National Park, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/sahale-mountain-sahale-arm-north-cascades-national-park-wa