A large part of my work as a graduate student — in both research and public outreach — involves specimen collections. For outsiders, the specimen collections of natural history museums are a mostly-invisible feature of institutions like AMNH (or my own Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture) best known for their kitschy dioramas and dramatic taxidermy. Specimen collections are almost always behind locked doors, in back rooms filled with identical cryptic white cabinets, and unless you have a zoologist or evolutionary biologist in the family tree, you probably don’t know they exist.
But these archives are an integral part of research programs into that question of all questions, the origin of species. Specimen collections (and associated tissue / genetic resource collections) serve as a library of biodiversity, recording in perpetuity our knowledge of of all life on earth. This is done through both type specimens (the original individual collected from a newly-discovered species) and through series, or multiple individuals of the same species collected from different locations, serving to capture some of the variation present within a species.
In western North America, at least, our understanding of species-level diversity (“alpha” diversity) is relatively complete. But our understanding of diversity below the species level — how genomes, plumage, size, and other features vary across geographic areas, across climate, along elevational gradients — remains drastically insufficient. This is the focus of the Klicka Lab’s research, and the strength of the Burke Museum, the University of Washington’s longstanding natural history museum, home of one of the most active ornithology departments in the country. To conduct this research requires not only delving into the existing specimen collections, but also expanding them, with particular research goals in mind.
How do we obtain the specimens used in research? Sometimes by salvaging incidental fatalities, when natural-history savvy citizens send birds dead from window collision or feline assault to our office. Sometimes from the Woodland Park Zoo, when a cherished ostrich or lorikeet passes away. But mostly, the specimens at the Burke Museum (known as UWBM in natural history museum acronym-speak) come from targeted collecting. “Collecting” being the euphemism of choice for the dirty job of killing, stuffing, and cataloging wild birds.
For people who love birds, nature, and animals — as I assure you, everyone who decides to pursue ornithology or museum work emphatically does, likely to the detriment of more anthropocentric passions — the idea of collecting is often hard to swallow. How do you justify taking life for science? In the anthropocene and its epidemic of collapsing wildlife populations, how do you justify removing individuals from the breeding pool?
Responding to the first critique is a philosophical issue beyond my pay grade, but it certainly pivots on a belief in the intrinsic value of knowledge, and the power of knowledge of our natural world to inform decisions dedicated to its preservation. A response to the second critique is not dissimilar, but must also encompass the vast balance of evidence that illustrates scientific collecting has no effective detriment on wild populations. It would be intellectually dishonest to say that this is an unquestioned tenet of field biology, but after a recent editorial by three scientists arguing collecting no longer has a place in modern research programs, a forceful response by no less than 123 scientists in defense of collecting demonstrates the degree to which a majority of practicing biologists believe in its continued importance, despite the now-established advent of high definition photography and other new technologies with the potential to supersede some of the utility of physical specimens.
These are debates which others have argued more forcefully and articulately than I, and I’ll leave it to you to pursue them beyond what I’ve briefly cited above.
This year, the Burke’s three week expedition focused on northeastern Washington and the Idaho panhandle before heading south for the Blue Mountains (WA) and the Frank Church / River of No Return Wilderness (ID). Otherwise occupied with summer duties as a teaching assistant, I was able to take the time to join Chris (UWBM Ornithology collections manager) and Kevin (UWBM Ornithology jack of all trades and Klicka Lab technician) on the final week of the trip. Beyond being my first exposure to collecting and its nuances — using a shotgun, preparing specimens in a field camp, the upsetting method of euthanasia known as “thoracic compression” — it was also my first trip to these striking corners of the inland Northwest. What follows is an annotated account of those moments when I had my lens on me.
My stint began in the Blue Mountains, a small range spanning NE Oregon and SE Washington between the Cascades and the Rockies. The Blue Mountains are physiogeographically unique in the region in their merger of canyons with high, flat ridges, a sort of vivisected plateau over 6000′ in elevation. We camped off a spur road at 6180′, and hunted the most floristically diverse forest I’ve seen in the inland northwest, replete with Western larch and doug fir and subalpine fir and lodgepole pine and many others. It also boasted the highest bird densities of the trip, perhaps a result of being the apogee of land for a long ways in all directions during a week in which lowland eastern Washington cleared 100 degrees F.
After two mornings, we broke camp and drove many hours southeast to a high valley in Boise National Forest on the border of Frank Church / River of No Return Wilderness. The goal was to base ourselves within spitting distance (1.5 hours drive) of the location of the University of Washington Herbarium’s 2015 collecting foray in Yellow Pine, Idaho, who we had arranged to join forces with for the final days of the expedition. At 6800′, we camped alongside a meandering stream in a marshy meadow surrounded by low mountains. Each evening, a family of breeding sandhill cranes (Grus canadensis) announced their presence and soared low above our camp. A first for me, their presence was a stirring reminder of the wildness at our doorstep.
Our field camp, amply equipped for eating, skinning, and drinking Rainier.
After a morning in which we all hunted habitats near camp, collecting the usual assortment of montane Western birds (e.g. breeding songbirds such as dark-eyed juncos, chipping sparrows, Western tanagers, American robins, hermit thrushes, Audubon’s warblers, and many others), Chris and I headed north, downstream along Johnson Creek, to collect in mixed forest and meadow (dotted with mariposa lilies) some 800′ lower. Pictured is the .410 bore shotgun used with dust shot for collecting most smaller birds. With sufficient distance, even such delicate species as rufous hummingbird (Selasphorus rufus) can seem merely concussed by its blast.
Arrowleaf balsam root (Balsamorhiza sagittata), past its bloom.
A mariposa lily (Calochortus sp.)
Near the airstrip in Yellow Pine, Idaho, site of the 2015 foray and a decidedly unique community. Sheer slopes and slide paths.
My kind of town.
Kevin, Chris, and Dr. Olmstead’s unmistakable vehicle on our rendezvous.
Johnson Creek near its merger with the east fork of the Salmon River.
After collection, an individual bird is prepared to become a specimen suitable for storage in the museum collections. This process, deserving of another post itself at some point, involves stripping the skin, feathers, bill, and legs from the other soft tissues, and stuffing them with cotton in a more or less standard way to enable more or less accurate comparisons with other members of its and other species.
Here, a Western tanager (Piranga ludoviciana), tagged and awaiting skinning.
After being skinned and stuffed, specimens are pinned into rigid positions to dry for several weeks. No preservatives are needed, although it’s understandably important to keep them out of the rain.
The final morning before Chris and Kevin returned to Seattle, we hunted along a high ridge above Yellow Pine and near the skeletal mining community of Stibnite, a dry backbone of mountain bordering the incomprehensible vastness of the 2.4 million acre Frank Church / River of No Return Wilderness. The Frank Church is a mosaic of healthy forest, healthy burns, and apocalyptic burns that ominously portend the future of Western forests. It’s the home to hundreds of wolves and vicious wolf extermination campaigns. It reflects the Kalmiopsis in its pyramidal, labyrinthine heights and v-shaped canyons.
I gazed into its depths, and crossed the border a few times. It was enough to win me over, and made me promise to myself to come back.
In central Idaho, quaking aspen (Populus tremulosa) doesn’t nearly approach the degree of its extent and coverage in the southern Rockies, but occurs with a frequency alien to the Cascades, even on their dry eastern slope.
Nonetheless, where there’s water, the forest is lush, verdant, rich.
At the region’s highest elevations, subalpine meadows merge with groves of dark fir and short crest-like peaks of silvery rock, often clearing 9000′.
I hunted alone the final morning to the trip, with little success. Briefly stopping to preview a section of the IMTUF100 course outside McCall on the way home, I was soon back in Nez Perce territory, the steep prairie and ponderosa country east of Hell’s Canyon bordering Highway 95. Not far beyond, the monotonous driving characterizing the Palouse agricultural belt beckoned, with many hours separating me and home. I lingered for a while at a modest marker at the site of an ambush in the Nez Perce War.
Science can be monotonous, frustrating, and poorly compensated. But after the right kind of week in the field, it’s hard to imagine doing anything else.
I’ve been a lazy blogger. Time to start digging myself out of a rapidly-compounding photo backlog.
I spent mid-June back in Colorado, helping Kate close out life in Paonia, and move back to the Northwest to start a new gig as HCN’s Seattle correspondent. It was bittersweet for her, and for me. Home, it seems, is made of many places.
We took two days for a quick backpacking trip into the Raggeds Wilderness, in the northeast corner of the West Elk Range. It’s unusual for Colorado in featuring relatively low elevation habitat, rich riparian zones cloaking the river canyons hewn into the Western Slope.
The striking confluence of Anthracite Creek and Ruby-Anthracite Creek.
The Ruby Range, a defining feature of Crested Butte’s skyline, from its far side.
East and West Beckwith Peaks, with their striking succession of linearly stacked cirques.
Our camp, in a strange and wonderful grove of scrub oak amid sage and stunted aspen, ~8400′.
Not a bad view from the tent. At least until the storm rolled in…
…which happened shortly before dusk. We stayed dry through the night, but after a few hours hunkered down at dawn in a sagging tent, its pitch loosened by wind and wet clay, we broke camp in the gale and fled for the car.
The remaining days in Paonia were clear and hot, with vivid sunsets, beer at dusk, and a pervasive sense of melancholia.
I headed up King County high point Mt. Daniel (7960′) on Sunday with Erik, ignoring a sore throat that had set in over the weekend. Daniel looms large over the western portion of Alpine Lakes Wilderness, solidly in the middle of the Central Cascades. The northern aspects of Daniel (and its lower, more remote neighbor, Hinman) also have the only real glaciers to speak of the immediate region, gleaming and obvious from vantage points much further north. Like most glacier-clad peaks in Washington, it’s gorgeous ski terrain, and the relative inaccessibility of the mountain despite its proximity to Seattle makes it an appealing place to visit.
We spent a casual seven and a half hours on the 15 mile / 5700′ route, wishing time afforded a lap or two on Lynch Glacier, or better yet, a traverse to Hinman. It’s always good to have reasons to return places, though, especially in a state with an embarrassment of riches to otherwise distract you.
Is this the end of the (formal) ski season? I hope not, but it’s getting pretty mushy out there, and the next nine days of sun and warm nights aren’t going to help.
Lynch Glacier above ever-growing Pea Soup Lake, with Glacier Peak and the Dakobed Range prominent on the skyline. A keen eye should be able to pick out Baker and Sloan Peak (“Matterhorn of the Cascades”) as well.
Skinning begins in a gully above Peggy’s pond, at 5700′.
Erik traverses to the west peak of Mt. Daniel above the Lynch Glacier headwall
Cathedral Rock, Mt. Stuart and the Wenatchee Mountains.
Bear’s Breast Mountain and its ridiculously rugged northeast aspect.
On the Daniel Glacier, below the east peak.
Happy to see fields of Veratrum again. (Corn lily or skunk cabbage — take your pick.)
I headed out with Luke to the Methow Valley for the weekend. Luke’s stepdad Steve built a cabin on a tall hill outside Winthrop by hand in the 1970s. It’s the sort of thing we should all aspire to.
We stayed at the cabin two nights and I soaked in my first visit to this extraordinary place. The Methow is a narrow finger of shrub steppe — and of private land — sandwiched by the dry eastern subranges of the North Cascades. To the west, the Chelan-Sawtooth cuts against the horizon, promising gneiss and larches and clear skies when rain lashes Pugetopolis. To the north, the mountain fastness of the Pasayten, with its high plateau, bears, tundra, big sky, and numerous 8000′ peaks. To the east, the last gasp of the Cascades as they merge into the Okanagon highlands, a bridge of forest to the Selkirks and the Rockies. Amidst it all, ranchers, good nordic skiers, hippies, and vacation homes. The local papers debate wolf management in a non-abstract way.
On Saturday, I ran hard and long on hilly forest service roads, the sort of effort you can only put out in training twice a season or so without consequence but live for nonetheless. We then headed across the Chewuch to help out at Rainshadow’s classic Sun Mountain 50m / 50k. Four years into my participation in the sport, I’m ashamed to admit it was my first time volunteering. It certainly won’t be my last.
On Sunday, in an odd inversion of normality, the typically-dry Methow seemed to be the only wet part of the state, with a long night of rain and thunder prompting flash flood warnings and swollen rivers. On the way back over Highway 20 (another first for me, inexplicably, as the road transcends superlatives in its unrelenting drama), we pulled off to head as high up Crater Mountain (8128′) as conditions and time would let us. That turned out to be about 5300′, a 3600′ climb from the highway, but still nearly 3000′ short of the summit. There’s plenty of snow left in the subalpine shade.
I’m back in the city, now, but when I close my eyes I can still see purple skies, green sage and fields of bitterroot glowing against the growing dark.
“For me, the icefields surrounding Eldorado are the spiritual center of ski mountaineering in the North Cascades,” writes emeritus PNW ski historian Lowell Skoog. “One of the grand peaks of the North Cascades…an individual aloofness above the rivalry of adjacent peaks and ridges,” writes Fred Beckey. On whosever authority you take it, the high, wild country near Eldorado Peak (8876′) in NCNP is a special place. Its flanks are adorned with the largest non-volcanic ice sheet in the lower 48. Nearby Cascade Pass was the site of the region’s most recent confirmed grizzly sighting, in spite (or because?) of its summer throngs of day hikers.
As I try to make sense of the endless tangle of valleys and ridges, rivers and glaciers that define the North Cascades — as I try to imbue a map that defies easy comprehension with lived experience, and create a place that means something to my heart and legs and spirit, as well as my mind — Eldorado beckoned as a powerful place to start. Jake and Jonas joined, and on a brilliant May Sunday we climbed and skied the mountain, bushwhacking and schussing, rock-hopping and cramponing. It was a fairly extraordinary day, both in the sheer pleasure of the descent and as a preview for years of exploration.
It was also a glorious referendum on the efficiency of skiing. This stands in contrast to a large part of the allure of ski mountaineering: its defiant pointlessness. The labor and risk associated with what, ultimately, is simply playing can have no convincing justification. “Backcountry skiing is for anarchists and coyote angels,” wrote C.L. Rawlings. Maybe less true than it used to be, in our era of good gear, social media beta, and the endless commodification of experience (I am as guilty as anyone). But the quote continues to sing to me.
At any rate, in the North Cascades, the sport reaches a nice medium between this countercultural sentiment and utilitarianism. Skis really are the best way to travel in the range’s higher reaches, even if you do need to haul them up through 3000 vertical feet of rainforest to reach snow. When, shortly before noon, you clip into your bindings and in minutes soar down miles of snow and ice that took hours to ascend — or point them towards a col on the distant horizon, and effortlessly contour a mile above the valley floor, chasing sun and shadow — you will feel there is no other way to travel.
The sweep of the Eldorado Glacier, with Hidden Lake Peak visible far left, and the Triad center skyline.
Jake ascends Eldorado’s east ridge, on the margins of Inspiration Glacier. Among the endless sea of peaks arrears, Mount Torment, Forbidden Peak, and Sahale are prominent, draped with the Quien Sabe, Forbidden, and Boston Glaciers.
Klawatti Peak (center right), lone nunatak of the Cascades, with the Tepeh Towers to its left. My favorite English loan word (borrowed from the Inuit nunataq), nunataks are rocky spires completely surrounded by glacial ice.
Jake demonstrates the ease of packing featherweight Hagan skis at 8K’.
My training isn’t there quite yet, but it’s the time of year when racing starts sounding fun. Two weeks ago I hoofed down to Bend with Peter to kick off the competitive “season” at the Horse Butte 10 miler. The Nike and Brooks elite teams took care of business up front, but I was happy to grab 7th in 1:00:06, just short of my sub-1 hr target. It was a blast, particularly in the welcome sunshine of central Oregon, and on return to Seattle I finally stopped procrastinating and signed up for Yakima Skyline Rim 50K. I couldn’t quite figure out whether it was a race in my wheelhouse — whatever the equivalent of metacognition is for running ability, I don’t have it — but local enthusiasm for the event was contagious, and there were some fast runners signed up, so I took the financial plunge.
And then, a curveball: Peter asked if I would be interested in climbing and skiing Mt. Adams on Sunday. It was a dumb idea to do both. But I couldn’t say no. I recruited Richard, knowing he’d be equally taken with it.
The race was a pretty rough time. After living large in an E-burg motel the night before, the day broke strikingly clear and worryingly warm. Things went well at first. I spent the first 8 miles running near Mike Foote, who seemed to be playing it smart twenty seconds behind the lead pack. On the second major climb, however, he took off, and I found myself pushing hard with Casey Weinman, a grad student from Missoula who happened to be roommates with old PDX friend Nick. We stuck together through the turnaround at 2:28 or so, now four minutes behind Mike.
It was starting to get hot. Our pace up the third climb was noticeably less peppy than it had been on the way out. Part way to the crest, Max Ferguson caught up with us, solving the mystery of where the old course record holder had been hanging out in the pack. After topping out and hitting the rollers along the ridge, Max and I broke off ahead together briefly before I stopped to hit a gel and was gapped. From there things got ugly. Down to the final aid station my legs were cramping sporadically, and I was finding it hard to run at all. I rolled in, somewhat incoherent, and stayed for several minutes trying to get it together as runners came and went. I considered dropping, but then convinced myself it would be unsporting, and began marching up the hill, just as Casey arrived. Looking haggard, he shared only a single word in passing: “Gnarly.”
For the rest of the race, hiking was interspersed with bouts of lying in the sage, helpless to prevent my legs from spasming grotesquely (Max later described this phenomenon, wherein your muscles visibly pulse and undulate of their own accord, as “the guppies.”) I ended up crossing the line in 6:12 and 18th place, having run a 1:45 positive split. C’est la vie. Next time, I hope Washington can have a better showing against the marauding Montana Trail Crew.
Immediately after finishing, I was pretty sure rallying for Adams was out of the picture. But a few hours later, my electrolyte balance was restored to something approaching normal, and Richard’s enthusiasm was predictably high, despite having had a rough day himself. We hopped in the van and headed south, driving some of the prettiest highway in Washington State, and broke out onto high bluffs above the eastern edge of the Columbia River Gorge just at sunset. The world can be an absurdly beautiful place.
Peter was lying in a field outside of Trout Lake when we showed up at dusk. From there, we were able to drive all the way to the crowded Cold Springs Campground at 5500′. I slept out for the first time this year, under piercing starlight and widowmakers from 2012’s burn.
The climb was mostly a slog, although I’m never going to get over volcanoes. I was working pretty hard all five hours it took us to summit, the top 2000′ feeling especially bad. Though the Southwest Chute, our original goal, is certainly the prouder line, I didn’t trust my legs to handle chickenheads high in the couloir, and so we stuck to Suksdorf Ridge on the descent as well. Conditions were icy above 10K, corn between 10K and 6K, slush below that. It was generally excellent skiing.
Peter demonstrates whippet use #37: impromptu avocado opener.
It’s been nearly a year since I left the Western Slope. In the interim, Kate left Denver for Seattle, then bounced back to Colorado to take an editorial intern position with the iconic Western environmental magazine High Country News. I first read HCN living in Tucson as a kid, and picked it up again when I moved out to Oregon for college. I can’t think of a publication that panders as nicely to my interests, with its resoundingly place-based coverage of science, environmental issues, culture, and politics, as well as its formidable cadre of regular essayists (anyone who hasn’t read Charles Bowden’s final essay for the magazine needs to do so, now).
Needless to say, I was enthusiastic about her job. Not in the least because it let me schedule a trip to visit her in between winter and spring quarters, right when the humid grey oppression of Seattle’s longest season most strongly demands an antidote of brilliant sunlight and thin air.
While lacking the in-your-face alpine tableau of Colorado’s resort towns, Paonia makes up for it with a subtler — but no less affecting — merging of landscapes. Here, the red sage-spotted vastness of the Colorado Plateau meets the Rockies. Fir and lodgepole meet scrub oak. Snowmelt rages down to the Gunnison, only miles from the shallow branching venation of bone-dry arroyos.
Lacking glamour, or any recreational economy to speak of, Paonia remains a real place. I visited, and while Kate worked, spent a wonderful five days skimming the surface of its many pleasures. And spending long hours on her front porch, watching the sky and the neighborhood kids putter about on scooters, doing nothing at all.
Near McClure Pass, the Western Slope marches southwards. There is a painterly quality to light and line in this part of the world, a fineness quite unlike the contrast-enhancing verdure and jagged peaks of the Pacific Northwest.
Mt. Lamborn (tall, center left) is Paonia’s sentinel, last of the West Elks.
I miss tooling around the aspen groves near Gothic in early winter.
The atmospherics on display every evening were a strong incentive to spend the last of the days light on the winding cattle trails just east of town.
The aptly-named Raggeds from the slopes of Marcellina Mountain. Some summer or autumn yet to come I’ll start walking from the Brick on Elk Ave. in Crested Butte and end up here, spending a week or two loping through this beautiful and lonely country.
I made it to the top of the portion of dog-leg chute visible from this perspective (“The Banana”) before feeling insecure without crampons, but was still a solid 1000′ short of the summit. Skiing down, my boots bust a rivet chattering over slide debris. I can only say that loud powder builds character.
The part of the North Cascades I’ve spent the most time in is Glacier Peak Wilderness, having knocked out long loops on both the west and east sides of the crest. A special place for me, its eponymous volcano has long held a magnetic pull, not only in its beauty and setting, but in its remoteness. Glacier Peak is the only volcano in the Washington Cascades with no road reaching its flanks, and even the most straightforward route to the summit is 33 miles and nearly 13,000′ of climbing round trip. It remains, per Volken, the volcano for “those of who would rather tour across wolverine tracks than other human tracks.” Prior to 2011’s improbable Cascade Pass photo, it was also the site of the most recent confirmed grizzly sighting in the North Cascades ecoregion. Climbing Glacier was a not-if-but-then proposition. I suppose I was waiting for an excuse.
In a high pressure spell earlier this winter, North Bend, WA skier / runner Will Thomas provided one, attempting to climb and ski the mountain in a single push. I had an abstract sense of the effort involved — a gee whiz, that’s a long day! understanding of his trip — but, as it turns out, no real feel for how hard just reaching the mountain can be. Nonetheless, the idea started percolating again, and seeing yet another weather window open, I asked around to see who was interested. Regular partner Peter and new friend Richard ended up joining. Peter is the kind of guy who picks up running on a whim and 6 months later wins his first race, and Richard has bettered my Wonderland Trail record and been up Denali. It was, if you’ll permit me, a strong team.
We left Seattle Friday evening, and were on the move up the north fork of the Sauk by 12:30. There was a giddy elation to those early miles. Richard lead out the gate jogging, 24-lb skis on his back, which had me laughing, at least until it became clear he wasn’t joking. We alternated hiking and running as the terrain dictated until the base of the first major climb, 6 miles and 1:40 into the day, our world a surreal vision of illuminated slivers of the buttresses of old grow cedars. And then it was endless switchbacks up the slide path, in and out of the margins of forest. We struck snow around 4300’, fresh and low density, and cutting our headlamps marveled for a few perfect still moments at the glimmer of frost on its surface, the moon, the piercing starlight above the opposing ridge. We marveled at the novelty of winter in a year marked by its apparent absence.
Eventually, we stashed our shoes and began skinning, hoping they’d be left alone by any well-meaning hikers following in our footsteps. We weren’t far above above treeline before making our first navigational error of the day, misjudging the route east in the dark. To regain a clear line of travel, we were forced to climb several hundred feet of steep snow up the fall line. My light, bellowed boots failed to seat a kick in the icy crust, making for some tense moments as I switched to crampons and spidered my way to where Peter and Richard waited. Relieved to be clear of cliffs and slide alder, we then skinned up to the col east of White Peak, noting and avoiding reactive windslab on concave southerly aspects. There, at 6500’, the day’s first light began to silhouette the peaks to the east, and as we stripped skins and ate, turned pink, gold, and violet.
We descended into the basin, painting one small corner of its endless white canvas with our tracks. Angling right, we struck a second patch of worrying stability, a northwest slope with a 5 inch storm slab that sheared cleanly on a buried crust, though not propagating much. Dropping to the basin, we avoided the aspect for the remainder of the day, which wasn’t particularly difficult given the route’s bearing.
The climbing traverse to Glacier Gap was perhaps the day’s highlight, the sort of high, horizontal ski mountaineering anyone who has Lowell Skoog’s website bookmarked dreams of. It struck me more than once, glancing behind me at our skin track snaking away for miles and at the looming summit ahead, that the privilege of falling asleep and waking up here was an end in an of itself.
We cleared Glacier Gap, and, 9 hours after leaving the car, finally felt to be on the mountain itself. The wind picked up, and we climbed, slower and slower. Reaching the base of Disappointment Peak, we struck east towards the base of Cool Glacier. Skirting an obvious crevasse, we regrouped at 9200’. There wasn’t much discussion before we reached a consensus that pushing on to the summit in current conditions would be using up too much of our safety buffer of time and energy, with 15 miles of skiing and hiking and several climbs between us and the car. Content, and already feeling gassed, we stripped skins and soared away down the Gerdine Glacier.
Retracing our tracks took more transitions than we’d hoped, but was relatively straightforward until we once again stood on the saddle below White Mountain, looking down into the Sauk River Valley. Intending to avoid the navigational snafus of the morning, we stayed high and traversed west. But this too proved a poor choice, as the steep, exposed slope rolled over into oblivion, offering no evidence of safe passage. Richard scouted here and there for a line that would drop us into the meadow where the trail emerged from the trees, Peter and I jumping from island of safety to island of safety behind him. It was a bit of a nightmare — hop turns, debris-filled chutes, worrying roller balls, a botched kick-turn and timely self-arrest — but then we were through, and all too soon back at our shoes. A relief and a shame, all at once.
Somehow, we ran almost the entire trail out. Peter, stoically trotting at my heels as he closed out his first all-night adventure and longest day ever, would whimper a little now and then (okay, not really). I kept seeing imaginary cars through the trees and would say nonsensical things. We would sing the refrain from “Bad Blood” in raspy, off key voices.
Richard, for his part, beat us out by a solid 15 minutes despite hauling the heaviest equipment by a long shot. We met him at the car, boots off and generic lite beer in hand, after almost 17 hours on the move. Our only decision left was where to inhale 1000 calories of fat and protein.
The Burger Barn in Darrington did the honors.
This weekend, my window of availability did not align with the window of ideal weather (that would be this morning, as I’m deep in the specimen collections). Clear skies were promised, along with a bit of a blow as the weak low-pressure system that gloomed up the Puget Sound for what felt like the first time in months was sent packing.
It wasn’t bad, at first, hopping across the Easton’s subglacial stream in ski boots, climbing by switchbacks on loam and remnant patches of snow through beautiful old lichen-draped woods. At treeline, we switched to skis, the glory of first light on the volcano as transfixing as ever. We stuck left of a guiding moraine, in and out of gullies as terrain dictated. It was in these gullies that we first noticed the wind, which before long had whipped itself into a frenzy, stinging our cheeks and numbing our eyes. We held out hope it was an artifact of topography, a funneling of an otherwise moderate breeze into something more concentrated. At the edge of the glacier, though, it remained strong, and persisted as we roped up and wove our way through a few major, obvious cracks towards Roman Wall.
45 minutes later, we had had enough, the wind roaring and our edges screeching on ice like some cacophonous tone poem of retreat. By noon, back in subalpine meadows, Colfax, Grant, and Sherman peaks no longer gave off plumes of spindrift, tranquility coming two hours two late.
We headed home. But what is “failure” on days like these?
The intriguing Twin Sisters subrange: upthrust olivine rock and pocket glaciers rising to 7000′ a mere 26 miles from Bellingham Bay.
Word came from the mechanic this morning that it was time to take my world-weary Volvo wagon — known, loved, and cursed by all who knew her as “Eggplant” — off life support. Eggplant is, shall we say, baba ghanoush. But in the way that our material belongings often seem to mediate our lives, it can’t help but feel like the end of an era.
I bought Eggplant from parents in Vermont in 2011, and immediately headed back across the country in her, driving solo through northern New York and Ontario to the Upper Peninsula, to Minneapolis, the Badlands, the Absarokas in Montana, Spokane, and then home to the Rose City. Seeing Mt. Hood gleaming on the skyline 90 miles out from the sagebrush steppe of the Columbia Plateau, five days of driving behind me, is one of those exhilarating memories I’ll always link with the uniquely American rite — and great privilege — of the long distance road-trip. Eggplant was with me for the next four years, putting in hard miles across the West, quietly resting between trips. It’s probably not an exaggeration to say Kate and I owe our relationship in some part to that car, with endless hours of conversation in her, both en route to the mountains and as angsty Reed students listening to Elliott Smith at midnight in some rainy Portland warehouse lot.
To paraphrase Taylor Swift: like any great love, she had her flaws. Her doors didn’t lock. Her undercarriage was mostly rust, birthright of any northern New England vehicle. She was home to several generations of mice. While sound in engine, her circuitry and brakes left much to be desired, often leaving those of us who loved her in the lurch. One particularly notable failing occurred last September, when, as I ran Pine to Palm 100 in southern Oregon, her alternator gave out on Kate at 3AM, high up a narrow dirt road on Mount Ashland. It necessitated a lengthy and implausible extraction, something I probably won’t live down for the next decade. For my part, I was not always the best owner. I once lost her sole key on a run high in the Elkhorn Mountains outside of Baker City, Oregon, prompting a 3+ hour tow to the nearest dealer in Boise. I accidently cut her brakelines with ill-fitting chains in a panicked attempt to extract her from 2 feet of unexpected, unplowed snow. Last winter, I unceremoniously abandoned her for 6 months on a dirt lot in Gunnison, Colorado, frequently the coldest town in the lower 48. But that’s love — you give what you can give, and take what you can in return.
So rest well, dear one. May your roads always provide obstacles that exceed your limited clearance, your interior always be messy enough to suggest there’s nothing worth stealing inside, and your radio always be tuned to generic country. Go gently into that good night.