ADVENTURES NW >>> AUTUMN 2017
Above & Beyond Autumn’s Best Hikes Crossing the Olympics Where Bigfoot Walks Quadra Island Surge Skagit River Salmon Woodstock Farm
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CONTRIBUTORS
Volume 12. Issue 3
Nick Belcaster is an outdoor journalist who resides in Bellingham, WA, where he received a journalism degree from Western Washington University. When not on the road, Nick spends his spare hours exploring the Pacific Northwest on rack, rope, skins, boot tread, with a pen thrown in for good measure. James Bertolino’s poetry has received recognition through a Bookof-the-Month Club Poetry Fellowship, the Discovery Award, a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, two Quarterly Review of Literature book publication awards, and the Jeanne Lohmann Poetry Prize for Washington State Poets. Recent volumes of poetry include Every Wound Has A Rhythm and Ravenous Bliss: New and Selected Love Poems. He and his wife, poet and artist Anita Boyle, live on five acres near Bellingham. Long ago, Kathy and Craig Copeland rearranged their lives to make hiking the white-hot molten core of their shared identity. They built their livelihood on a unique ability to express the wonder, joy, and exhilaration they feel in wild places. They’re now Canada’s most prolific hiking-and-camping guidebook authors. Visit hikingcamping.com to see their titles and peruse their blog. Doug Emory is an avid mountaineer who lives in Woodinville, Washington. He has climbed over 200 peaks in Mexico and the Western U.S., most of which are unknown to sane people. On these journeys, he’s forged unbreakable friendships and acquired lots of stories, many of which he’s shared in print.
Cascadia Dreams Saturday, October 7th
David Hutchison and Shari Galiardi are a traveling freelance writer / photographer couple who set-up their basecamp in the North Cascades for 2016. Both are outdoor and environmental educators who have explored, volunteered, and worked across the country for the past four years. Along with many other places they now call home, the Pacific Northwest has a special place in their hearts. Vladimir Kostka is an international fine art and landscape photographer living and working in Vancouver, British Columbia. His photography captures the beauty of life and landscapes across the globe and is featured in galleries and art stores in Vancouver as well as online at vladimirkostka.com. Sarah Laing is a nutritionist, business owner and author of It’s Not Just What You Eat… But that’s Important Too, a book exploring the connection between inflammation, nutrition and lifestyle. Canadian-born, she and her husband now live in Bellingham and own S&J Natural Products, which offers CBD-infused products for active lifestyles. Julia (Joules) Martin’s paintings are inspired by the beautiful scenery of the Pacific Northwest. She has a great appreciation for the beauty of our mountains and a healthy respect for nature’s power to transform. You can find her along our trails taking photos to bring back to her studio to paint. See her work at Joulespaints.com Robert Michael Pyle ranges out from Gray’s River, Washington, in search of butterflies, Bigfoot, and whatever captures his fancy. His twenty books include Wintergreen, Mariposa Road, Through a Green Lens: Fifty Years of Writing for Nature, and Chinook and Chanterelle: Poems. He is delighted to have Where Bigfoot Walks updated and back in print.
A Look Ahead:
Our Winter Issue
One Night Only at the Jansen Art Center 321 Front St, Lynden, WA. A Multimedia Presentation featuring stunning images and mesmerizing video of our local mountains, rivers, beaches and the Salish Sea, accompanied by a live performance by Native American flute master Gary Stroutsos. Photography & Video by John D’Onofrio, Lance Ekhart and Brett Baunton. Reception to follow.
BC’s Nordic Delights Amazing Winter Hikes Nooksack Loop Trail
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AUTUMN | 2017
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INSPIRATIONS Olympic Crossing An Aging Climber Discovers his Inner
IN THIS ISSUE
Doug Emory
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Above & Beyond The End is Just the Beginning
John D’Onofrio
Grace Notes
Vladimir Kostka
18 26
Where Bigfoot Walks Back to the Dark Divide
Robert Michael Pyle
28
Fighting the Surge A Lesson in Solo Paddling
David Hutchison
38
Thru-Hiker in the Olympic Wilderness
Woodstock Farm A New Chapter in an Old Story Nick Belcaster 44
DESTINATIONS Mystery 6 Out & About 8 Communiqué 8 3 Great Hikes ... for Autumn 9 Outside In 34 Vital Signs 41 Cascadia Gear 43 Bright Lines 45 eARTh: The Art of Nature 45 Race | Play | Experience Calendar 47 Next Adventure 50
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MYSTERY
I
’ve been thinking a lot about the role that mystery plays in our relationship with the natural world around us - and in our lives generally.
In the hyper-connected age in which we live, the unknown has largely been vanquished. Have a question? The answer is generally only a few mouse clicks away. While there are obvious benefits to having 24/7 access to virtually all the information on Earth, there are drawbacks too. One of these is the loss of mystery, which, I believe, over time stunts the imagination. I’m reminded of the photographer I once met who’s passion was photographing wildflowers. His images revealed an unmistakable intimacy with his subjects yet when I asked him the name of a particular blossom, he replied that he had no idea. And not only that, he didn’t want to know. His connection to the flowers was not an intellectual one. He felt that “naming” them would change the relationship—and in some way, diminish it. Leave the naming to the botanists, he said. We see this conundrum play out in our experiences in the
Volume 12. Issue 3
AUTUMN | 2017
wilderness. It’s now common, when planning an excursion into the backcountry, to view your destination on Google Earth beforehand and to find the way with the aid of a GPS-enabled device. Again, this is a mixed blessing. I can’t help but feel that something is lost when all of the dots are connected for us. Discovery is part of what makes us human, and it is difficult to ‘discover’ when all is already known. Mystery also allows us space to speculate and wonder. Robert Michael Pyle’s classic book, Where Bigfoot Walks: Crossing the Dark Divide makes the case for mystery with his characteristic eloquence. He argues that the belief that “something is out there beyond the campfire” is a vital part of our relationship with nature. The existence—or lack thereof—of Sasquatch is not the point. What matters is that the open spaces of the Pacific Northwest are wild enough, mysterious enough to entertain the possibility. And in so doing, our relationship with the natural world is energized and enlivened. Encountering the unknown prompts us to engage on a different level—to seek explanations; to conjure up possibilities; to imagine unexpected alternatives. How many discoveries have been made while exploring what Pyle calls “the murky border where history and myth meet and mingle?” Mystery helps the wilderness be wild. To which, I say: Amen.
Adventures NW magazine www.AdventuresNW.com John D’Onofrio
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Staff Writer nick @ adventuresnw.com
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Out&About
Skagit River Salmon Festival
Does it get more quintessentially Cascadian than the Skagit River Salmon Festival? The Skagit River flows for some 150 miles from its headwaters in British Columbia to its languid end at Skagit Bay, where its north and south forks encircle Fir Island like an embrace. The mighty river has been central to life in the Skagit Valley since time immemorial. The Skagit is the only major river in Washington State that supports healthy populations of all five species of native salmon and these fish, emblematic of the Pacific Northwest, are celebrated each year at the Skagit River Salmon Festival in Mount Vernon. This year, the festival will be held on September 9 at Edgewater Park.
Photo courtesy of Skagit River Salmon Festival
The Festival’s mission—to inspire conservation in the watershed—blends a dizzying array of family-friendly fun with education, highlighting some 30 organizations working on conservation issues. In addition to the plentiful opportunities to learn more about these efforts, the festival also offers up music, storytellers, clowns, jugglers, arts and crafts, food vendors and a beer and wine garden. Not to mention a 25-foot long salmon named Fin. 2017 marks the fifth anniversary of the Festival which is made possible by the dedicated efforts of an army of volunteers and community partners including federal, state, and local agencies, tribal communities, nonprofit organizations, and private businesses. The fun starts at 10 a.m., admission is free and everybody is welcome.
C ommuniqué Dogs and Wilderness I was heartened by the focus in the latest issue of Adventures NW. From your editor’s note to Ted Rosen’s article ‘Re-imagining the Wilderness’, to your article on Wilderness Ethics, you drove in many hard points. It is indeed a new era for wilderness. Even for those of us who travel in wilderness and who have a deep love for it, we need reminders of its fragility. We need reminders of how precious and irreplaceable wilderness is. We need to remind ourselves that “we” are a plentiful we—and our presence on the land really does make an impact. There are so many good points brought up in these articles on ethics and the realities of managing wilderness in our present time, but I particularly want to thank you for mentioning dogs. For many years I was a dog owner. We roamed all over the mountains in Washington, in Oregon, even in Nevada: lonely trails and busy trails; alpine and lowland—never anywhere where dogs were prohibited—but in many places where they probably should not have been allowed. I say that in all honesty. We passed grouse that would make easy mouthfuls. We found baby deer. We came across marmots just out of hibernation and the grass stashes of pikas. We pressed our feet into alpine meadows awash in tender avalanche lilies. When she passed away, a door closed, and a door opened. I walked 8
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Write to editor@AdventuresNW.com through North Cascades National Park, a place near my backyard and mythic in my mind, which I hardly ever ventured into while she was alive. I saw and heard so many more birds and animals than ever before. Even the forest duff came alive. I stopped on the trail and silence poured in. Animals (one time a pine marten) crept up to have a look at me. These things don’t happen when you have a dog with you. I began genuinely, deeply in my heart, to appreciate these wild places for the wild creatures, the plants and trees, too, and it suddenly seemed so selfish that we take our dogs into these sanctuaries. So, I want to thank you for suggesting that travelers in wilderness leave their dogs at home. It needs to be said and it’s a touchy subject with dog owners but it need not be. Ted Rosen’s comment, in the context of reminding people to treat the land with dignity: “it can be done with kindness, and it can make a lasting difference” really resonated with me. That can be hard to do in the moment. When I came across people hiking with their dogs in the National Park (McAlester Pass and Cascade Pass stand out from last summer) I probably was not very kind. Ted reminded me that I need to work on empathy and finding common ground. I was, after all, one of them. Thanks again for a great magazine. Janiene Licciardi Bellingham, WA.
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A New Day on Galbraith Mountain With the recent sale of 2,240 acres on Bellingham’s Galbraith Mountain, the future looks bright for mountain bikers and other recreationalists who enjoy the iconic mountain’s trails. Polygon Financial sold the property to Galbraith Tree Farm LLC, a company started by Rob Janicki. Janicki Logging and Construction has been conducting logging operations on the mountain since 2010 and will continue to sustainably harvest timber while working with local organizations such as the Whatcom Mountain Bike Coalition (WMBC) to preserve access to the popular recreation area. ”One of the motivating factors behind the purchase of the tree farm at Galbraith Mountain was our desire to provide continued access to the 45-plus miles of trails that are used year-round by tens of thousands of bikers, hikers, and runners,” says Kiersten Sahlberg, spokesperson for Galbraith Tree Farm. WMBC Trail Director Eric Brown looks forward to continuing this “strong, cooperative relationship with Janicki and Galbraith,” and notes that Janicki/Galbraith “takes steps to avoid impacting highvalue trail features and minimizes its trail crossings.” “The sale is an important step in providing permanent community benefit from this special mountain,” said Rich Bowers, Executive Director of the Whatcom Land Trust. “A strong local partnership including WMBC, Whatcom Land Trust, City of Bellingham, and Whatcom County has worked together with Polygon and now with Galbraith Tree Farm to lock in permanent protection, permanent recreation, and permanent public access. This sale and the relationship with Galbraith Tree Farm moves that goal forward, and we look forward to completing both a recreation and conservation easement that assures that future generations of this community will enjoy this forever.” Galbraith has become a nationally-known mountain biking destination—and an economic driver for Bellingham and Whatcom County. Last year the WMBC conducted a survey which found that 41 percent of visitors to Galbraith Mountain are from the Seattle/Bellevue area, and 14 percent are from British Columbia. Another 25 percent of respondents were from areas outside of the region and/or country. Closer to home, 61 percent of the study’s respondents who moved to Bellingham/Whatcom County stated that easy access to the trails played an important role in their decision to move to the area.
3Great Hikes for A ut umn
Winchester Mountain The hike to the Winchester Lookout is a Whatcom County classic—and for good reason. It’s short (less than four miles roundtrip), moderate in terms of elevation gain (1300 feet), and the views from the top take in a wild panorama of epic peaks. You’ll need a high-clearance (maybe 4WD) vehicle to reach the trailhead at Twin Lakes. Once there, it’s all sweetness and light. The trail is a delight, switchbacking up through sub-alpine trees and beautiful open meadows to a notch. A little more climbing and you’re at The Winchester the venerable Mountain Trail lookout. Feast Photo by John D’Onofrio your eyes on the upthrust fangs of the Border Peaks. With the possible exception of Tomihoi Peak, Winchester (elevation: 6521 feet) might be the supreme viewpoint for these dramatic summits. Trailhead: End of Twin Lakes Road (FR3065), 7 miles from the Mt Baker Highway (SR542)
Copper Ridge This one’s a commitment. It could be done in a couple of days but you’ll want more. The ridge walk presents mile after mile of splendor; both luminous meadows adorned with luscious autumn color and non-stop views out over the heart of the North Cascades. The journey starts at the Hannegan Trailhead. Climb 2,000 feet in 3.7 miles to Hannegan Pass, then drop down to the Chilliwack River before climbing another 1.800 feet to the Ridge. Campsites here in North Cascades National Park are permit-only and not easy to acquire. The high point at the Copper Ridge Lookout (6260 feet) is just shy of 10 miles from the trailhead and very nearly heaven. Trailhead: End of Hannegan Pass Road (FR32), 6.7 miles from the Mt. Baker Highway (SR542)
Valley of the Ten Peaks This one’s a long drive from the City of Subdued Excitement but is also a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kneel before sublime beauty. In autumn, when the larches glow, Moraine Lake and the Valley of the Ten Peaks—located in Banff National Park in Alberta— are a world-class spectacle. The trail beside the lake leads to multiple destinations—all are remarkable places and should be visited. The climb to Sentinel Pass through Larch Valley (bear restrictions might be in effect) offers up staggering views of the cirque of peaks, 10,000-footers all. It’s 3.6 miles to the Pass with elevation gain of about 2400 feet. Throw caution to the winds and head for the border. Trailhead: Moraine Lake Centre in Banff National Park, Alberta, Canada
Photo by Nick Kelly
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Olympic Crossing An Aging Climber Discovers his Inner Thru-Hiker in the Olympic Wilderness Story by Doug Emory
Randy and Doug on the Dosewalips Trail
Photo by Chris Mackersie
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I
quoted Tennyson, “My mariners…you and I are old,” when I proposed the Olympic Crossing to my friends. Quoting Tennyson was standard for me, but proposing a mere hike was not. We were climbers. For thirty years, every wilderness trip we’d taken had set a mountain summit as its goal. But I’d capped last summer’s climbing season with my fourth knee surgery. Sitting with my leg elevated, I thought, “It might be time for you to finally grow up.” But another line from Tennyson drove that reflection away: “Ere the end/Some work of noble note, may yet be done.” And thus was born the concept of the Olympic National Park Crossing—up the Dosewallips Trail and out the Elwha, six days and roughly 60 miles in all. The idea of bypassing remote peaks without climbing was too painful to contemplate, so I added side trips to purportedly easy summits. The choice of route even had a bit of gallows humor to it—the park was decaying faster than I was, with road washouts adding five miles at the beginning and six at the end, an unquenchable fire burning in the Queets rain forest canopy, and its classic high routes melting under the glare of one of the Northwest’s hottest summers on record. So, just like Ulysses, I’d recruited my mariners—my oldest climbing friends— Chris Mackersie and Randy Liefson, to accompany me into the backcountry. Now, past the washout that closed off the Dosewallips Road, I staggered along the abandoned road bed, struggling to hang with my team. The steep rise to the Elkhorn Campground angled us into the sun’s full glare, etching the outline of my pack along my shoulder blades and bleaching the hard-pack white. The campground presented its own tale of age and decay. Once, it had been an oasis along the river, buildings and picnic tables and informational signs for overnight hikers and day-tripping families. Now the signs were toppled. Plywood boarded the building’s windows and picnic tables disappeared under chest-high grass. Past the campground, we fell into a familiar line on the Dosewallips Trail: Chris leading, Randy next, and me anchoring. Even in the shadowed forest, the heat sucked the air from my lungs, and that—combined with my mediocre conditioning—wiped away any sense of joie de vivre. Randy had been ancient when we met, and his unruly white beard made him look like an escapee from the Old Testament. Chris was younger, our best outdoorsman, but even his temples had grayed. Ruefully, I recognized how flawed my partners were. When I collapsed on the trail, neither was capable of bearing me to safety. I wiped the latest bucket of sweat from my eyes. Clearly all of us were laboring now, wrecked by the hike up the sun-drenched road. Each time we dropped onto the mossy carpet beside the trail, we raised our water bottles, evaluating whether what remained would hold till camp. I set my cell phone’s timer in half hour intervals and marched on, praying for its jaunty ring to reassure me I was alive. Our splits between breaks became laughable—50 minutes moving and ten at rest, 45 minutes and 15, 30 and 30. “These long hikes, you get faster each day,” I gasped at one stop. Randy caught Chris’ eye and bobbed his head my way. “Does he ever stop lying?” Finally, mercifully, a bear wire appeared, tracing a line from a fir’s branches to the ground. I dumped my pack where I stood. Our campsite opened in a clearing beside the rampaging Dose. The rare times we spoke, we had to shout over the river’s roar. We sank onto the logs surrounding the fire pit, shocked silent by our bad judgment in hiking through this scorcher. I attempted to lighten my pack, volunteering a freezedried meal for the team, but Randy knew every trick. With a younger man’s speed, he stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.
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tossed his contribution out first, leaving me to shovel in handfuls of goldfish and gag them down. That night in the steaming tent, I reflected on why I’d come. This was a re-
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evidence indicated I wasn’t going to age well, physically or emotionally. I never let myself fully heal before blowing out another bit of tendon or cartilage. I’d used the wilderness as a series of personal challenges, obsessively counting peaks, time per mile, vertical feet in a day. My performance on Day One of this trip was illustration enough I’d soon be losing more of those contests than I won. I didn’t share these dark ruminations over my morning oatmeal. Instead, I kept my negativity generalized. “These peaks we’re gonna bag along the way, something is gonna go wrong. The Olympic Mountain Guide is trash.” “So? I’ve climbed with you for thirty years. Something always goes wrong,” Randy said. Chris duck-walked, rolling up the tent. “I don’t plan for failure.” he said, a comment that explains our climbing partnership in a nutshell—he was a dogged optimist, while I tempered his iron will with visionary anxiety. “Let’s stick with the plan.” Day Two took us to Dosewallips Meadows, a basecamp from which we hoped to bag several peaks. My mood over the five miles stayed dismal. I had eaten gluttonously, but my pack had gained weight. The trail climbed the valley, popping out of forest and into fields of head-high grass and Russian thistles, the plants holding heat like a sauna and disguising chuckholes deep as tiger traps. Mount Fromme shimmered at the valley’s end, floating in the haze.
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At last we hit the meadows, acres of grass and lupine with all color washed away by the intense light. Circling a low dirt hill, a boot path led to another perfect site on the river. Once the tent was up, Chris and I filled our water bottles and prepared for our first side trip. Randy stood with a book under one arm. “You sure you’re not coming?” “You should let me ask him,” Chris said, because over the years Randy had acquired the unfounded belief that I lied about distances and difficulties. “Swear to god, Randy, this is just two miles up. No farther than that.” But Randy opened his book in reply, and we headed up the Lost Pass Trail, so primitive we had to kick in to stay on the slope. Perhaps because my giant pack lay at camp, or maybe because of the familiar rhythm of the climbing movement, I felt more like my younger self, and that sensation seemed to touch Chris too. “The last twelve years went by like a
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dream, Doug. Like I lost them. Where’d they go?” Once, we’d climbed three weekends a month, but then his little girls came along, I’d moved farther away, and our adventures became sporadic. “I planned this trip to show I was still capable of something,” I said. “I was going to solo it if you hadn’t come along.” “You’d be dead already.” “You underestimate me. I would have hiked a mile in that sun, turned around and driven to the nearest bar.” Vast, wild country surrounded Lost Pass, the only human sign being our trail continuing toward Hurricane Ridge. Lost Peak looked like a simple rounded dome east of us, and I searched for a rumored way trail until Chris charged off over talus and through krumholz. The slope was parched. Heather snapped as we pushed through, and every broadleaf alpine plant was burned a brittle red, like Johnny Appleseed’s evil twin had doused the slope with Round Up. The dome I’d assumed was Lost Peak—of course—wasn’t. It topped out at a ridge which continued to a pyramid of boulders. “Grade one, class one,” I said, as Chris checked the GPS. “Maybe we’re
Three we’d maintain our basecamp, carry light packs up to Hayden Pass, and then follow climbers’ trails south up Sentinel Peak and north to Mount Fromme. The temperature change brought a brief, irrational exuberance—couldn’t we haul full packs over the pass, drop them while peak-bagging, then descend to the Elwha? Randy, a math instructor by trade, did the calculations for us—that revision would require a hump of 16 miles, nearly as long as our first two soul-crushing days combined. Beneath the last bridge Chris pondering Mt. Anderson Photo by Doug Emory over the Dosewallips, the river was just a sheen of water over rock steps. Past that, we encountered We descended off the ridge, circling our first hiker on this once-popular trail. the pyramid, questing for the guideHis beard equaled Randy’s, and his eyes book’s mythical route. Lost Peak refused held that unmoored look of someone to comply with its printed description, so too long alone. We talked enough to be we finally just scrambled up the summit polite then swung around him, crossing block. the tundra and following the looping Randy was still reading when we switchbacks to Hayden Pass. returned, reclining against a log in Dose Our hunt for another legendary boot Meadows and bathed in sunset light. He path—this one up Mount Fromme— glanced up only long enough to ask. “He proved predictably fruitless, but a strong was wrong about the route, wasn’t he?” trail led south, winding up Sentinel Peak, crossing talus basins and squeezing through clumps of alpine firs. Views The next morning, high clouds rolled opened on the last rock slabs. In the in and the heat wave broke. For Day actually higher and it’s an optical illusion. You know, if we were thru-hikers, we’d need only to gaze on the high point then go back and sing campfire songs.” “The GPS says we’re 110 feet off the top.”
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distance we saw the smoke plume from the Queets Valley fire and, nearer, clouds building behind Mount Anderson. Anderson stood a tortuous ridge-run away, its twin summits separated by a glacier and a rock pillar like a knife thrust between them. Chris bobbed his head at Anderson as we topped Sentinel. “You remember that one?” “The most terrified I’ve ever been—which is high praise indeed.” “Hard men then,” Chris said. “Up and back in a day and a half.” “No tent. Crashed on the ground like dogs.” “And you didn’t invite me,” Randy said. “Shame.” We had ascended Anderson from the south, hitting a normally moderate couloir too late in the season. The ice was so hard that I couldn’t set my crampon points. Whenever I tried for a placement, my ice ax had bounced. We’d roped up below the couloir, but that was merely decoration. Neither of us could have held a fall. “Probably good we’ve throttled back on that silliness,” I said. “But cool, don’t you think, having that monster on our resumes?” We tagged Sentinel, and from there something changed without us realizing it. Back at camp, we shoveled down snacks and chattered away. I crawled into the tent for an afternoon nap, but I couldn’t keep my eyes closed, afraid I’d miss the next story. You might ask yourself, what could friends who have climbed together for decades possibly have to talk about? Well, we lamented the heat that had parboiled us. We talked gear. And food. We made bad jokes, many at Chris’ expense as he skinnydipped in the freezing, ankle-deep Dosewallips. Mainly, we told tales as traditional as those from Hrothgar’s mead hall, all the inflections and interjections timed naturally as breath—how we’d nearly drowned at high camp on Olympus, had a 20-hour summit day on Rainier, knocked off four of the Northwest’s iconic peaks—Shuksan, Constance, the Brothers, and Stuart—in one perfect season. That evening, a buck stepped from the shadows across the river. Glowing in front of that dark forest, like Zeus come to earth in animal form, he picked his way soundlessly through the brush. Heedless of us, his neck and shoulder muscles rippling, he lowered his head to drink.
entered a gentler world. Hikers appeared in bright clusters. The forest blocked the sky, and moss painted earth and blow-downs a delicate green, every image softened as though viewed through a gauze-covered lens. The next morning, my morale took another uptick on news from a volunteer ranger. Our final climbing side trip involved crossing the Elwha at a ford and following an unmaintained trail to Dodger Point. “Nobody’s been up that thing in two years,” she said. “If you don’t drown, you’ll be smashing through brush for days.” Chris, though, never planned for failure, so I dutifully followed to the ford and gazed across the water at a dense thicket rising into the clouds. “That looks nuts,” I said, to forestall any other answer. He paused a worrisome moment before answering. “We’ll come back and get that next year. Make me promise. No more long breaks before we do something cool like this again.” The trail climbed above the Grand Canyon of the Elwha to our final camp, sheltered beneath enormous cedars on the Lillian River. The next day, our impending return to civilization became clearer with each stride forward. Hikers greeted us in increasing numbers, and every mile we passed another of Geyser Valley’s early homesteads: Humes Ranch, the grandiosely named Elk Lick Lodge, and Cougar Mike’s equally-dilapidated cabin.
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The next morning my body still ached, but more like I’d slept face down on pavement than undergone harsh CIA interrogation. We humped along with relative ease, plucking blueberries from the bushes along the trail and tossing down handfuls like kids. At the pass, the Hayes River Trail began, coasting nine miles to the Elwha. Mount Anderson’s intimidating glaciers disappeared. We navigated a trail washout and shortly after that stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.
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And, too quickly, just half an hour past Cougar Mike’s, we reached trail’s end at Whiskey Bend. “God, that went by fast.” Chris said. “It’s like we just started.” “You’ve forgotten those two days we almost died,” Randy said. “Anyway you look at it,” Chris said, “60 miles, two peaks. Not too shabby for old men.” We swung around the final barrier, the gate closing the Whiskey Bend Road to traffic, and the triumph of civilization for a moment reversed itself. For a century, the Glines Canyon Spillway had dammed the Elwha at a cleft between rock walls. Now the Park Service had destroyed it, letting the river again run wild. An overlook had been erected atop the spillway’s remnants, giving views of what remained of man-made Lake Mills and of the Elwha roaring through the narrow channel below our boots. The former lake looked like a construction site, braided river
channels flowing through a mudflat and scrub. The Elwha had ended gently in that lake for a century of placid middle age, but below me it ran with renewed force. I leaned over the railing and watched its waters cascade through a chasm carved millennia ago. I warned myself against taking the metaphor too far. I’d planned this trip to signal a change, a step through a A well earned pint at trails end gateway to another stage of Photo by Chris Mackersie life, but had that truly happened? Yes and no. Ulysses had acknowledged how ephemeral physical strength was, and no matter how much I willed otherwise, this trip had proven that my best climbing days were behind me—I’d be spending less time with crampons and rope and more on the trail. But what was being taken from us wasn’t as important as what remained. “That which we are, we are,” Ulysses said, and I had to ask, what were my friends and I? We were experiences only a small circle of people could comprehend; we were memories, stories, and dreams of routes yet to come. We were a force that had returned to the mountains time and again over decades. My pack still felt too heavy, but Randy and Chris waited with theirs on. They shuffled in place, maybe stretching the kinks out of their ancient legs, but maybe impatient as thoroughbreds, eager to race me to the nearest pub. ANW
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Above
& Beyond The End is Just the Beginning Story and photos by John D’Onofrio
T
he North Cascades are a hiker’s paradise. The trail system that we enjoy in these northern mountains provides access to spectacular places and ranks among the world’s supreme networks of footpaths. Two of the finest routes in the Mt. Baker area are the Ptarmigan Ridge and Yellow Aster Butte trails. Both transport boot-clad acolytes across landscapes of unforgettable grandeur. Both are well maintained and within the comfort zone of most hikers. Both are at their best in the golden light of autumn. And both offer further explorations beyond the ‘destinations’.
Coleman Pinnacle rising above Ptarmigan Ridge
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Above Ptarmigan Ridge A dream-walk along a sinuous highcountry ridge that meanders upward toward the glaciers of Mt. Baker, the Ptarmigan Ridge Trail offers non-stop superlatives with almost zero huffing and grunting. For that matter, the trail head parking lot at Artist Point offers up superlatives. Artist Point is itself a scenic splendor, and in recent years it’s become a popular one. On sunny weekends, it’s packed. Snow lingers late here and the novelty of easily-accessed summer snow is a delight for low-land visitors, who bring kids, saucers and gleeful laughter. But fear not: the crowds thin somewhat as you head across the open slope below the chiseled cliffs of Table Mountain, although this first stretch is one of Mt. Baker’s most popular trails. But the instantaneous grandeur is irresistible. In the distance, the beguiling black fang of the Coleman Pinnacle rises above the serpentine ridgeline. Knowing that soon you’ll be beside it, out there in that wild country, quickens
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the blood and energizes the spirit. At the junction where the trail to Chain Lakes veers off, most folks turn right towards those enchanting lakes. Continue left, on to alpine wonderlands through sweeping meadows painted magenta and gold in autumn, hopping across wild little creeks beneath somber columns of basalt. You’ll traverse down-
wards beneath a dark wall along the top of a verdant basin. The contrast between the spare vegetation of the higher slopes and the lush meadows far below is stunning. A short climb up the rocky trail (often snow-covered) has you on the ridge crest. Follow the trail to the right and continue upward, grunting slightly, and you’ll find a rocky outcropping just to
the right of the trail, a fine spot to take a break, scarf some nuts and spend a moment letting the fortuitousness of the situation sink in. When ready, press on. It gets better. The trail traverses the steep ridge, heading southeast now. Berries and clumps of krumholtz give way to jumbled rock but the trail is artfully constructed and passage is easy to the next shoulder of the ridge (unless snow is present, in which case an ice axe would be de rigueur). A sharp turn here to the west and another splendid traverse. It’s uphill, but the grade is forgiving—and the everwidening views will stimulate your adrenal glands. I’ve been walking this trail for more than 25 years and on recent excursions I’ve noticed something that gives me pause. Snowfields that have always lingered here throughout the season have been vanishing. The last few years in autumn I encountered places where the trail disappeared in the scree for a while. This is where the snow used to be - no boots on the ground. Although new tread has since been established (and last
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Hikers on Ptarmigan Ridge
winter’s prodigious snows will undoubtedly cover these places this year), the trend is, of course, unmistakable. Ptarmigan Ridge is Ground Zero for climate change. You’ll see a heartbreakingly beautiful little tarn/lake below the trail to the south. It’s relatively new on the scene, born in the last few decades as the glaciers have receded. A side trail leads down in that direction. There are amazing spots to pitch a tent around the lake but don’t set up near the water and be sure to practice meticulous no-trace camping. The Forest Service suggests bringing bear cans for food storage and ‘blue bags’ for disposal of human waste. It’s obviously a very fragile area, deserving of extra respect—a special place where the land is raw and new, an opportunity to observe titanic forces up close, the tumultuous topography exposed without a covering of vegeta-
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tion. And it’s popular with mountain goats. They travel in gangs here, doing the old soft-shoe on the broken rock for your morning entertainment. For heaven’s sake, don’t feed them. The trail continues below the looming tower of Coleman Pinnacle, named for Edmund Coleman, the artistic soul who made the first ascent of Mt. Baker in 1868. The surroundings become more austere and Tibetan, and the route Mt. Shuksan climbs—relatively gently—to another shoulder of the ridge. The northern horizon comes into view and the Border Peaks nearly steal the show. But there, in your face, is Koma Kulshan. The height of Mt. Baker is readily discernible for a hundred miles, but the sheer gargantuan mass of the vol-
cano really hits home from here. What’s that? A rough path contin-
ues upward, climbing seriously now, passing the stone circles of climber’s camps, and you find that you are climbing up one of the Portals, a massive rock monolith rising above the fractured ice of the Shoales glacier. Don’t stop now.
The primitive route concludes in dramatic fashion atop the East Portal at 6500 feet. A magnificent dead end: the next step would be oblivion. For non-climbers, this is a rare opportunity to stand atop a sublime and airy platform, rising from the glacial tumult. Plan to spend some time in a state of enraptured bliss here. Breathe the sweet, refreshing glacial winds, blowing cold and clean across the luminous blue ice from both above and below. If you can turn away from the great glacier-encrusted face you’ll be transfixed by the sweep of mountains to the north, east and south. Shuksan swims in a sea of peaks. At sunset (or sunrise), when golden light illuminates the panorama, it’s
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phantasmagoric. You’ll return the way you came, but you’ll be different.
Approaching the summit of Tomyhoi Peak
Beyond Yellow Aster Butte The trail to Yellow Aster Butte is a well-loved Cascadia classic and why not? In the upper reaches, the trail traverses sweeping meadows (crimson and gold in autumn), culminating in a climb to the top of the Butte where a 360-degree view takes in a panorama of Baker, Shuksan, the Border Peaks and mountains ad infinitum. The journey starts at the wellmarked trail head occupying a hairpin turn on the Twin Lakes Road, off the Mount Baker Highway. The trail climbs through avalanche chutes and enters forest, working its way upward at a reasonable pace. Press on through wet little meadows, breaking tree line above a verdant valley. The way steepens as you break out of the trees, but the views make the huffing and puffing a small price to pay. At the junction with the Tomyhoi Lake Trail, turn left and traverse a broad open slope on a gentle grade.
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The trail is a marvel of the trail builder’s art, crossing boulder fields and steeplypitched meadows before crossing a pair of streams, the second of which is in a deep, often snow-filled gully. Resume climbing to a shoulder of Yellow Aster Butte and then contour to the west. At a trail junction, the right fork transports you precipitously up the side
of the Butte, passing the Maw (resist the pull) and eventually achieving the summit. The ascent is breath-taking (in every sense of the word). The top of Yellow Aster Butte is a sacred place. When conditions are right, the rich light can be a perfect complement to the sublime scene, lending a golden luster to the extraordinary hues of autumn in the alpine. Watching the sun go down and hiking out by headlamp is a timehonored tradition. Yet, an alternative exists: Turn left at the last junction and descend the ingenious trail carved into a cliff, switchbacking down to a basin filled with sparkling tarns, where delightful campsites are plentiful. This is a popular place to pitch a tent, so solitude is in short supply. Splendor is not. Beyond the tarn basin, a way trail climbs steep switchbacks up a shoulder of Tomyhoi Peak, where the upward mobility relents a bit. Pass a small but reliable snowmelt pool and continue toward the sky on well-defined trail. On a clear day, you’ll find yourself in the middle of a semi-circle of soaring mountains that includes much of the
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Evening light on the Border Peaks
northern reaches of the North Cascades. The climbing continues until you reach the Notch, an imposing defile that must be surpassed to reach the uppermost slopes of the mountain. You’ll down-climb on crumbling rock and then need your hands as well as your
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feet to ascend the other side. Goats are often seen cavorting in and around the Notch. From here, it’s smooth sailing. Climb scree slopes, views expanding with every step, including the Pickets, Whatcom Peak and the distant compli-
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cated massif of Mt. Redoubt. As you continue up the undulating ridge, the Border Peaks—Canadian Border Peak (on
the left) and American Border Peak (on the right)—form a great wall to the north, their towering rock faces a ruddy red You need not summit— the last few hundred feet are treacherous. Climbing to trail’s end at 7200 feet, some 250 feet below the top, is a transcendent undertaking. The views are astonishing. You’ll be looking down on Yellow Aster Butte. Where the trail disappears among the rocks, find a place to sit and contemplate the magnificent sea of peaks spread around you. This is one of the highest trail-accessible points in the North Cascades, a place to find perspective. Spend as much time as you can here. Inhale the north wind. Watch the shadows dance. Many people live their whole lives without an inkling that such beauty exists. ANW
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Vladimir Kostka’s Grace Notes Growing up in Czechoslovakia, I received my first camera at a very early age. Viewing the world through the lens of the camera and creating black and white prints became my first love. Before moving to Canada, I found inspiration and honed my eye on travels to over 50 countries around the globe. I think of myself as a composer, seeking just the right notes to emerge with subtle grace—revealing, by degrees, a highly personal vision of the world. From grand landscapes to the minutia and detail of a single leaf, I try to evoke a sense of connection, community and place with my images and to express my passion for life and landscapes, capturing beauty in unexpected places. See more at vladimirkostka.com
Clockwise from left: Symphony in Orange; Cairns; Still Standing; Falls in the Fall; Old Friends; Fiery Sky; Still Standing II; Soft Like Drops of Water
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Where Bigfoot Walks Back to the Dark Divide
Story by Robert Michael Pyle
In 1989, Robert Michael Pyle was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship to investigate the legends of Sasquatch. The resulting book, Where Bigfoot Walks: Across the Dark Divide was published in 1995 and was greeted with international acclaim. In the decade that followed, Pyle continued his explorations into the mythology and speculative realities surrounding the existence—or lack thereof—of Bigfoot. In a new edition of the book, published this month by Counterpoint Press, he added a new chapter, bringing the story up to date. We are thrilled to present it here for the first time in print.
T
he call came from southern California. “Dr. Pyle,” said a male voice, “this is Mr. Kurando, at the Robin/Tani Media Factory in Venice. We’re representing a Japanese television producer who would like to get in touch with you. It’s about Bigfoot.”
Just waking up, I was a little geographically confused. Japan? Venice? I’d had plenty of kook phone calls since publication of this book, and suspected this was another. But the next thing Mr. Kurando said made me listen up. “The producer of this popular weekly wildlife program in Tokyo read your book,” he said, “and liked your message about wildness and the unknown. He would like to make an episode about Bigfoot, and visit you to shoot footage in the Dark Divide.” Where Bigfoot Walks had been translated and published in Japan. This happy development led not only to the events I am presently describing, but also to my travel to Okinawa in 2003 with Gary Snyder for a conference of the Association for the Study of Literature and Environment. There I had the fun of reading “Ghost Moths at Moonrise” to Rachel Carson’s Japanese translator, Terry Tempest Williams down-winder scholars from Hiroshima, a radical Ryukyu novelist, and other Asian envi28
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ronmental writers. I was reminded that during our e-mail exchanges, my translator had shared a body of ancient Japanese hairy giant stories with me. As Mojo Nixon said about Elvis, Bigfoot truly is everywhere. So this call from a show-biz agent in LA, and the connection between Sasquatch and a Tokyo TV show, wasn’t as far out in left field as it first seemed. Over the following weeks, I determined that the producer had indeed gotten the book, and what I wanted to say with it. I felt he would treat the subject with dignity, and not make it a joke or a parody. So I agreed to meet with the film crew when they came, and to take them up to the Dark Divide. First, I fixed them up with Peter Byrne, Ray Crowe, Larry Lund, and other active Bigfoot folk in the Pacific Northwest. After they’d seen them, on an August day in 1999, I met the eight-person crew at a cafe in Woodland, Washington: the producer-director; Yukie, the show’s petite firecracker of an on-camera host; Mr. Kurando the agent; a Yank expediter-cum-actor from Portland, and four camera-and-sound men. And we went from there. On the way up the Lewis River, above the village of Cougar, we stopped for an establishing shot into the rising Cascades beyond Yale Reservoir. While waiting around, I found a colony of small blue butterflies on yellow lotus blossoms beside the road. This species had
never before been recorded in the western Cascades, so I was excited. The members of the television team were polite about it, but less impressed. They were hoping for bigger game. As we entered the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, the producer asked, “Will we see Bigfoot tracks now?” “Probably not,” I said. “People looking for them hardly ever find anything.” To stave off any disappointment I took them into elfin pine forest swaddled with deep lime lichens, near the legendary lava tube known as Ape Cave. They loved these spooky woods, which reminded the director of similar forests in Hokkaido, and they shot some useful footage. Then Kurando said, “They ask if we can go deep into the heart of the Dark Divide now?” That would have involved two or three days of hard hiking, with backpacks, boots, and tents; these were Tokyo people in nice clothes and shoes, on a tight filming schedule. “Not quite,” I said, “but I can take you into wilderness the like of which few Japanese, or Americans for that matter, have ever seen. You won’t know the difference between that place and the heart of the Dark Divide.” They seemed happy with that. I decided the best way to do it would be to hike a short way on Boundary Trail No. 1. So we drove on up Forest Road 25 to Elk Pass, the site of my >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com
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encounter with Something in the Night. They found the place immediately evocative, and the producer recounted back to me the events in the book with flattering fidelity. My visitors were indeed wide-eyed as we entered primeval forest of a sort known only in folklore in Japan. But I could tell that the film crew needed something more. So, parking the van at the Elk Pass trail head, I led them some distance down Boundary Trail No. 1, into the Dark Divide de facto (but unprotected) wilderness. Within 300 yards we might as well have been 30 miles in. The lichen-festooned, old-growth noble firs rose around us, tall as a Kyoto pagoda, broad as a Sumo or two. They’d seen nothing like it, all right. I pointed out a sapling with limbs twisted off Bigfoot-style, not snapped by ice or snow; and a great midden of bark beneath a dead fir, stacked up as the Klickitats say Tselatiks (“wild men”) does it, not tossed about as a Pileated Woodpecker would. (I had found this big, snow-covered bark-mound the previous autumn, and wondered whether it might even be a game-safe; Bigfoot is reputed to make such cold-storage meat-caches). The camera men eagerly photographed these possible artifacts; at least they were something. I read aloud from the book for the camera, pointing out this ‘n’ that. Then we headed back toward the van. This is the important part to note: I was in the lead, and we were traveling
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cross-country, off-trail, by a route I picked as we went. There was no sign suggesting other humans had been there all season. Deadfall on the trail had mercifully kept both motorcycles and mountain bikes
Still from the Patterson-Gimlin film Courtesy of the author
off the Boundary Trail. I took a diagonal path back up toward the road at maybe a 20-degree pitch, the eight members of the film crew following behind. We were in untracked wilderness. And then, abruptly, I stopped, right foot in the air. The others bunched and bumped up behind me like Keystone Cops. I still hadn’t put my foot down. Because there on the forest floor before me—I’d nearly stepped on it—was a god-damn track! Pushed into a pumice slope just below the trail, the impression had forced a stick well into the spongy substrate. “Oh!” cried Yukie. “Wow!” Americanized the first cameraman, next in line. And when the
director arrived, before the sound-man, assistant, and Kurando, he simply gaped. That was the moment when he felt, and I knew, that the transatlantic journey was worth every yen of his considerable budget. The ground was recent Mount St. Helens pumice ash, overlain by fir needlefall, twigs, leaves, and a few patches of old snow. There was very little open ground, and when there was, it was overlain only by the tracks of squirrels, mice, and martens. But here was one patch of bare sand, and smack in the middle of it lay an obvious hominoid foot print. There was a good heel and right instep ridge, big toe, and push-off scratch marks from the other toes. The preceding and following steps, and most of the trail of which they were a part, would have fallen on heavy plant debris with no impression possible except perhaps to a master tracker, which I am not. Well, in a word, everyone freaked out. The crew was mesmerized, then ecstatic. I was simply shocked, and afterward, ever since, unsettled. They got busy exposing a lot of videotape while the sunlight lasted. I made measurements and constructed a stick corral to prevent anyone from inadvertently putting his or her foot in it. Suffice it to say that lots of backs were slapped as we returned to the van with monster-long shadows. My new friends’ long trip from Tokyo was made. We all ate well down at the Rusty Duck restaurant in Longview that evening, before parting. They gave me a
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fan with a Sumo wrestler on it, a pretty tin of tea, and a nice check. And when the episode was aired a few months later, and Kurando sent me a copy to view on VHS, even through the show’s rowdy and very strange format—something like Hollywood Squares meets Animal Planet—I could see that they’d done the subject proud, and with dignity. But that wasn’t all. The following Monday, I got a call from Jeff Baker, book review editor at The Oregonian in Portland. The newspaper had chosen Where Bigfoot Walks as their Oregonian Book Club selection for the next month, and Jeff wanted a fresh interview and photo to run with it. He asked if we could take a day-trip up to the Dark Divide for the purpose. “Sure,” I replied. “And Jeff—have I got something to show you!” So on the following Thursday, Jeff, his photographer, and I returned to Elk Pass. My little twig-corral was still there, and the impression had remained perfectly intact. Jeff and I poured the plaster of Paris I’d brought this time (I’d taken none along on the first encounter). It was late in the cooling day, and mixed too thin, it failed to set up. But before we left, we got some decent pictures of the plaster-filled track. The mix ran out on the side of the big toe like a bad bunion, but otherwise it gave a good impression. The coarse substrate did not make for distinct toe prints other than the big toe, but the heel and outline of the foot, if foot it was, were quite distinct. And here’s
the important thing: the dimensions of the track were the same as those of the line of tracks I’d discovered following the night of the whistles nine years earlier— and the location was only a few hundred yards from the earlier site on the slope by the borrow pit above the forest road. Suggesting, in other words, the distinct
The author, Jeff Baker, and the track found with the Japanese film crew, August 1999 Courtesy of the author
possibility of the very same animal having survived in this location over the past decade. When I got home after the film shoot, I told Thea the news. A skeptic, at first she said, “Oh, poo!” But when I showed her the measurements against the stick I’d notched just an eighth of a mile away and nine years before, and the dimensions were the same (about sixteen inches long, six across the fifth metatar-
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sal, three-plus across the heel, she said, “Huh!” As for me, I felt my sense of the creature ramping one notch closer toward outright acceptance. When I went into the woods to look for my sense of Bigfoot, in the autumn of 1990, I came out again with a great and rare gift: an open mind. The actual physical existence of the animal never was the main thing, but rather, the question of whether we can save the kind of wildness in which even the possibility of wood-giants can survive; and the other question, whether the animal manages to retain any of the dignity and power it has always held for its longtime human neighbors. I found that, the tabloids be damned, it does. But the question, it turns out, is inescapable after all. In the twenty years since Where Bigfoot Walks was first published, hundreds of readers have written or cornered me and put it to me: “So—do you believe, or not?” I never give them satisfaction, because the fact is, I still don’t know. The best of the evidence is not easily dismissed, and sometimes compelling. But proof—in the form of big artifacts like bone or tiny molecules of DNA—continues to be maddeningly elusive. For some hunters, sadly, literally so: the byways of the backwoods are strewn with the tattered lives and minds of frustrated and broke True Believers. It’s a kind of Gold Fever. This is the central conundrum facing the Bigfoot investigator, hunter, lover, enthusiast, buff, or interested scholar: how
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does one maintain belief—or better, in my view, an open mind—as year after year goes by without definitive resolution? I see it as a graph, with experience on the ordinate, time on the abscissa, and acceptance as a dependent quantity lying somewhere in between, where doubt intersects with evidence. For sensible people, it takes fresh action on the y axis to counter the inexorable passage of demon time on the x axis, and to keep hopes afloat. So what has happened since I first crossed the Dark Divide and wrote about it that would serve to keep hope alive for me and others? Of course there has been a vast amount of palaver and poppycock all over the internet, most of which I studiously avoid. It is easy to disappear into the shadow of this particular chimera and never come out. I take a very selective approach out of self defense, and to keep it from going all silly or tainted by the toxic side of social media, of which Bigfoot brings out the very worst. Even
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so, a few bright things have emerged to catch my attention. Here is a brief, far from exhaustive litany of what I have found most interesting: 1. The Quileutes at the Bookstore: On Publication Day, in the summer of 1995, I gave a reading from the book to a packed house at Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle. Afterward, a delegation of Native Americans in the back stood and asked to be heard. They were Quileutes, from LaPush (this was long before werewolves and vampires settled into their territory, courtesy of Twilight, giving them even stranger bedfellows than Bigfoot). “These people live among us,” said their spokesman. “We tell you this not so you will come to bother them or hunt them, but so you will treat them with the respect they deserve. We wanted to see if your book treats them with such respect.” (I was deeply relieved to hear that they thought it had.) The audience was struck dumb. He asked if he could play a tape of the creatures’ normal
sounds, to illustrate what he told us. Rick Simonsen produced a boom box, and 200 people listened, rapt, to a concert of cries, whistles, and calls much as I’d heard on Elk Pass that night long ago, and at Timberline on Mount St. Helens, that other cold autumn night in 1970. If anyone came to Elliott Bay that evening with a totally locked-up mind, I suspect they felt the tumblers slipping a bit on their way home 2. Jane Goodall Speaks. The following spring, I was in Washington, D.C. at the Jane Goodall Institute. As a member of the Advisory Board of the Orion Society, I was there to help celebrate Dr. Goodall’s awarding of the Orion Society’s John Hay Medal—a signal honor given to Wendell Berry, E. O. Wilson, Peter Matthiessen, Gary Snyder, Ann Zwinger, and other major figures in environmental writing, education, and reform. Jane and I shared the same master editor, Harry Foster, at Houghton Mifflin. “Why didn’t you
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ask me to blurb your book, Bob?” she asked me. “Oh, we tried,” I replied. “But we couldn’t reach you in Gombe. Did you like it?”
a complex set of impressions in mud around the bait station. A three-anda-half- by-five-foot cast (known as the Skookum Body Cast) was taken of what some Bigfoot investigators interpret as a
The Dark Divide
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“Very much,” she said. “Only I don’t know why you were so circumspect. To me, the evidence seems overwhelming.” 3. The Bigfoot (?) Butt-Print. On September 22, 2000, not far south of Elk Pass at Skookum Meadows, members of the Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization (BFRO) conducted a baiting exercise that led to recovery of
partial body imprint with impressions of hair. According to Wikipedia, the cast is purported to show “the imprint of a forearm, hip, thigh, heel and ankle, and Achilles tendon of a reclining Sasquatch,” presumably lying down and reaching for the bait. “Impressions of hair are evident on the buttocks and thigh surfaces of the cast, as well as much longer fringes
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of hair on the forearm region. Dermal ridges appear on the heel.” And “On the same expedition of the BFRO there was evidence of 17-inch footprints that may have belonged to a Sasquatch.” However, others in and out of BFRO read the cast quite differently. They say the impressions “can be recognized as the hindlegs, hip, chest, and wrists of a reclining elk” in a classic ungulate lie, and that the “dermal ridges” are actually impressions of elk hairs. Clearly, this one is equivocal. But its location deep in the Dark Divide, and the fact that some of the most biologically sophisticated researchers have been won over, make this is an intriguing artifact. 4. Jeff Meldrum’s Ichnospecies. In September of 2007, the Washington State Capital Museum put on a major exhibition on Bigfoot. The State Historian resisted the idea, but his staff prevailed, and it turned out to be their most popular exhibit opening ever. Peter Byrne, Jeff Meldrum, and I were brought in as speakers for an evening event. Professor of Anthropology at Idaho State University, Dr. Meldrum is the intellectual successor (and artifact legatee) of Grover Krantz, the late Washington State University anthropologist who broke trail for academics interested in Bigfoot. For Meldrum, the respected first describer of several species of protohominids, it still can’t be easy. I’d not met Jeff before but I had read his book, Sasquatch: Legend Meets Science, and found it the best of the bunch for scientific analysis of the evidence. “He does bring more scientific rigor to this question than anyone else in the past, and he does do state-of-the-art footprint analysis,” said David R. Begun, a paleoanthropologist at the University of Toronto, quoted in Scientific American (December 1, 2007). As an expert on primate foot morphology, locomotion, and pathology, Meldrum is uniquely qualified to judge the likelihood that tracks are faked or possibly genuine, and he concludes that some are authentic. Peter, Jeff, and I met for breakfast >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com
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the morning after our talks. Meldrum told us about his intention to describe Bigfoot as an ichnospecies, which is a category of taxonomic description applied to “species known only from trace fossils, such as footprints, coprolites or nests” (Wiktionary). And indeed he did: “Ichnotaxonomy of giant hominoid tracks in North America”, New Mexico Museum of Natural History and Science Bulletin 42, was the first Bigfoot paper to be published in a peer-reviewed mainstream journal. It’s an important piece, and it includes a very useful discussion of the PattersonGimlin film, since the footprint casts on which he based his description came from that site and event. He named his fossil animal Anthropoidipes ameriborealis, corresponding with his late colleague Grover Krantz’s unaccepted contemporary species, “Gigantopithecus canadensis.” To me, this paper and its underpinnings are impressive, as is Meldrum’s overall work and good nature in the face of a generally dismissive academy.
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5. The Emergence of Robert Gimlin. Bob Gimlin was Roger Patterson’s partner on the horseback expedition into Hoopa Country that led to the encounter preserved in the famous Patterson-Gimlin film—still undebunked, and the most significant piece of photographic evidence for Bigfoot. Made on October 20, 1967, at Bluff Creek, in the Six Rivers National Forest, California, the Patterson-Gimlin film has left an indelible image in the mind of almost everyone who knows anything about Bigfoot, and most who don’t. The aftermath is murky, but Gimlin didn’t come out very well, either financially or in reputation. Patterson took the film on the road, and more or less cut Gimlin out, apologizing only on his way-early death bed. Gimlin was taunted and harassed, damned as crazy if he said he believed, or as a faker if he said he didn’t. So he went underground, vis-à-vis Bigfoot, for nearly forty years, living a quiet if vigorous cowboy’s life. But a few years ago, maybe sensing
things had changed, Bob came out again, and has been lionized ever since. I met him first at a gathering outside Naches, Washington, in his own territory. Bob was much honored by everyone present, and I felt honored to meet him. Now past 85, he is still lean and handsome in his cowboy hat, bandana, and silver Fu Manchu. I mention him here because, in getting to know him a little, sitting around a campfire with him and Peter Byrne and their acolytes, hearing his unaffected voice and watching his bright rider’s eyes, I cannot believe that he was lying. He could no more have taken part in faking the famous film (even if anyone could figure out how it could have been faked, which they can’t) than to mistreat his horse. Which he could not do. 6. Further analyses of the PattersonGimlin film. There have been several of these, conducted in sophisticated media laboratories. They all agree within a narrow range on the mathematics, kinetics, and dynamics of the film and the subject
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aged in this period novel not only to evoke the fin de siècle Lower Columbia and create a powerful woman character, but to imagine and tell the very likely life of a Bigfoot family in a richer, more plausible way than anyone else ever has. (Molly and I were privileged to travel around the region, sponsored by the Oregon State Library, giving joint readings from our two Bigfoot books.) And of course there has been the great success of Animal Planet’s popular television series, Finding Bigfoot, starring four actual investigators of the phenomenon ranging from dedicated obsessive to skeptical biologist. My friend Cliff Barackman keeps the wilder side of the show on the level. They have entertained a large and growing audience and encouraged many aspirants in the process of, so far, not finding Bigfoot. But it’s that “not finding” part that’s the rub. As time goes on, it gets harder to make the case with the Big Galoot in absentia. Meanwhile, on the other side, there have been results from scientists analyzing purported evidence that has not panned out. At the same meeting where I met Bob Gimlin and heard Jeff Meldrum’s ichnospecies paper, I was excited to hear retired Navy code breaker Scott Nelson announce that he had discovered phonemes (units of speech) in the well-known Sierra Sounds recordings by Ron Morehead and Al Berry. But since then, more qualified linguists have
Outside In Reflections on Wilderness by Kathy and Craig Copeland
Communion
Hiking evolves beyond recreation. When we find it leads to calm and clarity, hiking becomes meditation. When we sense nature manifests the divine, hiking becomes reverent, devotional, a form of worship. And when bliss swells within us during intimate communion with wilderness, we realize we’re not just exploring the Earth, but venturing into mystical terrain. We discover our feet can take us as far as it’s possible to go. Extracted from Heading Outdoors Eventually Leads Within by Kathy and Craig Copeland (hikingcamping.com)
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Photo by John D’Onofrio
it depicts, including the superhuman stride length of some seven feet. As an advisory board member of Peter Byrne’s well-funded Bigfoot Research Project, which had U. S. Forest Service cooperation in seeking nonlethal DNA samples, I was able to view the latest and best computer recovery of visual data from a first-generation copy of the film (the whereabouts of the original strip remain a mystery). The fluid movement of the muscles in the thigh, the heft of the breast, and other traits were stunning. In these days of CMG, it will be very difficult to make a case for the authenticity of any fresh photographic evidence. But given the technology of the times, that 16-mm motion picture camera rented from a drugstore, Patterson-Gimlin remains for now the Teflon clue in the case. So these are a few of the highlights on the Sasquatch Scene that have helped keep me tuned in. Certainly a great deal more has gone on in Bigfoot World since this book first appeared. There have been many more books published, notably Jeff Meldrum’s, wildlife biologist John Bindernagel’s The Discovery of the Sasquatch, and two more great reads by Peter Byrne: The Monster Trilogy and The Hunt for Bigfoot. The bleak landscape of Bigfoot-based fiction has been brilliantly lit up by esteemed novelist Molly Gloss’s Wild Life, by far the best conceived and written narrative of what life among such creatures might be like. Molly has man-
convincingly criticized Nelson’s methods and conclusions. A much-ballyhooed DNA study and paper known as The Ketchum Project concluded that Bigfoot is an ape-human hybrid species. This work and report, by Texas veterinarian Melba Ketchum, was discussed at length and found to have many disqualifying problems by Sharon Hill in the Skeptical Inquirer (Spring 2013). Then the prestigious journal Science announced the results of the Oxford University analysis of mitochondrial DNA in 30 solicited “Bigfoot” hair samples (Sarah C. P. Williams, July 1, 2014). All 30 turned out to be identifiable as known beasts— human, horse, cow, deer, bear, wolf or dog, raccoon, and porcupine. And nothing has come from the god-knows-howmany Zip-locs of putative Bigfoot poop adorning freezers all over the Northwest. So, no help yet from all the hanks ‘o hair and steaming heaps hauled home by the hopeful. Still, Bigfooters can no longer complain quite so loudly that scientists never take a close look at the evidence. These scientists did just that, and they encourage enthusiasts to keep trying. In the years after the book, the Forest Service persisted with a plan to overlay the high ridges of the Dark Divide with motorcycle thoroughfares. Through a successful lawsuit by the Washington Trails Association and trench resistance by Susan Saul, Karl Forsgaard, and others, that was avoided, but the compromise WTA proposed for a dirt-bike loop outside the wild core failed too. Now there is no money for either plan, and the status quo pertains: ongoing trail degradation from motorcycles. On a backpacking trip of the Washington Native Plant Society, led by consummate field botanist Jim Riley, Thea and I watched Kawasakis tearing up red mountain heather and delicate shooting stars at the edge of a snowfield blocking the trail. As for the forest, as long as the Clinton Forest Plan and Roadless Rule maintain, the remaining old-growth seems safe. But who knows, under Trump? The >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com
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long-term solution for both threats, logging and motors, would be establishment of a Dark Divide Wilderness Area, and this objective has settled deeply in my heart. But tragically, the opportunity was not taken during Democratic administrations and the reign of Congressman Brian Baird. And now, Washington’s Third District has been so firmly gerrymandered for the Republicans that we may not see a wilderness-friendly legislator in that House seat for decades. This is the main reason I hope for a Big Discovery in the Dark Divide: to furnish incontrovertible persuasion for wilderness protection of the animal’s habitat. Thus far, however, definitive proof is doing a good job of hide-and-seek. I found my own hopes running a little thinner. But then there was this. On the whole, I have avoided most Bigfoot revels and congresses. Some invitationals concentrate on biology and hard questions. But on the whole, such conclaves are likely to be populated by
oedipal votaries, PTSD reversionaries, and orb-viewing visionaries. But I have enjoyed a few gatherings, such as a fun little Chamber of Commerce caper called Bigfoot Bash, held in Home Valley on the Columbia River east of Carson, featuring a valleywide scavenger hunt and Bigfoot burgers. I’d give a talk, peddle some books, earn a few bucks, and then get to camp with old bigfoot pals. Leaving the Bigfoot Bash on August 29, 2010, I was reluctant to drive home on busy Highway 14 and I-5. So I headed up through the hills instead, to Forest Road 25. The afternoon had grown cloudy and cool after being hot and sunny in the gorge, with just a couple of sun-glints. I hit Elk Pass at four p.m.; 45 degrees. I climbed out and worked my way around the borrow pit and its surrounds, and placed an apple on a rock. Five minutes later, looking down from above, I saw it was gone. Raven? The only tracks around were elk, and my own. Back in my car,
heading south, I noticed Forest Road 2551, just south of Elk Pass, which I had never before investigated. Two-tenths of a mile along the road I came to a steep pumice slope, and there I beheld a line of tracks along and across the angle of repose—or rather, two sets of tracks. Ten feet up on the shaly slope, running left to right, there were left footprints, shadowed by shuffles right below. The front half of the first track was crisp, the big toe poking through the crust, a suggestion of the other toes, and a strong pressure ridge in the middle, as the owner rocked back on the foot. These tracks ran all along the slope, then onto moss and rock, and on into forest. Above them, a disconformity in the silt texture showed a system of ground squirrel holes, at least a dozen of them arrayed along and above the trackway. There were marks as of indented balls of the feet, and right above them, what appeared to be plunge-holes of hands at some of the burrows—the marks together suggesting a pounce
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(Small mammal hunting is frequently attributed to Tselatiks by Native Americans around the Cascade volcanoes). The sharpest of the tracks measured the same size as those I’d found 20 years before, and the one again nine years after that with the film crew: about sixteen inches long, six and a half across the instep, and three and change across the heel. But, this time, there were also much smaller tracks, running below and in parallel with the big ones: eight to ten inches long, two to three inches wide, with a twelve- to eighteen- inch step. Was this the spoor of a parent with young? Was there teaching going on? A broken old fir nearby was all torn up for grubs, just like the one I showed the film crew in 1999. These tracks, suggestive of adult and immature, eleven years later, were less than half a mile from there, and from the borrow pit of the midnight whistles in 1990. And they were all of a size, plus the half-pints this time. I had to admit to the possibility of
the same creature having occupied this area and leaving its tracks for me to see three times over twenty years, and now, having reproduced, teaching its offspring to hunt ground squirrels. That would certainly be one interpretation; and I could not see a better, simpler, more parsimonious one for what I saw. As I drove home that night, twenty years after Thea and I had found those first Elk Pass tracks, I felt the seams of my brain stretching, as my mind opened even wider. The last time I came down out of the Dark Divide was just yesterday. I had been to the Cispus Center, up where the whole thing began, for my annual “Butterflies & Bigfoot” talk to the sixth graders of the Rainier (Oregon) School District’s Outdoor School. We look at casts and models and talk about how an unnamed primate might not be any weirder than a caterpillar morphing into a butterfly. They are full of good, smart questions and surprising knowledge and
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a zillion stories from logger uncles and fisherman dads. We listen to the Sierra Sounds (which they love), and I read them the climax of “Something in the Night” with the lights off. They all look over their shoulder as they walk from the campfire back to their cabins in the dark. This time, as I was leaving for the long drive home after pancakes the next morning, I stopped into the Cispus Center office to say hello to old friends. Sue, the office manager, called up a Facebook posting by her son-in-law, Tim, on her computer. And there they were: more tracks, a nice line of them, toes well defined. Eighteen inches, well impressed into the leafy pumice sand. I later talked with Tim. He’d come across them while hunting the late buck season last November, a few miles east of Mossyrock beyond Riffe Lake. There was a big tree break right above them, and they ran maybe fifty feet down to a logging road. Tim told me he’s seen similar tracks near Cispus, just a couple of miles from where I watched his video, less than ten miles from Elk Pass. He said “There’s all kinds of things out there in the woods, if you just look.” Judging from all I’ve heard over the first twenty years of this book’s life, the Dark Divide isn’t the only place where Bigfoot walks, by a long shot. But if it walks anywhere, it walks here. ANW Excerpted from Where Bigfoot Walks: Crossing the Dark Divide. Used by permission of Counterpoint Press.
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Fighting A Lesson in Solo Paddling Story by David Hutchison, photos by Shari Galiardi
M
y knees betray me and release their hold on my cockpit as I try to roll up my kayak. I consciously force them back into the thigh braces as I set up for yet another attempt. After seven or eight tries I’ve lost count, and almost stop caring. The coach in my head keeps saying, “Don’t you come out of your boat, damn it!” but the former college swimmer in me, egged on by burning lungs says, “Last chance, dude, and then we’re punching out!” I strive for calm as I attempt one more return to the world of airdwelling mammals, but I can tell before I’m even halfway up that I’m not going to make it. My practiced form goes to custard. My head breaks the surface of the water
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first like it’s day one at pool roll clinic, and I slip back under. The instructor in me can fully articulate what I’m doing wrong—but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I pull the spray skirt with complex waves of emotion, relief, panic, and self-reprobation—promptly turning one bad situation into another. But for the moment, I can breathe freely, liberating the facility to curse myself aloud. Sea kayaking in areas with high tidal flow, strong currents, and tight constrictions is a passion for me. As an ocean and whitewater paddler, I am drawn to areas where the differences between the sports blur. Skills in one transfer directly to the other until the difference narrows down to boat length, keel shape, and salinity. In search of some play spots and a little Salish Sea wildlife paddling, my wife and I find ourselves on Quadra
Island, British Columbia, just a short ferry ride from Vancouver Island. In the aptly named “Surge Narrows” the flooding tide runs through a series of islands creating some interesting waves, rapids, and holes that recreate a Class III river. The tricky part here is that the features within this tidal constriction constantly morph, surging and retreating along with the strongest flow of the day’s incoming tide. My better half, a self-proclaimed “fair weather paddler,” is all too happy to leave me alone to my surf or rough water sessions, joining me occasionally from shore to watch or shoot carnage photos. She has just waved goodbye from the overlook to retrace the 2-mile trail back to the launch when I say to myself, “Okay, one more wave.” I’ve been going hard at this play session for over two-and-a-half hours. I
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the Surge
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am utterly exhausted, but this one wave hole just keeps getting better and better as the tide changes. I go back in for another surf and soon find myself upside down and unable to roll back up. Self-admonishment for my current predicament doesn’t last long as I take stock of my options. I am out of my boat,
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the current shift as I cross the wide eddy line. Some more kicks and I reach a barnacle covered rock, slide the boat in between a few others nearby, and panting, haul myself out of the water. I try to catch my breath, but more than a few minutes pass before I’m able to rise and empty the boat. I’ve been in the 40-degree water for less than three minutes including the roll attempts, but I am completely shattered, shockingly so. I am unspeakably grateful that I chose to wear the dry suit. Every time I go out onto the water by myself or with others, I face an assessment of risk. It’s the risk and the unknown that makes adventures worth doing. To be sure, things go wrong even
View from Chinese Mountain, Quadra Island
alone, with the current quickly carrying me toward the open bay. For the moment, a very large eddy behind a thin fin of rock about 35 yards away becomes my immediate plan B. “Never get separated from your gear,” my inner coach reminds me as I retain both boat and paddle. I am not desperate enough to ditch everything and just swim for it…yet. With a good ferry angle to the current, I wedge kick with everything I’ve got toward the eddy. After a few moments of uncertainty, I feel
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prove along with our experience. Intentional decisions to stack the deck in my favor are a routine part of getting ready to go out, and this case was no different. I had gathered good information on the narrows, checked
the timing of the tide, ate and hydrated well, created a good plan with my wife, and donned insulating layers under my dry suit. I brought my typical guide gear, PFD, towline, VHS radio, paddle float, extra water and food, even my
Vital Signs
Calm, Cool & Collected: Eating to Beat the Heat Wave By Sarah Laing, B.Sc. Nutrition
Heading into the Surge Narrows
under the best of circumstances, but that doesn’t mean I should ignore the obvious warning signs. Ultimately, I can only count on myself to save my backside and I have only myself to blame when I do something stupid. Balancing risk with desire is called judgment, and fortunately for us, our judgment can im-
Heading into the dog days of summer, we have experienced weeks on end of sun, heat and humidity with little reprieve on the Washington coast. While many of us wait patiently for this sumptuous weather all year, our blind love of the summer daze can lead to health problems if we aren’t savvy about staying cool. A few simple additions into your routine can make all the difference on a day spent outdoors in the fiery elements. Start by filling your meal plan with plenty of watery fruits and vegetables, which are cooling to your internal systems and also contain plenty of phytonutrients that can help battle the rays from the inside out. Lycopene, a carotenoid found in fruits such as tomatoes, watermelon and grapefruit, protects our skin from harmful UV rays due to free radical-fighting abilities. Add a slice of watermelon and cucumber to an iced peppermint or chrysanthymum tea for an ultimate cooling experience with a UV-protective kick. Bring a spritzer bottle filled with peppermint or lemon essential oil-infused water for an on-the-go chill/ hydration system. Plan your way to a great summer day with sun and heat safety in mind and enjoy the ride!
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“last resort” rescue flares. Rolling back up after a capsize was the least of my concerns when I took to the water as I haven’t missed a roll on either river or the sea in years. In this instance, my preparation In the Surge for the worst had made the difference between a short frantic swim to shore and possibly something much more epic. If I’d gone with another paddler, I’d probably be buying her or him a six pack. If I’d listened to my body instead of my ego, and paddled back to the launch when I knew I was darn near cashed, I’d probably buy one for myself. I still would have had a great day either way; but I wonder how many injuries have happened right after someone said, “Just one more?”
I am still going to paddle by myself in both rough and calm water, and I’m still going to seek out areas that offer spicy paddling; but I am going to add another item to my checklist. I’m calling this my “just one more” check. If I even hear myself thinking “just one more”, I’m going to stop and say, “Hold on now, remember the Narrows?” Then I’m going to head in, call it a day and go look for that cold one. ANW
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Cascadia Gear: Essentials for your next Adventure Therm-a-Rest Neo Air XTherm Our friends in Seattle do it again: Therm-a-Rest continues to lead the way when it comes to sleeping pads. The Neo Air® XTherm™ is light (15 ounces), warm (R-Value 5.7), and packs small. It puffs up to a more-than-comfortable 2.5 inches. And it’s durable. This is what they mean when they say “top of the line.” More info: www.msrgear.com
Air travel has become a Darwinian enterprise, so a piece of carry-on luggage that is simple, easy to move (wheels and extendable handle) and durable stands out. The Tarmac International Carry-on by Eagle Creek gets the job done. It’s expandable, durable and holds up to 37 Liters. Eagle Creek has a reputation for standing behind their products and the Tarmac is no exception: it’s backed by their “No Matter What” Warranty. More info: shop.eaglecreek.com
Slumberjack Daybreak 4 Tent The Slumberjack Daybreak 4 person tent is a budget-friendly family camping palace with backcountry possibilities and easy setup. Full mesh walls and lightweight fabrics keep the package, including footprint (sold separately) at about 11 lb, in a surprisingly small duffel. The fly provides full coverage and forms a vestibule, or can be propped up as an awning with your hiking poles. A very wide D-door gives easy access to the voluminous interior space, with near-vertical walls and a 58” peak height. Dings: poles are fiberglass and the stakes are blunt. More info: www.slumberjack.com
Black Diamond Creek 50 Climbing Pack The Black Diamond Creek 50 pack is the antithesis to the light and spry alpine climbing pack, and finally filled that perfect climbing pack-shape hole in my life. The exterior fabric is a tough-as-beef-jerky weave modeled after big-wall haul bags, complimented by thick zippers and comfortable back padding. Then the aspect I found most pleasing: the ease of ingress and egress of gear from within the gapping maw of a main compartment. And when the rubber meets the road? The Creek 50 did equally well hauling in all of the accoutrements for a full day of local crag climbing, as well as playing Sherpa with enough multipitch gear to tackle 1,300 feet of rock.
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Tips for Family Ski Days by Chris Gerston
Believe it or not we are already gearing up for ski season. Between the ski shop, ski swaps, and raising my own skiers, here are a few tips for new ski families. 1. If your kids are new to snow, remember Pavlov, and reward having fun in the snow with French fries and hot cocoa afterwards. I also used to include my kids in my happy dances when I came home from a day of skiing to help further them into the ski culture. 2. Economize your dollars for two kids, rent for the younger and buy for the older to pass down to the younger. Learn more about our buyback program for new kids’ skis and boots purchased from Backcountry Essentials. 3. For beginner skiers, check out the Lucky Bums ski trainer. This “harness” and leash system allows you to do three things: slow down that power-eleven-loving, no-turn-having speedball; teach them what a turn feels like, experientially, by pulling Lucky Bums Ski Trainer on one leash or another; and last, the handle loop on the harness gives me peace of mind on the chair lifts.
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4. Get your best early season deal on rentals before Sept 30th (example: kids’ rentals, $145 before; $159 after). We trade boot and ski sizes as long as we have sizing available during the season. 5. As you know, kids get excited—and learn to be excited—about what you are excited about. Remember the big picture: skiing is the most un-important fun thing you’ll ever do! And you are passing that on. To your children. Chris Gerston owns Backcountry Essentials, an outdoor specialty shop located at 214 W. Holly in Bellingham, WA. Check out more of Chris’ gear reviews at AdventuresNW.com
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
43
Woodstock Farm A New Chapter in an Old Story
Story by Nick Belcaster, Photos by John D’Onofrio
E
ven if you’re paying attention you might miss it. Eyes glued to the bends and curves of Chuckanut Drive just south of Bellingham, the sign for Woodstock Farm is an unimposing brown flash against a green backdrop. But take the turn down The Gates Estate toward the water, and what appears is a gentleman’s estate that looks transported from the early 1900’s, perched above one of the many bays that line our coast. A number of outbuildings dot the acreage, each with a commanding view of Inspiration Point. Trails wind over the hillsides, and then there are the small details, like the fact that the main house has a barely-perceptible demarcation splitting it in two between the original construction and later addition and the chicken coop that has been transformed into a
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
living area. And don’t forget the orchard, a kaleidoscope of blossoms in the spring. And it’s all open to the public. This place means many things to many people, and often the word ‘gem’ is thrown around to describe the Farm. It is nothing if not unique. Folded into the layers of sandstone and shale and palm leaf imprints that make up the Chuckanut Mountains, the estate is a place preserved in time. All this was created by Cyrus Lester
Gates, a man with roots in Whatcom County as deep as the trees in the orchard. If the name sounds familiar, there’s good reason. Gates was an uber-capitalist and land developer who settled in Fairhaven in 1890 to attend to the business affairs of his partner C.X. Larrabee, and Woodstock was named to honor Gates’ boyhood state of Vermont. Today we appreciate the lands of Larrabee State Park, Fairhaven Park, Arroyo Park and even sections of the Mt. Baker Highway and Chuckanut Drive because of him, but Gates’ magnum opus certainly may have been Woodstock. Designed as a sort of model home to showcase the types of properties that would line Chuckanut Drive, construction of the Farm began in 1905 on land that was hoped to host a deep water port and industrial waterfront. The industry never caught hold, but the estate continued to grow and host the Gates family until the late 1940s. In 2004, the City of Bellingham purchased the property for a cool $2.9 million through the Greenways property tax levy, as well as a grant from the Washington State Department of Natural Resources Aquatic Lands Enhancement Account. Tim Wahl, Greenways Program Coordinator at the time, says that the Farm was purchased to preserve an open space resource, at a >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com
to read ANW
The art of nature
eARTh
An Eye for the Sky
The Paintings of Joules Martin I am inspired by the wildness and beauty of the Pacific Northwest and memories of my family’s cabin on Mount St. Helens which was destroyed in the 1980 eruption. My tools include hair picks, chopsticks and other non-traditional objects, creating layers upon layers of paint strokes to slowly build the natural textures of mountains, trees and clouds. From my studio window I watch the sunset begin and end in dusk. See more of her work at JoulesPaints.com Clockwise from top: Man & Man’s Best Friend; February Sunset; Keppie’s Sunset; Island Sunset; September Sunset
Conservancy, says. “Certainly they want people using it, and probably the more people that use it, the more it would be front row center, but right now Woodstock is still on the back burner.” Tezak says that the Conservancy works to preserve the history of the Farm, to bring in more community members and to promote awareness of the place. To her, Woodstock is a project worth putting the time into. “I would hate to see the City sell it,” Tezak says. “I think there’s great potential here, and I would love to see the community more involved.” At a site planning meeting in 2008,
Poetry from the Wild
Salmon Breathing by James Bertolino The Skagit Valley breathes salmon: the in-breath when salmon swim up the Skagit river to spawn. Then the streams cough as dying salmon clog the shallows. I love the easing-out breath as hatchlings swim to the sea. This cycle of the valley breathing salmon has continued for thousands of seasons, but has become irregular and weak. I fear soon there will be no salmon bringing breath to the valley.
stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.
The heartbeat of Cascadia
Photo by Jessica Newley
historical appearance and utility, but also time when construction on the hillsides the result of a lack of City funds and the of the Chuckanuts threatened to privatize much of the land. Almost ironically, a place meant to encourage privatization would become an oasis of public access to the iconic shoreline. “We never even had it on the list, because we never thought we would get it,” Wahl says. “We started hearing from the Evening view from Inspiration Point owners and they were interested in it being a absence of a concrete plan about what public place, rather than be developed.” to do with the place. While the City Like a puzzle piece, the 16-acre Farm does attend to some maintenance issues connected tracts of land around Teddy and lawn upkeep, many volunteers have Bear Cove to existing public lands to stepped up to improve the space, chief form a contiguous stretch of accessible among them the non-profit Woodstock acreage. Since its purchase, the property Farm Conservancy. has largely remained unchanged. This is “The city is just not really absolutely partly due to a stipulation of the purchase sure what they want to do with it,” Joan that the original feeling of the estate and Tezak, President of the Woodstock Farm grounds remain consistent with their
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stakeholders drew up a list of goals that they wanted to see for the Farm. These included protecting existing landscape and habitats and improving the parking situation by possibly creating a shuttle system. There was a call for trail integration with the existing Interurban Trail that runs just across Chuckanut Drive, filling in the gaps and creating continuity which would bring more of the public down to the Farm on foot. Thus far these plans are still in the planning stage, but represent a good starting point for what the space may one day become. Scenes at the farm today are just as beautiful as they must have been early in the 20th century. On one of those first spring days when the sun shines on the green slopes and the orchards are donning their mantle of blossoms, a summer bride-to-be walks the paths with her family. She points out locations and they contemplate arbors and appetizers. Weddings like hers are a staple event in
the Woodstock Farm roster, regularly filling every summer weekend with big parties. Today this is the main use of Woodstock for the City: a community event rental space that sees big crowds while the weather is good.
Monkey Puzzle Tree
“Most every weekend is booked from June to September,” Recreation Coordinator Erin McCain-Anderson says. McCain-Anderson is the Parks and Recreation representative on the Farm, whose responsibilities include working with possible renters, conducting walkthroughs, interacting with the public, and overseeing events. She says that the
city is currently at an impasse where they may decide to either continue renting the space as it has been operating in recent years, or developing it into something much more. McCain-Anderson says she would like to see a greater variety of groups using the space: school groups that might learn what life was like at the turn of the century; botanists with a yen to examine the rare trees that tower over the landscape; and more university archeology classes looking for remnants of days gone by on the Chuckanut coast. Today everyone is welcome to enjoy the Farm as a day-use area. Some come to walk the trails and enjoy peak-a-boo vistas out into the bay and the Olympic Mountains beyond, some plant themselves on the grassy hillside overlooking Inspiration Point to paint or sketch, some just come to sit and think. The history of Woodstock Farms is a stillunfolding story and the next chapter is ANW yet to be written.
SQUARE ONE MAPS TRAVEL • RECREATION • TOPOGRAPHIC
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BELLINGHAM PARKS MAP SquareOneMaps.com
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
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16 September - 2 November
SEPTEMBER >>> Saturday, 16 September SPECIAL Bellingham Traverse–– Boundary Bay Brewery, 12:00 pm – 5:00 pm. Get Hooked on the Vital Choice Bellingham Traverse, a fun relay race that celebrates the journey of wild salmon. Families, friends and local companies form solo, tandem and relay teams to run, bike and paddle through Bellingham’s scenic parks, winding trails and open waterways. The course includes a Greenways Run (5.5 mi); Mountain Bike (6.0 mi); Road Bike (18 mi.); Trail Run (3.4 mi); Paddle (3.6 mi.);
race I play I experience CALENDAR Team TREK (0.65 mi.)
Sunday, 24 September RUN/WALK Bellingham Bay Marathon––Depot Market Square, 7:30 am – 2:00 pm. With views of Bellingham Bay, the San Juan Islands, and North Cascade mountains, we are often called the most beautiful marathon in the Pacific Northwest. Come experience Bellingham and “Run the Bay”!
granite-capped mountains, the San Juans are truly an adventure racing paradise. You will navigate a series of checkpoints to make your way from start to finish on this 12 hour team race. Where’s the course? You’ll get that information a half hour before the race begins! Join us for Island Quest AR.
taste and explore! Food available from Mallard Ice Cream and Pizza’zza.
OCTOBER >>>
SPECIAL Breakfast of Champions––Boundary Bay Brewery, 7:00 am – 8:45 am.
Saturday, 30 September
Saturday, 7 October
SPECIAL Island Quest AR––Moran State Park, Orcas Island, 6:00 am – 6:00 pm. From rugged coastline, to
SPECIAL Fall Fruit Festival––Cloud Mountain Farm Center, 10:00 am – 5:00 pm. Bring your family to learn,
stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.
RUN/WALK Run Like a Girl Half Marathon & 10K––Fairhaven Park, 9:00 am – 1:00 pm. Unique and super fun event that raises funds for Girls on the Run program scholarships.
NOVEMBER >>> Thursday, 2 November
Visit AdventuresNW.com for complete listings of Outdoor events through 2018
race | play | experience
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2 November (cont.) - 30 May Celebrating our Community of Outdoor Recreation Champions. Enjoy a hearty local breakfast with other Outdoor Recreationists at Boundary Bay. Learn how you can be a part of Recreation
Northwest’s new Parkscriptions program to work with healthcare providers to get more people outdoors.
Friday-Sunday, 3-5 November SPECIAL Autumn Yoga Retreat in the North Cascades: A weekend of yoga and mindfulness meditation: Rest, Relax, Rejuvenate!––North Cascades Institute, Diablo Lake. Whatcomyoga.com
Saturday, 11 November
SUNDAY | SEPTEMBER 10TH MEET AT JOHNNY’S @ 11:00 2 2 0 1 C O R N WA L L AV E .
$
20
FIRST 100 GET A
FINISHER MEDAL! $25 Day Of
INCLUDES A PINT AT THE FINISH! ALL PROCEEDS BENEFIT THE
WHATCOM DISPUTE RESOLUTION CENTER PRE-REGISTER: WanderToWander2017.BPT.me All Ages, Abilities and Pets Welcome Children 7 and under FREE, 8-12 only $5
SPECIAL Warren Miller’s Line of Descent––Mt Baker Theatre, 8:00 pm. Presented by Volkswagen: Swag, Giveaways, Retail Deals, Lift Tickets. WarrenMiller.com
Saturday, 11 November RUN/WALK Girls on the Run 5K––Bloedel Donovan Park, 9:00 am – 12:00 pm. Graduation 5k celebrating the Girls on the Run Participants. Open to all community members!
MAY 2018 >>> Sunday-Sunday, 20-27 May SPECIAL Glacier Bay Photography Cruise–– MV David B, May 20 – May 27. Join us for a week-long Adventures NW photography cruise and workshop in Glacier Bay, Alaska aboard the MV David B. Take your photography to the next level in one of the most beautiful – and photogenic – places on Earth! Small group size guarantees personalized instruction from teachers Alan Sanders & John D’Onofrio. More info: www.northwestnavigation.com
Wednesday-Wednesday, 30 May - 6 June
APRIL 2018 >>> Sunday, 29 April RUN/WALK Eugene Marathon––Hayward Field, 7:00 am – 2:00 pm. The race you’ll tell your grandkids about. Eugene, Oregon. TrackTown USA. A weekend celebration of running with full and half marathons, a
11th Annual
5k and a kids run. A flat, fast, USATF-certified course that winds through parks and along the river. Spring date means ideal weather. Experience an unrivaled finish at Historic Hayward Field. Join us and make your own unforgettable history as we sprint into a second decade of running in the footsteps of legends!
SPECIAL Alaska Inside Passage Photography Cruise––MV David B, May 30 – Jun 6. Join us for a week-long Adventures NW photography cruise and workshop in Alaska’s beautiful Inside Passage. This trip aboard the MV David B will begin in Juneau and end in Petersberg, Alaska and feature
Use discount code ANW17 to save 10% on any race entry!
September 24, 2017 FULL • HALF • 10K • 5K • RELAY
D’S RUNNER’S WORL AS FEATURED IN ! AR ND CALE 2017 MARATHON 48
race | play | experience
bellinghambaymarathon.org @bhambaymarathon >>> VIew or download even MORE Race|Play|Experience
30 May (cont.) - 6 June individualized photography instruction by Alan Sanders & John D’Onofrio. The David B offers an opportunity to get close to spectacular scenery, abundant wildlife and calving glaciers.. More info: www.northwestnavigation.com
Join us for the
Adventure of a Lifetime
FIND Adventures NW is available free at hundreds of locations region-wide: throughout Whatcom, Skagit, San Juan, and Island counties, at select spots in Snohomish, King, and Pierce counties, and in Leavenworth, the Methow Valley, Spokane, and Wenatchee. The magazine is also available at REI locations across Washington and Oregon as well as at numerous locations in the Vancouver, BC metro area and through races and events and at area visitor centers. SUBSCRIBE Receive Adventures NW via mail anywhere in the US or Canada. Visit AdventuresNW.com/subscribe for subscription info. ADVERTISE Let Adventures NW magazine help
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CONTRIBUTE Adventures NW welcomes original article
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EVENTS Have your outdoor-related event, race or public
outing listed in the quarterly Race|Play|Experience calendar and in our comprehensive on-line version. Visit AdventuresNW.com/submit-your-event to post events or contact ads @ AdventuresNW.com for details.
ADVENTURES NW>>> 2018 Alaska Photography Small Boat Cruises • May 20- 27: Glacier Bay • May 30 - June 6: Inside Passage (Juneau to Petersburg)
Learn more: northwestnavigation.com
FR
EE
Skagit River Salmon Festival
!
September 9 • 10am - 6pm
Edgewater Park in Mount Vernon, Washington
Great Bands Local Artisans Fabulous Food Beer & Wine Garden Kidz Activity Zone
360.676.1977 • www.lithtexnw.com
event listings at AdventuresNW.com
SkagitRiverFest.org race | play | experience
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the
Next
Adventure
Wonder Peak photo by Bob Kandiko After spending a month in the Canadian Rockies chasing fall colors, Karen Neubauer and I took the chance to see the golden larches in Assiniboine Provincial Park on the BC/Alberta border. Opting out of the helicopter transport, we hiked in 18 miles, leaving the Shark Mountain trailhead before dawn on a trail littered with grizzly scat. Rain hit us at Assiniboine Pass, soaking us for our arrival at the lodge where Karen secured a spot at the rustic Naiset cabins, deemed preferable to a soggy night in the tent. The next day we met a gentleman at the lodge celebrating his 94th birthday and his 40th trip into the valley by hiking 2.5 miles and 800 vertical feet up to Wonder Pass. Of course we were inspired by his zeal and ended our trip by exiting the valley over Wonder Pass three days later, setting out just after sunrise. We scampered up Wonder Peak for this panoramic view which we savored too long - we still had 13 miles more to trek before reaching the van! Check out Bob Kandiko’s latest photography book, Nooksack Wanderings: Images From Mount Baker to Bellingham Bay (Chuckanut Editions).
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
Should I follow my head, or my heart? For some of life’s questions, you’re not alone.
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