G
CE
ADVENTURES 15 NORTHWEST
BR ATI N LE
YEARS
WINTER 2021/22
Winter in Cascadia Inspiration on Shuksan Illumination on Rainier Wolverines in the Snow
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INSPIRATIONS
IN THIS ISSUE
The Other Mountain Mt. Shuksan in Winter
Jason Griffith
14
Mea Culpa
Mark Harfenist
20
Gregory Scruggs
24
Frank James
30
Ainslee Dicken
32
Nick Belcaster
36
In the Darkest Winter Finding the Light on the Longest Night
The Delta Blues High Above the Salish Sea
Bike Northwest Cycling Adventures with a Side of Culture
Searching for Phantoms Wolverines in the North Cascades
A Year with Rilke Sharon Kingston
42
Enjoying -45 in the Yukon Dawn Groves
46
The Ultimate Social Distancer
52
DESTINATIONS Infrastructure 8 Out & About 10 3 Great Hikes ... for Winter 11 Bright Lines: Saul Weisberg 18 eARTh: The Art of Nature 34 Mountain Haiku 43 Field Trip: Zion in Winter 54 Cascadia Gear 56 The Next Adventure 58
Lawrence Millman
In winter the stars seem to have rekindled their fires, the moon achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a look of a more exalted simplicity. - John Burroughs
Serving Northwest Washington Adventurists For Over 50 Years. Since 1967 LFS Marine & Outdoor has served the Pacific Northwest community. Now, with several stores in Western Washington and Alaska, LFS maintains its roots in Whatcom County with our flagship store and corporate office at Squalicum Harbor in Bellingham. The secret to our 50+ year success story has been dependable and reliable service through the most challenging times. We understand that our customers rely on us to help them navigate a successful boating and outdoor experience. That is why we’re here for you, and that is why we’re here to stay.
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Brandon Nelson Partners Realtors gives thanks to our clients and friends who support us and refer us new business. It is our privilege to contribute where we can to this community we love so much.
OUR ANNUAL “100 HOUSES” DONATION OF $10,000 WENT TO OUR TREEHOUSE. THIS AMAZING NON-PROFIT ORGANIZATION HELPS CHILDREN, YOUTH, AND FAMILIES THROUGH THE PROCESS OF GRIEVING AFTER A LOSS OR TRAUMA. FOR MORE INFORMATION, VISIT WWW.OUR-TREEHOUSE.ORG
AND OUR FAVORITE EVENT OF THE YEAR, “FILL THE TRUCK”, RESULTED IN OVER A MONTH OF SUPPLIES, $3500 IN CASH AND GIFT CARDS, AND HUNDREDS OF WARM COATS FOR THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY RESOURCE CENTER AND THE INTERFAITH COALITION WARM COAT DRIVE.
We will forever support the community that supports us! Our deepest thanks, The Team at Brandon Nelson Partners W W W. B R A N D O N N E L S O N . C O M
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Volume 16. Issue 4
CONTRIBUTORS
WINTER | 2021/22
Nick Belcaster is an adventure journalist who may be based in Bellingham, but he calls the ancient ice and spires of the North Cascades home. He contributes to local and national publications, and his work focuses on the intersection of recreation, energy, and the environment.
Bill Hoke came to the Pacific Northwest in 1970 and began a lifetime of climbing and hiking. He’s hiked— mostly solo— more than 1,500 miles in the Olympic Mountains and is the editor of the newly published fourth edition of the Olympic Mountains Trail Guide for Mountaineers Books.
Ainslee Dicken is a freelance writer, poet, and aspiring novelist. Born and bred in the Pacific Northwest, she harbors an obsession for fantasy and science fiction. When she’s not writing or reading, she’s moving; whether on hikes, travel, or walks around the neighborhood.
Dr. Frank James is active in teaching, research, and medical practice. He is currently Health Officer for San Juan County and the Nooksack Indian Tribe. He has been a Clinical Professor at the UW School of Public Health since 1992 and is currently Medical Director at Orcas Island Primary Care Clinic.
Kris Ekstrand is a painter and a printmaker who works out of her studio in Edison, Washington. Her work has been shown in one-person shows at Smith & Vallee Gallery (Edison), MUSEO (Langley, WA), Jansen Art Center (Lynden, WA), Moses Lake Museum (Moses Lake, WA) and Skagit Valley College (Mount Vernon, WA). See more of her work at www.krisekstrand.com. Jason Griffith is a fisheries biologist who now spends more time catching up on emails than catching fish. Regardless, he’d actually prefer to be in the mountains with friends and family. Jason lives in Mt. Vernon with his wife and two boys. Dawn Groves is a writer who lives in Bellingham, teaches WordPress at Whatcom Community College, and finds peace in paddling the Salish Sea. Her new novel, Restraint, publishes in January 2022. Visit her at: www.dawngroves.com Mark Harfenist was born and raised in New York. After 40 years in places with insufficient snowfall, he settled at last in Bellingham, WA, where he dabbles in mountain biking, motorcycling, backcountry skiing, kayaking, and world travel. In his spare time, he works as a family therapist and mental health counselor.
coming— The Last Speaker of Bear. He has a fungal species named after him, Inonotus millmanii, and will soon have a velvet worm named after him. He keeps a post office box in Cambridge, MA. James Richman is an attorney with a deep love for Eastern Washington and a passion for photographing its landscapes. Follow him at facebook.com/JamesRichmanPhotography Gregory Scruggs is a freelance writer based in Seattle who writes about natural, built, and cultural environments. You can read his work at www.authory.com/ gregoryscruggs. A contributor to The Seattle Times, Backcountry Magazine and other publications, he lists his religion as Turns All Year and he’s stoked for the La Niña winter.
Sharon Kingston is a Northwest Washington oil painter who uses the properties of her medium to create paintings that respond to both the atmosphere of her surroundings and poetry. She works out of a storefront studio in downtown Bellingham. She hikes, bikes and kayaks through her one wild and precious life and is grateful every day for the beauty that surrounds her. View her work at www.sharonkingston. com.
Saul Weisberg was founder/ executive director of North Cascades Institute from 19862021. He lives in Bellingham and is currently gainfully unemployed as a wandering poet-naturalist —watching birds and bugs, walking in the mountains, and canoeing in the rain. ANW
Lawrence Millman is the author of 18 books, including such titles as Last Places, Our Like Will Not Be There Again, Lost in the Arctic, and—forth-
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
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INFRASTRUCTURE
O
ur public lands need an investment in infrastructure.
Our woods, mountains, rivers, and seashores are overrun with folks who have discovered the soul-nourishing benefits of being outside, away from our manufactured landscapes. The number of recreationists enjoying our public lands has grown steadily over the last 20 years and then, during the pandemic, skyrocketed. We now routinely see more than 700 hikers on the Maple Pass Loop on an autumn afternoon. In late summer, a friend reported a mind-boggling 248 vehicles at the Yellow Aster Trailhead—midweek! If this trend continues, our parks, wilderness areas, wild and scenic rivers, and the like will not survive with any measure of “wildness” intact. And all indications are that this trend will continue—and in fact, continue to grow. So what can we do? Essentially, there are two approaches that can be taken to address what is fundamentally a problem of supply and demand. As an example, let’s look at Mt. BakerSnoqualmie National Forest where the supply of hiking trails is definitely not growing while the demand has gone through the roof. One approach is to limit access. We could restrict the number of visitors by instituting a strict permit system (for both backpackers and day hikers). Very popular destinations could have a lottery system put in place, similar to those in use at the Enchantment Lakes and a growing number of super-popular locations. The first problem with this approach is that keeping people out of the woods is contrary to the notion that connecting with nature is very, very good for humans. It makes us better
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
citizens and offers a sociological benefit to the collective (and boy, does the collective need it). Restricting access keeps us removed from the natural world. Another issue is the lack of resources to manage the kind of vastly increased permitting (and enforcement) required to make this happen on the scale needed. A second approach is to increase the supply. We need more parks. We need more trails. We need more infrastructure. With the recent passage of the $1.2 Trillion National Infrastructure Bill, the subject of infrastructure has come to the fore. In addition to providing much-needed funding for roads, bridges, and the like, this bill also includes some $1.7 billion for our beleaguered National Parks, mostly earmarked for frontcountry improvements such as roads and transportation systems. This is clearly overdue and essential, but we need to think bigger. It seems obvious that a place like Yellow Aster Butte cannot possibly withstand the throngs that now visit every sunny day in summer. To respond to this demand, we could invest in building new trails, increasing the options for hikers, and reducing the numbers on existing trails. This could be done with sensitivity to wildlife corridors, utilizing existing impacted areas (forest roads, old trail beds, etc.) Our impact will undoubtedly grow, but we can do this in an informed, scientifically-driven way to minimize disruption. This will be expensive too. But if we do nothing, we will soon see our backcountry ravaged beyond repair.
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Mountain Huts proposed for Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest John Minier has been talking to the forest service about a mountain hut for years. Minier owns Baker Mountain Guides, a Bellingham, WA – based mountain guiding service. In his formative years, Minier learned to ski in Colorado, “Where,” he says, “huts are everywhere.” Baker Mountain Guides, together with the folks from Aspire Mountain Huts and Roundhouse Touring, has submitted a proposal to the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest for the construction of three mountain huts. If approved, the huts would be located at the Heliotrope Ridge Trailhead (Aspire), the Watson/ Anderson Lakes Trailhead (Roundhouse), and—the one Minier is planning—in the Twin Sisters backcountry. The three huts are all separate projects, with each company building and managing one hut. “The Forest Service wanted to amalgamate the proposals,” Minier explains, “rather than have to review three different proposals.” All of the huts would be temporary structures, erected for the winter season and removed when the snow melts. If the project is successful, both
the Heliotrope and Watson Lakes huts would be available on a rental basis with optional snowmobile shuttle access and gear transport. In contrast, the Twin Sisters hut would be available only to those guided by Baker Mountain Guides. The huts would be furnished with
backcountry community. The challenge has always been access. The majority of the skiable terrain lies above treeline and is largely inaccessible in winter.” The proposal is currently undergoing environmental review and evaluation of the risks, benefits, and impacts of the proposed use. “In our proposal, we outline a potential ‘Phase 1’ option that, if approved, would allow for limited operations under a ‘temporary’ use permit that would be subject to annual review and approval,” Dickerson explains.
Illustration courtesy Baker Mountain Guides
wood-burning stoves, propane cookstoves, a full array of kitchen equipment, gear drying racks, LED lanterns, and sleeping bunks. “There is no lack of inspiring winter skiing and riding terrain in the Mt. Baker National Forest,” Aspire’s Dickerson says. “The Pacific Northwest has one of the most reliable winter snowpacks in the country and a deeply passionate
“Our vision is that these huts become a resource to the backcountry community. The experience of long ski days, bookended by a crackling fire, warm food, and shared drinks, gets at the soul of deep connections and friendship. While our operations will be largely logistical in nature, the experience of staying at a mountain hut is about something much deeper.” Minier is confident that approval will be forthcoming. “This will happen,” he says. It’s just a matter of when.” ANW
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The heartbeat of Cascadia
Photo John D’Onofrio
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Vanishing Ice Local hiker/photographer Alan Fritzberg has been documenting his explorations of the North Cascades for more than 60 years. His photographs of Mt. Baker and the Coleman Glacier eloquently tell the story of the effects of climate change in our mountains. He snapped the first picture in August 1981 at Heliotrope Ridge and captured the second photograph last September.
3 Great Hikes for W int er Little Mountain
The upper reaches of Little Mountain, located on the outskirts of Mount Vernon, offer the casual hiker sweeping views out over the Skagit Valley. In fact, you can easily drive to the 950foot summit where ten miles of trails, popular with both hikers and mountain bikers, wind through the trees. Favorites include Little Mountain Park Loop, South Little Mountain Lollipop, and the Darvill Trail (named for Cascadian hiking legend Fred T. Darvill). From the South Viewpoint at the end of the road, savor the vistas across Whidbey and Camino Islands to the distant Olympics. From the North Viewpoint, the panorama stretches from the blue-green San Juans to the icy summit of Mt. Baker. Trailhead: Little Mountain Rd. off East Blackburn Rd., Mount Vernon.
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The Thunder Creek Trail, located near Diablo Lake in North Cascades National Park, follows the energetic creek through an aweThunder Creek Trail inspiring rainforest of ancient trees. It’s a great hike on a rainy day. The woods are magnificent—climax forest in a thousand states of growth and decay: deep mossy grottos; gardens of ferns; Oregon grape; amazing fungus. Go as far as you like—it’s a perfect trail to introduce children to the joys of wandering in the woods, all about the journey, not the destination. In a mile and a half, cross the creek on a stout suspension bridge. There are campsites (Thunder Camp) on the far side. If so Photo by John D’Onofrio inclined, keep going—the trail continues deep into the green mountains to Neve Camp and McAllister Camp. In winter, expect snow.
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The hike across Stuart Island in the San Juans is a delight at any time of year. Starting from the dock in Prevost Harbor (accessible only via kayak or private boat), the way is simple and straightforward on Lighthouse Road, a “road” in the loosest sense of the word. It’s easy walking past open fields (one has a herd of—seriously—yaks), followed by a gentle climb through graceful madrone forest over the spine of the island. A grassy ‘bald’ offers a sublime view over the Salish Sea to the closeat-hand islands across Haro Strait in Canada. The road then drops to scenic Turn Point with its iconic lighthouse situated in a grassy field above the rocky shoreline. There are primitive campsites on Prevost Harbor and on the ridge that separates Prevost from Reid Harbor, part of Stuart Island Marine State Park. Trailhead: Prevost Harbor Dock, Stuart Island.
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The
Other
Mountain Mt. Shuksan in Winter Story & photos by Jason Griffith
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A
nyone who has driven up the Mt. Baker Highway to Heather Meadows knows that Mt. Shuksan is hard to ignore. This spectacular mountain rises over 7,700 vertical feet from the North Fork of the Nooksack River in less than three miles, radical topography even by North Cascades standards. Icefalls cascade down from her northern flanks and the summit pyramid towers over an epic plateau of gleaming ice. Mt. Shuksan transfixes everyone the first time they see her up close. First-time ski area visitors sometimes assume that Shuksan is actually Mt. Baker, because why on earth wouldn’t you name the ski area after THAT MOUNTAIN RIGHT THERE?
Shuksan also gives an immediate impression of ferocity and steepness. Even experienced climbers looking at the mountain for the first time wonder if there is a safe and moderate route to the top (I know I did). And, in winter? Avalanches and spindrift regularly course down Shuksan’s precipitouis slopes, and ski area regulars know that the mountain can be locked in winter storms for weeks at a time. No thanks! But familiarity has a way of expanding the possibilities, a benefit to those who live near the intimidating peaks of the North Cascades. I first climbed Shuksan in the summer of 1999 (via the Fisher Chimneys above Lake Ann), and have returned every few years, sometimes via a different route or side, sometimes on my splitboard to speed the way in and
out. Fast forward many years. I’d climbed Shuksan numerous times and spent many winter days around her flanks observing how the mountain responded to storms and the eventual breaks. A winter ascent began to seem like something not to be dismissed out of hand. Winter climbing in the Cascades is a waiting game; windows with good climbing conditions and, most importantly, safe avalanche conditions, are few and far between. Which begs the question, what exactly does a winter “window” look like? This varies by the climber and the particular route and mountain, but ‘Team Shuksan’ (Chad, Kit, Gord, and myself) needed at least three days of clear weather and a Northwest Avalanche Center forecast of ‘low’ or ‘moderate’ at all elevation
Chad and Kit topping out on the ridge
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bands. The short days of winter meant that we were planning on a two-day climb, and it is always a good idea to leave a bit of space before the next storm in case an injury slows the team or requires a rescue. Our plans were loose. In some years it seems that there isn’t a window at all in the heart of winter, or at least one that aligns with home and work calendars. But at least there is usually good skiing to distract! But that rare window did materialize midway through the winter a few years ago. Chad was visiting from southeast Idaho, and Kit, Gord, and I were interested in showing him that the Tetons weren’t all that great, at least compared to the North Cascades. We handled all the logistics and gear, leaving Chad blissfully unaware of what he was getting into. That is until we all piled out of the car at the White Salmon sno-park and pointed to our objective, bathed in early morning light. I’m pretty sure Chad gulped but he didn’t show any reluctance. Gamely, he began getting his pack ready for the trudge ahead. We headed out of the White Salmon Base Area (elevation: 3600 feet) on a descending traverse towards the head of the White Salmon Valley. During the depths of winter, this cirque is nearly in perpetual shade, and as the morning wore on, we labored up towards the White Salmon Glacier, hurrying through the danger zone below the Hanging Glacier. We nervously eyed the tracks from Hanging Glacier seracs (large blocks of ice) that had fallen thousands of feet down the mountain, hoping that
In the shadow of Shuksan
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Bluebird conditions in camp at 6700 feet
the next salvo didn’t run any farther down the valley. On the way out of the ski area, we had run into the one and only Daniel Helmstadter, a Cascade legend with many first descents to his credit. Now we could see him far above us, expertly weaving a skin track up the glacier (skinning is a way of ascending uphill on skis using ‘skins’ that stick to the base of the ski, providing traction). Dan saved us the effort of setting our own skin track, making it easier for us to avoid crevasses and slopes that were too steep. We each fell into our own rhythm, taking breaks occasionally to marvel at the view, the weather (nearly windless and barely freezing), and our luck with the stable snowpack. About five hours after leaving the car we popped out into the sun at the top of the White Salmon Glacier to the gloriously flat ridgetop at 6700 feet that would be our home for the night. It was so flat that we didn’t even need to level a spot for the tent! We would leave all our overnight gear here while we attempted the summit the next day. As the light waned, we settled into the winter routine of melting snow for drinking water, stamping our feet to stay warm, and wishing the sun to stay above the horizon for just a little bit longer.
The next morning, we were reluctant to leave our sleeping bags before the sun came up, even though the short days of winter meant that we didn’t have time to waste. The ascent started with a skin up and across the Upper Curtis Glacier (ski crampons useful), taking our skis off to boot through Hell’s Highway (less ‘hellish’ in winter than summer, i.e., not as broken) to reach the mellow slopes of the Sulphide Glacier, a thousand feet above camp, which we followed to the summit pyramid. Dan had kicked some great steps the day before that made it significantly easier for our team to ascend the icy 800 feet of 45-degree snow gully to the very top. Unlike him, though, we left our skis at the base! So we ended up belaying (using a rope to protect both the leader and follower from a long fall) a short bit from the gully to the summit ridge, where the angle and exposure increase significantly for the final few feet to the rime-encrusted summit rocks. What a view! The summit of Shuksan never disappoints on a clear day, but in winter, the view is hard to describe. Ridges upon ridges of jagged peaks plastered in snow and ice stretched out north, east, and south. Over a vertical mile
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POETRY FROM THE WILD
First Snow By Saul Weisberg
Wind stirs white flowers above the rocky trail. High in the mountains the first snow falls. Rivers tremble in their sleep. I follow you to a pool of snowmelt water. Shadowed basin, stone cold. Photo by John D’Onofrio
below, to the west lay the ski area parking lot and the bustle of a busy day on the hill. Chad was suitably impressed! Naturally, we had the summit to our-
selves but couldn’t stay long with all the technical ground to cover on a short winter’s afternoon. Carefully, we backed down the summit gully (facing in with crampons and ice axe) and returned to our skis at the base of the summit pyramid. Instead of exactly retracing our route from the morning, we kept heading counterclockwise around the summit pyramid, traversing the upper slopes of the Crystal Glacier until we could complete a short climb to the top of the Hanging Glacier, where we stripped off our skins for the fast—if a bit firm—ski back to camp. Shuksan’s unique shape allows for this high-level orbit, made even more efficient on skis. Packing up camp went quickly, and soon we were faced with the unpleasant ski down the very firm White Salmon Glacier with full packs. Great climbing conditions but generally poor ski conditions had become a theme on our trip. Unfortunately, this is to be expected on the large peaks of the North
Cascades during good (safe!) winter climbing conditions. But what is lacking in snow quality is usually made up for by the outrageous views along the way, making the lack of perfect turns an easy pill to swallow. As dusk fell on the final climb back to the car, I found myself already thinking of other winter objectives for the future. What would the summit of Mt. Baker be like in the dead of winter? ANW
Know Before You Go It is essential to check the current avalanche report at nwac.us/avalancheforecast before venturing into the backcountry in winter. Even with a good forecast, safety gear is a musthave, including a beacon, shovel, probe, avalanche airbag, and emergency communication device. Avalanche safety courses are available locally at American Alpine Institute and Baker Mountain Guides and might just save your life.
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Mea Culpa Story by Mark Harfenist
Photo by Grant Gunderson
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t was time, I suppose, for a revitalized sense of humility: not meekness or servility, exactly, but more a respectful modesty about abilities, beliefs, understandings. The basics: a late-winter backcountry ski tour with friends in familiar terrain. There were four of us. I was the one with the most backcountry experience, the most local knowledge, the most specific avalanche training, and probably the most confidence, deserved or not. Instability issues had been front and center all day. For example, a couple of feet of recent snow, unconsolidated when we left the parking lot, but cohering into soft slabs as we skied; cracks propagating from a test on one steep slope; a gully releasing a size two slide—deep enough to bury a person—as I skied nearby. There were little slabs breaking loose in switchbacks and quick test pits, then more slabs letting go on terrain rollovers whenever they were disturbed. Temperatures were warming slightly (always a red flag) and by late in the day the wind shifted, then increased as it began snowing again. My understanding of avalanches, stability assessment, and risk-taking behavior is better than some, although certainly worse than others. I’ve taken trainings, read books and watched videos, practiced stability tests and rescue techniques, and sometimes taught those techniques to others. In addition, I read weather reports, follow avalanche warn-
ings, and am generally responsive to input from the experiences of others. We spent an unusual amount of time searching for safe slopes to ski, twice backing away from enticing fields of deep powder when stability concerns intruded. Late in the afternoon, two of our party headed downhill to warm up at the ski area lodge, saying they’d meet us at the car, leaving me and my regular partner to head back up the ridge for a last run before dark. The light was getting increasingly flat, the wind picking up. Fresh snowfall gradually erased our earlier tracks. While climbing, we watched a pair of obviously inexperienced skiers picking their way down, precisely where we’d soon be skiing. The lead skier turned once but didn’t notice the crack in the snow emanating from his ski tips. The other followed, with the same result. I spoke harshly and judgmentally to my partner: they had no business being there, no skills, no knowledge, zero awareness of the risks they were taking. Fifteen minutes later, we started down the same slope. [Cue: ominous music, heavy on the bass.] This was a short pitch I knew well, had descended in all sorts of conditions, and repeatedly declined to ski when it didn’t feel safe. The route required dropping into a broad gully, dog-legging left to avoid a steep roll, followed by a straight drop to the bottom. And here is the part which puzzles me: above that steep rollover, I lost my
bearings for a few moments, and all my carefully accumulated knowledge, all my studies, and observations, somehow disappeared. At that moment, the slope became a big pillow of powdery snow, offering a few more turns to complete a long day of skiing. I understand, you see, all but that one momentary lapse— which, however, rendered all else wholly irrelevant. I pointed with my ski pole and said something about dropping in first. My partner, with less training and less experience, didn’t protest. I failed to dog-leg left. You can picture the result: I drop over the initial roll, the snow instantly fractures around me, and I plummet downslope sideways, struggling to stay upright. I succeed for the few moments it takes me to be carried to the concavity below, where I fall and am instantly buried to my neck. I remember to push a hand towards the sky as the snow stops moving. This is supposed to create a passageway for air as well as perhaps signal my location to rescuers if I’m completely buried, but my face remains at the surface, a stroke of luck. My skis, which proved eminently releasable earlier in the day, remain attached, as does my backpack. I’m still holding my poles, and I seem to be unhurt. I can move my skyward-reaching arm with some difficulty, but the rest of my body is totally pinned. My heart pounds powerfully, and my arms and legs throb with adrenaline. I can see my partner above me, peering over the edge. I can also see that there is fractured, unreleased snow just below
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where he is standing. I yell that I need help, and start enlarging the hole around my head, fearful that as soon as he moves, the remaining snow will collapse down the slope and complete my burial. He starts a descending traverse and promptly releases another section of slab, which ends in a pile right next to me. He is not caught, but he does look quite alarmed. I am feeling calm, and believe myself to be thinking clearly, but it is possible that this is an illusion, the product of the stress hormones flooding my body and brain. My mind is working out alternatives and possibilities at a ferocious rate Although the debris around my body feels like the fabled concrete of all the burial stories I’ve read, it does not support my partner, even on skis; the frictional heating which transforms and bonds the snow in larger slides was absent here. He takes quite a while to reach me, struggling in what is now functionally bottomless snow. Meanwhile, I start laboriously digging myself out with my
one mobile hand. I have lots of time to wonder whether I could get free without someone to help me, and plenty of time to conclude that yes, I think so...but am not entirely sure. Finally, both arms are free, and he is close enough to toss me a shovel, which allows me to get one leg free of its ski. My other leg is still deeply buried; my knee hurts, and my calves and thighs are hinting that they’ll soon start cramping. My partner is still laboriously muscling himself through the slide debris, sunk approximately chest-deep. Eventually, he is in a good position to help me dig. Soon I’m free, skis and poles are recovered, and he helps snap me back into my bindings and hands me my pack. We shuffle slowly out of range of the steeper terrain toward the parking lot, noting that the uptrack we put in earlier is completely invisible in wind-driven snow. Every so often, I turn around to look at the slide that almost buried me, a small, almost insignificant release in the
context of this terrain. At the spot where I was buried, there is a fresh, fan-shaped deposit about five or six feet deep. I continue to marvel at how small it looks. I feel oddly disconnected from my body, which appears to move independently of conscious will. On our trip back, we pass another similarly-sized slide which, I note, covers our uptrack. Uncharacteristically, we don’t stop to study this one for signs of triggers or clues about the snowpack. In fifteen minutes, we are back at the car, fumbling with our gear while our friends wake up from their naps. Soon, we’re all headed for home. I tell them what happened, hearing in my voice the brief, uncertain hesitations which tell me I’m not yet certain which parts rate telling and which do not. Now, much later, I continue to ponder. Aside from our wholly irrational decision to ski the steep roll in the first place, a couple of other factors jump out at me, some of which are not pleasant to contemplate. For one, this was not big
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terrain; if it had been, the consequences would have been severe (and in this context, “big” means even a couple of hundred vertical feet). There were no rocks or trees to batter me, I stayed upright, and my partner, just above me with a clear line of sight, would have known my location even if I’d been fully buried. And: I was there with a partner, which is not always the case. Despite everything in my favor, it took five or ten long minutes before my partner was close enough to dig me out. All those beacon search drills I’ve practiced, in which I stripped off skis and ran around on supportive snow following grid patterns or tangent lines, seemed laughable in retrospect. In fact, it’s difficult to imagine conducting a beacon and probe search at all under these circumstances while waist-to-chest-deep in unconsolidated snow. Had I been fully buried, it might have taken 10 or 15 minutes to dig an airway to me. A pessimist might allow 25 or 30. Another aspect that bears at least passing mention is the fact that while coming to help me, my partner set off another, very predictable slide: same slab, same slope, 75 feet away. He was thrown, but not trapped in the debris. The point is obvious, and routinely made in avalanche safety classes: in a rescue, the first order of business is to maintain safety for the rescuers. On the other hand, I was definitely pressuring him to make haste to come and help me, accelerating his agitation. Most importantly, I think about the way that a single splitsecond of inattention negated all the wisdom I’ve accumulated over the years. The rest of the story is much like others you’ve heard over the years. You know: “There we were, ignoring the obvious warning signs, the danger ratings, and the cautions from others....” For me, the part that matters most is hidden somewhere in that single instant, in my very brief failure to maintain the cognitive focus which had always come so easily. My conclusion: when I’m skiing backcountry—doing this improvisational dance with the terrain, playing freely with the mountains I love—I’m constantly making decisions about where to go and what to do. I’m always under the impression that I’m deciding what sort of fun I want to have, or how much challenge, or what mix of bliss and adrenaline. But in fact, when I’m skiing, I’m also deciding something else, over and over: how badly do I want to survive, to return to the lowlands and my everyday life? Put differently, am I ready to stay here forever, or should I ANW back away from the edge?
There is a postscript, a coda to the original story. Less than a year later, there was another avalanche in this precise spot. It buried three snowshoers, and, unable to extricate themselves, they spent the night trapped under the surface. One died; the others were found alive the next day in what is commonly described as a miracle. stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.
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In the Darkest Winter Finding the Light on the Longest Night Story by Gregory Scruggs
I
n early December, the sun sets on Mt. Rainier at an abysmal 4:20 p.m. For the winter backcountry adventurer, watching the sun dip below the horizon does not suggest a leisurely postprandial pursuit for lounging around camp sipping from a flask. When sunset comes at the time my deskbound self would be brewing an afternoon pick-meup to carry me through the next writing deadline, the backcountry equivalent means I am lucky not to stagger into camp by the thin beam of my headlamp. Blessed with an early season, low elevation snowpack, and a sudden burst of high pressure, my party of three decided to make good on what seemed like the social imperative of the pandemic winter: get away from everybody, but don’t go too far. So, on one December day last year, we were lucky enough to find ourselves on the southern flank of Mt. Rainier at a prow around 7,000’ on the Van Trump Glacier. With Washington freshly under its second set of lockdown restrictions, ski 24
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resorts at the time were likely the most crowded places legally permitted to operate in the state. But on the Thursday after Thanksgiving, the patchy snow
on the roof of the ranger station at Longmire was a quiet outpost of winter serenity compared to the frenetic scene on the other side of the park at Crystal Mountain Resort.
A long winter’s night in a tent is a chance for reflection and deep thinking. We secured overnight permits and made our way up to the 3,650’ Comet Falls Trailhead, which is hit-or-miss for consistent snow in winter. We hiked
up in ski boots until the switchbacks proved consistently white enough to slap on our skis, then skinned through the forest, watching for subtle signs of the trail’s twists and turns. Below Climbing the Turtle. Photo by Thatcher Kelley the treeline, summer trails leading to the alpine realm are fickle sprites that are easily lost among the pines when buried in snow. Above the treeline, the winter landscape is an endless playground for moving faster than the summer hiker can fathom. After some careful creek crossings and one section of steep skinning along an embankment where a spill would have plunged us into the icy drink, the faint gush of Comet Falls came into earshot and subsequently into view. A rivulet cradled by rock, the cascading falls were far from their spring and early summer glory. But as they drained the massive glacial sheet high above, the flowing water was a reminder of the ever-shifting dance between solid and liquid that defines the high country of the sodden Northwest. As the afternoon minutes ticked by, we gained another couple thousand feet, and the classic south-facing panorama from Mt. Rainier came into
view. But the morning’s bluebird promise had given way to a gunmetal cloud deck pregnant with moisture. The summits of Mt. Adams and Mt. Hood were shrouded in a gray blanket, with only truncated Mt. Saint Helens in full view. As we crested the ridge where we aimed to set up camp, light raindrops collected like dew on my base layer. I hastily threw on a shell and began resigning myself to a night of wet misery, another Cascadian fooled by a forecast when in reality, the snow peaks make their own weather. Only the thinnest slip of goldenrod sky separated the darkened treetops of the foothills below from the inky black clouds above. Then, like a reverse solar
eclipse, the sun emerged from the cloud deck in a brilliant flash of color and lit up the world. For several minutes, pale
descend. Then, as if evaporated by the illumination, the threat of rain dissipated, and the sky turned a twilight palette of reds, purples, oranges, and yellows. A rainbow appeared. But thanks to the late hour, we could not afford to bask in the visual symphony. A winter night out is not as simple as merely pitching your tent. Our ridgeline afforded a commanding view but also came with brisk alpine gusts. So we put our avalanche shovels to work digging out shelter llumination. on the leeward side. I Photo by Gregory Scruggs opted for a partially submerged platform to yellow light skittered on the snowdrifts, set up my four-season tent. My compaand we paused to absorb this fleeting triots went for the full winter camping reprieve from the darkness about to experience and dug snow caves to nestle
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in like hibernating bears. mountain could corn up in early winI spent the first hour of darkness ter under direct sun. But as we kicked throwing countless cubic feet of snow over my shoulA Snow Cave with a View. Photo by Thatcher Kelley der while bantering with the snow-cave diggers. Dinner and a cup of tea swallowed the next. Before I knew it, a respectable bedtime was approaching at my mountaintop perch. I tucked into my Feathered Friends bag and drifted off to sleep. The next day rang true to the forecast, and our south-facing prominence quickly bathed me in morning light for sunrise coffee inside the confines of my tent. Our objective for the day was the steps on our way up the steep slopes in Turtle, a small snowfield above the Van crampons and ice axes, the December Trump that tops out at 10,800’ where sun reflecting off our glacier shades, we it serves as home to Camp Hazard durquickly put our scientific theory to bed. ing climbing season. We sought to test The snow wasn’t softening even under a hypothesis: Snow that high up on the this withering glare. Dejected, we
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found a flatter patch where we transitioned to downhill mode and survivalskied back to camp. The Van Trump, for its part, offered generous corn snow that made for gracious turns even though we were laden with overnight packs. From Comet Falls, the descent tested our tree skiing skills, especially the ability to make tight turns on hiking trail switchbacks amidst sticky low-elevation snow in the afternoon warmth. For the most stubborn among us (or the one who cared least about his skis), there were sufficient snow patches to ski all the way back to the car. High-pressure cycles are not uncommon during the Northwest winter, but this unseasonably warm dose of sunshine had offered an early taste of spring following an early taste of winter. I had skied bottomless powder in mid-November in the Crystal Mountain backcountry and had spent Thanksgiving on Nordic skis in the Methow Valley. Throughout, skiing time had felt out of joint: pursuing corn snow here and doing snow dances there. But by December, the notion of time being out of joint was perhaps the most familiar sensation of all after a head-spinning year.
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A long winter’s night in a tent is a chance for reflection and deep thinking. A year of pandemic and protests mostly Technical Excellence & Integrity Since 1999 behind us, the scientific miracle of vaccines had made its first glimmers known, and a different kind of miracle was on the horizon in the form of my first child. But those many hours of darkness ruminating on the future had been eclipsed by our atmospheric surprise on the Van Trump Glacier. That iridescent moment before sunset, “Great diagnostic skills, unquestionable honesty when the azure afternoon light had momentarily returned and reasonable prices: Superior has it all!” in the northeastern sky—complete with shimmering rainbow—had captured my imagination. 1491 Old Samish Rd., Bellingham I am reluctant to engage in presumptuous hyperbole. But 360.676.8855 • superiorautonw.com looking back on a winter that began with foreboding and ended with a ray of hope, if ever there were a candidate for a message from the whims of the sky, that moment—the encroaching gloom, the flash of sunset light, the color Located in Historic spectrum—held such a promise. ANW
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The
Delta Blues High above the Salish Sea
By Frank James
M
ost of my photography is about ‘place.’ Much of it is international, with the bulk of my photographs taken in India, Nepal, East Timor, and Thailand. Locally, my sense of place focuses on our particular part of the Salish Sea and where the North Cascade Range meets its shore. I have had the great good fortune to fly to work from Bellingham to the San Juan Islands for nearly 30 years, usually first thing in the morning, at sun up, and the last thing in the evening, near sundown. The light on the water is astounding at either time of the day. Over the years, I have developed a singular love affair with the Nooksack River Delta. There is so much power and beauty in that one spot, everAchanging and always inspiring. It is the lifeblood of our community, literally. See more of Frank James’ extraordinary aerial images at adventuresnw.com Clockwise from right: Zevyn, Elysian, JoAnn, Taiming, Jiasong, Xesia, Sean
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Bike Northwest Cycling Adventures with a Side of Culture Story by Ainslee Dicken
A
California-Irvine, as well as a BA in Environment Studies, Harron has spent much of his adult life internationally, living and working on rural Photo by Connor Froyen Harron farms. Sustainability and community are important to him. So, he found a way to incorporate these ideals into a thriving new business that celebrates fresh air, exercise, and all-local-everything: Bike Northwest. A group cycling experience When Connor Froyen with a variety of field trips Harron, the Study Tour and pit-stops ranging from Director for Bellingham, farm-fresh food to winerWA-based Experience ies and breweries, Bike International (EI), realized Northwest was envisioned that the organization’s travto give folks a larger sense el programs were going to of the community they’re stay halted for the foresee- Getting ready for Eagles, Estuaries, and Oysters outside Drayton Harbor Oyster Company in Blaine, WA. a part of, with rides that able future, he got to work Harron was in charge of organizing capitalize on the stunning backdrop of finding alternative opportunities and group experiences for students on the northwest Washington. a new source of revenue to support EI’s international study tour, so once the pan“We were trying to figure out how programs. But it wasn’t about the money. demic hit, a transition from overseas to we could be of service to our local comExperience International is an edulocal seemed like the thing to do. munity. We’ve been wanting to find a way cational nonprofit originally founded in Backed with a Ph.D. and MA in to work with our local communities for the late 1980s to facilitate international Social Ecology from the University of years, and we just haven’t had the bandinternships and exchanges, primarily fo-
s the ravages of the pandemic dragged on throughout the months—with seemingly no end in sight—many folks resigned themselves to life indoors; A life shut away from the world. What else was there to do besides wallow and wait? Turns out, much more.
cused on agriculture and natural resource management through relationships built abroad. As the Study Tour Director,
BAKERMOUNTAINGUIDES.COM 32
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width. So, with all our international trips basically just disappearing overnight, it was really the opportunity we needed to reach out to those friends and partners,” explains Harron. “Bike Northwest was kind of my brainchild. I came up with using bikes as a way to get people back together in person while allowing us to respect local protocols. It was a way to be physically distant but socially intimate at the same time.” Growing up in Washington and working with agriculture most of his life, Harron already had deep relationships with many breweries, farms, and wineries in his “backyard.” But he wanted others to have the opportunity to meet these people, too. “My vision has been influenced heavily by my international experience. I spent two years living in a rural village in Costa Rica, where I was reintroduced to what community-based living used to be like pre-industrialization. It highlighted for me how important our relationships
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leave feeling educated and connected to beauty of Bellingham. A handful of other No matter how big Bike Northwest your community in new ways. routes are available by special request gets, Harron is grateful for the opportuCurrently, Harron handles everyonly, and Harron plans to continually nity to be a bridge in his community. thing but the marketing. He launched his tweak these based on popular demand. “I feel how disconnected we’ve first ride in April 2021 during the become in so many ways, both Photo by Connor Froyen Harron Tulip Festival and has since hosted from our food and where it comes a dozen successful trips. Their rides from as well as from one another. thus far have been capped at 12 Our real mission behind Bike spots, but a weekend in October, Northwest was to create a program with slightly laxer protocols, saw that can help bring people back a record-breaking 17 guests for together again, build those cona family-friendly seven-mile adnections with one another while venture on the interurban trail in also learning how we’re connected Bellingham. through food, and start to rebuild Bike Northwest’s operational those relationships with the farmseason ran from April – October ers that grow that food.” 2021, and Harron plans to do the Departing Cloud Mountain Farm Center on the Edible Everson tour, Harron believes that food is July 2021. same next year. For this season the ultimate medium for breaking alone, Harron personally partnered with When asked how he’d like to see this down societal barriers and rebuilding 15 different farms around Whatcom new operation evolve, Harron sounded connections in a world where misconcepCounty. The routes available to book for hopeful, stating his desire to offer more tions and judgment are prevalent, and 2022 range from “Edible Everson: From versatile rides, from half-day, full-day, that sharing a meal with your neighbor dairies to berries and pigs to mushrooms and even multi-day excursions. His latest is the quickest way to heal communities, and veggies” that spans over 20 miles, project is partnering with Wyndham hostrengthen bonds and experience the ANW “Tulips, Artists and Beer: The Best of tels, where guests could stay and regroup beauty of Cascadia. Skagit” that also spans 20 miles, as well between days of adventure. The hotel Learn more about Bike Northwest at as half-day excursions, such as “Sea to would even include bike rentals as part of expint.org/study-tours/bike-northwest/ Table,” a five-mile exploration of the their rate.
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Top row (L to R): Slough at the Edge, Memory of Flame, Murmur of Reeds Bottom row (L to R): In an Ancient Skagit Summer, Samish Flats Series, A River’s Memory
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Searching for Wolverines in the North Cascades Story by Nick Belcaster
A Wolverine visits a research station set up by Cascades Wolverine Project on the east slope of the North Cascades. Photo by David Moskowitz, Cascades Wolverine Project
I
nhospitable.
That’s it, in a word. Inhospitable. The word for today—and for this landscape. The three of us were working our way across the terrain of the North Cascades, ostensibly out here recreating but more accurately, persevering. Here in the shadows of the White Salmon Basin, the sun will not crest the north face of Mt. Shuksan for some hours yet, and the cold is a force to be reckoned with. A stiff gale had been at work on the snow for the previous couple of days, leav36
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ing our skis skittering across the windhammered surface and necessitating the use of ski crampons. The landscape does not welcome us today, far from it. It taunts us. Even so, we ascend through a river valley of devil’s club and slide alder to tree line, ski tips pointed toward the pendulous ice of the Hanging Glacier, when our solemn trance is broken. Alerted to our presence, an animal begins to heave itself across the snow a few hundred feet away, splitting the rise above us with a muscular lope. It is a shaggy charcoal image drawn against a sheet of white, like a small bear with a long nose and a bushy tail, breathy
exhalations escaping through the wind. Struck dumb and motionless, our eyes can only track it. There isn’t even time to gesture or speak, only a split second for the neurons to fire a name: Wolverine. An actual wolverine. It pauses briefly for a quick glance back to see if we’re giving chase, then disappears beyond the Krummholz-bristled threshold at the far margin of the valley as if it had never been there at all. –––– I noted every feature I could remember; the time, the direction we faced, our rough coordinates. I don’t know much >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com
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about wolverines, I thought to myself, but I know enough to understand that seeing a wolverine in Washington State is very, very rare. Surely, I figured, someone would want to know about this. –––– Some months prior and clear across the crest of the North Cascades, Dave Moskowitz labors in the predawn light under the jostling beam of a headlamp. He kills the engine on his snowmobile and glides to a halt, moving onto skis for the human-powered portion of his day. Slung over his shoulder is a cache bag of equipment, weighed down with camera gear, rigging, harnesses, a drill, and finally, the head of a roadkill deer, recently dispatched by automobile bumper or grill. Wolverines demand only the finest. My encounter with the wolverine (scientific name: Gulo Gulo, meaning “glutton”) might have been accidental, but Moskowitz has made it his job to make his interactions intentional. Here at the headwaters of the Methow River in early winter, the wildlife tracker and photographer is joined by field biologist and mountain guide Steph Williams to set up a wolverine camera trap. Together they operate the Cascade Wolverine Project (CWP), a Methow Valley-based nonprofit that aims to raise consciousness about wolverines through field
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monitoring, documentation, and community science. “This isn’t a species that is going to generate its own publicity by making itself known to the world,” Moskowitz says.
Steph Williams and Drew Lovell setting up a Winter Wolverine Detection Station in the North Cascades. Photo by David Moskowitz, Cascades Wolverine Project
Basically, Moskowitz and Williams are here to speak for the phantom. It’s Moskowitz’s mailbox that my message lands in a few days after my encounter. In addition to running their own camera trapping operations, CWP also solicits citizen reports of wolverine
sightings, and after laying out the circumstances of my encounter, Moskowitz replies with exciting news: the wolverine we saw was no stranger to them. They had received multiple reports of tracks and potential sightings in the Baker/Shuksan area that winter and were looking into the potential of setting up another camera trap in the area to follow up. Since 2017, CWP has installed and maintained remote camera trapping stations across the North Cascades, logging multiple detections a season and documenting the slow resurgence of wolverines in the state. Each station is set deep in backcountry study areas and requires a full day’s work to assemble and install. Williams typically attends to the rigging and tree-climbing associated with hanging bait, while Moskowitz sets the stage and arranges an entire backwoods photo shoot. A station might also include a hair snare (a belt studded with gun brushes affixed to a tree) with the hope of snagging a bit of genetic material in order to identify individual wolverines. Make no mistake. Seeing a wolverine in Washington is extremely rare. The creatures are the largest of the mustelid family, resembling small dogs in stature and sporting large skulls, incredible jaw strength with legendary reputations for an outsized ferocity, voraciousness, and most of all, elusiveness.
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Cascades Wolverine Project The Cascades Wolverine Project is a grassroots organization in the truest sense of the term, a small collective of passionate researchers who have taken on the continued existence of wolverines in the North Cascades as their singular mission. Based in the Methow Valley on the eastern edge of these mountains, the organization undertakes some of the most difficult animal research imaginable as their subject is found only in the most remote and rugged terrain. The CWP works in partnership with the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, U.S. Forest Service, Conservation Northwest, The Wildlife Conservation Society, and Woodland Park Zoo. Funded mostly by individual contributions (and with support from Patagonia), the CWP is adept at visual storytelling to support their efforts. Finding Gulo, a film about the CWP’s efforts featuring co-founders Steph Williams and David Moskowitz (as well as the stunning winter backcountry of the North Cascades) has been included in the Banff Mountain Film Festival’s 2021 edition. To support the important work of the CWP, visit their website at cascadeswolverineproject.org.
Their distribution is circumboreal, living primarily in the harsh and isolated arctic, alpine, and boreal forests of the northern hemisphere, due in large part to their fundamental reliance on nearly year-round snow cover for denning. Here in Washington, where year-round snow only lasts at the highest altitudes,
suitable habitat is extremely limited. In Washington State, with a human population of 7.8 million, it is believed that the wolverine population does not exceed 40 individuals eeking out a living at the tattered edge of the wilderness. And that’s just the best guess.
–––– Years ago, Moskowitz remembers a meeting that he attended with a consortium of researchers doing wolverine-related research in Washington State. People from the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, U.S. Forest Service, as well as other like-minded groups that work in concert with CWP, such as Conservation Northwest and the Cascade Carnivore Project. Moskowitz realized that—despite their passion and dedication—the vast majority of these researchers had never actually seen a wolverine with their own eyes. Rarely have so many worked so hard to save an animal of which they have never caught a glimpse. The uneasy truth may be that there are likely more people involved in the study of wolverines in Washington State than actual wolverines to study. This shadowy existence may be the wolverine’s greatest asset, but it may also contribute to their struggle to regain
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historic habitat. Wolverines have long cessfully, they are uniquely dependent on suffered from a drought of public underthe extent of the snowpack. This reliance standing, largely related to their reputaputs their survival on a collision course tion for ferocity. In reality, wolverines are with a planet warming due to climate as much opportunists as savage hunters, change. often subsisting on carrion stolen from Snow also acts as the wolverine’s the kills of other predators deep freezer, preserving the such as wolves and lynx large carrion they primar(although they are known ily scavenge. As the snow line to take down animals much continues to rise here in the larger than themselves). North Cascades at the bitter As has happened so ofedge of their foothold, their ten, the human perception future is in peril. of wolverines overwhelmed Despite this threat, wolreality, and these animals verines are not on the endanwere subject to trapping gered species list. The U.S. and poisoning that nearly Fish and Wildlife Service has David Moskowitz. eliminated them from the Photo by Sarah Rice considered extending this prolower 48 in the 1900s. tection since the mid-90s but Today, their global distribution is repeatedly has failed to do so, often citing a fraction of what it once was in both a lack of data. Europe and North America. Although The conundrum: The wolverine’s they have reclaimed scant terrain in the remote habitat, small numbers, and North Cascades in recent years (a video of reclusive behavior make gathering data a wolverine and her kits near Mt. Rainier extremely difficult. National Park recently surfaced, suggest“When we started, there were reing that wolverines are pushing into the searchers who believed you couldn’t Southern Cascades (see ANW Autumn survey for wolverines on the ground in ’20), they face new challenges. the North Cascades in the winter,” says Wolverines are intrinsically tied to Moskowitz. “But there are tons of people the landscape they inhabit. Since wolverthat go out into that terrain, so for us, it’s ine mothers dig their natal dens deep into a matter of connecting that resource with a spring-resistant snowpack that must the research needs.” endure until May to raise their kits sucMoskowitz believes that instead of
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training wildlife biologists to navigate the challenges of winter travel in the North Cascades, a better approach is to train the backcountry skiers that are already in the mountains in the art of observing wolverines. “All of a sudden, we have observers all over the landscape,” says Moskowitz. Cross Country Ski Specialists
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Through engaging the backcountry recreation community, CWP facilitates hundreds of potential community scientists, and in return has seen the submitted observations grow from 12 observations submitted the first season, to 26 the next, then over 90 after that. Not every observation is a confirmed wolverine, but good data is being produced, and it all adds to the body of knowledge needed to understand wolverines at a deeper level. –––– Deep in the backcountry of the high Cascades, an early snow falls,
and a susurration fills the air as wet flakes accumulate. It’s dusk, and a male wolverine plods into a small clearing, nose to the ground. This wolverine’s home range is nearly 250 square miles, straddling the international boundary from E.C. Manning Provincial Park in British Columbia to the southern tip of North Cascades National Park. He has been following the scent of a kill for days. His route has seldom strayed from a more or less straight line, opting to ascend right over mountain tops along the way. Finally, he reaches his prize, a deer carcass half-buried in snow, and as he rapaciously enjoys a meal, the little tick of a shutter clicks in the dimming light. Images produced like this are powerful tools in elevating the wolverine out of obscurity, and every observation carries the possibility of changing the
direction of research. The same goes for the citizen science reports sent to CWP each season, which help dictate where to allocate resources for camera trapping and exploring new facets of wolverine life here in the North Cascades. Take, for example, a certain wolverine making the greater Mt. Baker/ Shuksan area its home. Up until 2019, CWP hadn’t placed a camera trap west of the Cascade crest, focusing on the eastern Cascades in and around the Methow Valley and Holden Village. But after receiving reports from backcountry skiers and climbers, a volunteer for CWP trudged into the hills on skis and set up a camera trap in the area to run for the length of the winter season. –––– I spent much of that winter looking for phantoms, scanning for tracks, imagining a stocky beast running up the north face of every mountain, but I had no luck in my search. Then, nearly a year since I had seen “my wolverine,” a game camera photo landed in my inbox. The image was taken from the Baker/Shuksan site and centered on a trio of conifers set in a snowy scene, a hair snare wrapped around one tree. The photo captured the inquisitive look of a wolverine, seemingly pondering the inhospitable landscape it calls home. ANW
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A Year with Rilke Story and paintings by Sharon Kingston
T
he series “A Year with Rilke” was born out of my long-held appreciation and respect for the poetic and metaphoric words of Rainer Rilke. I yearned to create, in a big way, an homage to his presence in my studio
and my work. I used my well-used and dog-eared book, also titled A Year With Rilke, with translations from German to English by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy, to guide the mood and imagery of the 12 large scale paintings that make up this series. Because my storefront studio was closed to the public for the pandem-
ic, I hung the blank canvases (all six feet tall and varying widths) around the room and painted them in place. I taped my most loved poems for the corresponding month next to the canvases and painted these works from the summer of 2020 to the summer of 2021. Rilke uses the word “breath” often in his poems. It is no wonder, with my attraction to atmosphere and the way that I paint, that we are so connected. I create with a layered technique that requires time for the painting to take shape and time for the illumination to reveal itself. During the silent days of the pandemic, Rilke’s words proved to be a companion to my process as well as the driving inspiration for these paintings. ANW View all 12 paintings and the accompanying poems at www.sharonkingston.com.
January It seems our own impermanence is concealed from us. The trees stand firm, the houses we live in are still there. We alone flow past it all, an exchange of air. Everything conspires to silence us, partly with shame, partly with unspeakable hope...Be ahead of all parting, as if it had already happened, like winter, which even now is passing. For beneath the winter is a winter so endless that to survive it at all is a triumph of the heart. A Year with Rilke: January we alone flow past it all, an exchange of air 60”x72” oil on canvas
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April We, when we feel, evaporate. We breathe ourselves out and gone... Does Time, as it passes, really destroy? It may rip the fortress from its rock; but can this heart, that belongs to God, be torn from Him by circumstance? Are we as fearfully fragile as Fate would have us believe? Can we ever be severed from childhood’s deep promise? Ah, the knowledge of impermanence that haunts our days is their very fragrance. A Year With Rilke: April the knowledge of impermanence that haunts our days is their very fragrance 96”x72” oil on canvas
July Oh, not to be separated, shut off from the starry dimensions by so thin a wall. What is within us if not intensified sky traversed with birds and deep with winds of homecoming?...Slowly evening takes on the garments held for it by a line of ancient trees. You look, and the world recedes from you. Part of it moves heavenward, the rest falls away...You are left, for reasons you can’t explain with a life that is anxious and huge, so that, at times confined, at times expanding, it becomes in you now stone, now star. A Year With Rilke: July the sky within us deep with winds of homecoming 48”x72” oil on canvas
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-45
Enjoying Story by Dawn Groves
T
his was my second trip to the Yukon in the dead of winter. The first trip was a grand adventure, but I also froze my lip to a metal key. Ouch. “You’re going BACK?” asked my daughter, Holly. “Yup. I’m trying for another dog sled excursion.” “You spent two hours mushing the last time and about froze your ears off.” “This time, I’m better prepared,” I said. “I have fleece underwear, an arctic coat,
insulated socks, extreme weather mitts, a windproof tactical balaclava, a thermal neck gaiter, and a warm snow hat that protects my ears.” “Mom.” She furrowed her brows. “Not the hat with giant tassels.” “The very same,” I replied. “My ears will laugh in the face of frostbite.” “If frostbite doesn’t laugh first.”
I had scheduled a multi-day mushing adventure led by Iditarod veteran Michelle Phillips. Together with her partner, Ed Hopkins, they run Tagish Lake Kennel,
in the
Yukon a ranch located in the southern Yukon mountains about halfway between Whitehorse and Skagway. The plan was for five of us (four friends from Skagway and me) to hole up in a cushy cabin at Southern Lakes Resort, a short gravel drive from the Phillips-Hopkins ranch. Under Michelle’s watchful eye, we’d prep our gear, outfit our sleds, harness our dogs, and then head out for several days of extreme camping and mushing (weather dependent). Our group would Gee! and Haw! across the frozen surface of Tagish Lake and then weave through braided trails of white spruce, lodgepole pine, and aspen. At night we’d share dog responsibilities,
The Call of the Wild. Photo by Kari Rain
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making sure everyone was warm and fed before settling into wood-heated, “Arctic Oven” tents for good food and conversation. It was going to be fahhhhhbulous. I flew out of Seattle on January 8th in 55-degree weather. Four hours later, I landed at Erik Neilsen Whitehorse International Airport where the outside temperature hovered at -13. The Budget rental agent offered her weather assessment. “A bit chilly out there. Get ‘cher coat on while I print the paperwork, eh?” I donned my cold-weather armor and tugged my tassels into place as she slid the printout across the counter. “You must be from the States.” “Am I that obvious?” I said, tossing my head. She laughed. “Only from the neck up.” At first breath, the -13 temperature constricted my airways so hard and fast that I wheezed, dropping my suitcase
and covering my nose and mouth with both hands. A young woman stepped up. “You okay, Ma’am?” she said, gently patting my back. I nodded a hasty yes and spoke through my mitts. “Surprised by the cold,” I said. “That’s all.” An elderly man waved a silver flask from a few feet away. “Gotta have a mickey in these parts!” he called. “Good fer what ails ya!” I smiled and nodded, breathing slowly through my nose. My two good Samaritans watched me slip-slide across the parking lot, stumble over my suitcase, and finally drop into the driver’s seat of the rental SUV. We all waved cheery good-byes as I sank behind the steering wheel and drove away with what little remained of my dignity. My wheels caught and spun on the descent into Whitehorse. Several vehicles drifted awkwardly through intersections. The downtown area was
Massive Territory, Tiny Population Yukon is 295,000 square miles of primeval wilderness with British Columbia at the bottom, the Bering Sea at the top, Alaska to the west, and the Northwest Territories to the east. It’s a showcase of mountain ranges rimmed by glaciers with some of the highest peaks in North America. The headwaters of the mighty Yukon River—one of the largest water drainages on the North American continent—begin just south of the capital city of Whitehorse. Forty-two thousand hardy souls (the same population as the city of Bremerton, WA) call this vast expanse their home. Two-thirds of them reside in the territory’s only city, Whitehorse.
a flat checkerboard of contemporary shops and offices juxtaposed with aging buildings that looked deserted and
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There’s no “the” in Yukon I always precede the word, Yukon, with the article, the. Jane is visiting the Yukon. This must be an American affectation because Canadians don’t typically say the Yukon; it’s simply Yukon. Jane is visiting Yukon. The same is true for university and hospital. Jane is visiting Yukon while attending university in hospital. Weird.
unloved. Strings of bright, colored lights tempered the city’s drab midwinter palate. Pedestrians wrapped themselves in beefy parkas, boots, scarves, hoods, and hats, indistinguishable from each other in their bulk. I bundled up and braved the walk along the mighty Yukon River. Tongues of ice covered broad sections of the river’s surface, forming channels and constrictions. The resulting rush of water eroded and fractured the weaker ice, shoving it into chaotic piles downriver. I loved the drama but had to duck repeatedly into a nearby Tim Hortons to warm my face and ears. My tassels were getting a run for their money.
One of my mushing buddies, Becky, called from Skagway. “Michelle is worried about the weather,” she said. “The ranch may get down to -45 over the next few days.” “Is that -45 Celsius or Fahrenheit?” I asked. “-45 is the same in both temperature scales. They merge at -40. Really, really cold. Why don’t you think about heading down to Skagway sooner rather than later? It’s only about zero here.” At this point, zero was sounding pretty good. I took Becky’s advice and left town for the 110-mile drive south into Skagway. The Klondike Highway is famous for its spectacular scenery, but black ice kept me fixated on the road ahead as I navigated 3025-foot White Pass. Finally, over two and a half hours later, I pulled into Becky’s AirBnB. It was good to be home. Skagway is my favorite repository of Alaskan charm. The town sits at the confluence of the Skagway River and Taiya Inlet, at the end of a massive gorge surrounded by 6000-foot peaks and hanging glaciers. Becky jokes about tourists who arrive by cruise ship. “What’s the elevation here?” they ask. “Sea level,” she replies, pointing at the waterfront. “That’s the ocean.” Skagway boasts maybe 1000 residents who remain throughout the year. These are truly iconic individuals, many of them having relocated from the lower 48. My friend, Carla, describes her neighbors as diehard Alaskans, unpretentious and opinionated, with a solid stable of make-do skills. “They have the ability to separate friendship from politics,” she says. “Everyone knows who’s elderly, who’s alone, and who’s sick. When it snows, everyone shovels.” I spent four days noodling around town with my dog mushing travel buddies Becky, Carla, Rain, and Brenda. Although Skagway’s weather remained somewhat balmy, conditions inland continued to deteriorate. By the time the five of us were packed and heading back up the Klondike Highway for Southern Lakes Resort at Tagish Lake, we’d pretty much accepted the cold, hard fact that we weren’t going to mush. At the Canadian border, we ran headfirst into blowing snow.
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Throwing Hot Water at -45 degrees. Photo by Dawn Groves
Customs agents warned us to drive slowly because the plows had been out all night building walls of compressed snow taller than our car. Just when I’d given up hope of driving faster than 20 miles per hour, the skies magically cleared. The snow sparkle was almost blinding. (Snow sparkle is the intense reflection of light bouncing off ice crystals.) I dropped my sun visor and pulled over, speechless. A deep blue firmament stretched from one horizon to the other. The topography was blanketed with clean new snow. Sparse clusters of snow pyramids dotted the countryside, slumping into pillowy shapes that made it seem like we were driving through freshly whipped frosting.
We turned off the highway at historic Carcross, famous for its worldclass Tagish First Nation artists. The needle on the exterior thermometer read -45. Michelle had already called to commiserate about canceling the trip. She invited us to drop by the ranch on our way to the resort. The ranch was in the middle of forested nowhere at the end of a very long unmarked gravel drive. It had the scruffy, no-nonsense ambiance of a working farm run by creative people who care more about function than appearance—typical of Yukoners in general. A rowdy gang of bouncing huskies greeted our car. Across the driveway sat a field of mostly empty, bright blue doghouses. The four of us followed Becky over to a sturdy, weathered, one-story house. The interior was warm and active with dogs as well as people. Every surface was stacked with drop bags, bins of supplies, buckets of frozen dog food, papers, snacks, drinks, boxes, notes, photos, dishes, clothes, etc. Two young women sat cross-legged on the floor clad in basic farm-hand clothes that matched the environment, laps draped in sleeping dogs. These were apprentice mushers. They
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Michelle greeted us like we were old friends. She was likely in her midfifties, lean and fit with a ready smile, laughing eyes crinkled at the corners, and a mop of unruly chestnut hair stuffed under a winter toque. Graced with natural confidence and a complete lack of pretense, Michelle made me feel good to be in her company. Our arrival had interrupted preparations for the upcoming Yukon Quest, so she invited us to sit down and participate. Our
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job was to match and pack hundreds of pairs of dog booties by size (S, M, L) and color (red, green). It was an important job because booties prevented snow from abrading the dogs’ feet as they ran. Mushers often packed up to 3000 sets of booties for a single race. We stayed and helped for several hours. A variety of people and animals whooshed in and out of the cold. The dogs were fussed over and fretted about just like any other member of the family. Michelle and Ed bred their own champion line of race dogs but weren’t elitist about it, making room for desperate critters that needed homes or just showed up hungry. After a long and interesting day,
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we checked into our cabin and went right to bed. We knew the front window had a wide southern view across Tagish Lake, but it was too dark to see much, and we were too tired to try. The next morning was a different story. I watched the sun outlining everything in shimmers of gold, evolving into a buttery yellow that filled the sky and cast long blue shadows in the snow. The sunset was equally impressive, awash in pink, orange, and purple reflecting as alpenglow on the surrounding peaks. At night the stars sparkled so brightly that I thought they might shatter. The bitter cold remained during most of the trip, but I got used to dealing with it. It was all about minimizing direct exposure. The colder the air, the faster exposed skin would burn. At -45, any skin exposed for 10 seconds felt like it had been pressed against a hot griddle. As the pain increased, so did the urgency to escape it. If I stayed outside long enough, the urgency became a need to survive, like fighting for air underwater. I decided that I liked living at -45 not because I found it physically comfortable but because it emptied the environment of people. Without people around, the wilderness seemed to intensify. It felt unconstrained, vibrant, dangerous, even holy. The only thing I’d change is my beloved winter hat. Minus 45 rendered the tassels useless. My ears suffered, and as Holly predicted, frostbite did indeed get the last laugh. ANW
For over 38 years offering the Northwest’s best selection of fine 100% American-made woodcrafts. Gifts • Furniture • Salad Bowls Jewelry Boxes • Wood Carvings Cutting Boards • Custom Designs Available 709 South 1st Street • La Conner, WA 98257 • info@woodmerchant.com 360-466-4741 • woodmerchant.com • facebook.com/woodmerchant 50
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The Ultimate Social Distancer Story by Lawrence Millman
H
e read Jane Austen, smoked his pipe, wrote in his journal, and stoked his primus stove. Every few hours, he would venture outside…or try to venture outside…in order to gauge the winds. August Courtauld was socially distanced in a big way. Rather than six feet of separation, the nearest of his fellow human beings was 150 miles away.
sequently wrote that Courtauld’s desire to situate himself on the ice cap was “no more complicated than why people want to go exploring.” Courtauld’s lockdown began in December 1930 when he began inhabiting a tent whose only ventilation was a pipe 2” in diameter protruding from the tent’s apex. His provisions consisted of kerosene, paraffin, a bottle of cod liver oil, two bottles of concentrated lemon
The 26-year-old Courtauld was a member of the 1930 British Arctic Air Expedition, whose purpose was to find a place on the Greenland Ice Cap for transatlantic planes to land and refuel. Based in the village of Angmagssalik, the expedition set up a small station on the ice cap to determine whether the winter weather would or would not be too vehement for planes. Courtauld offered to occupy the station by himself. All but one of his colleagues thought it was madness for him to live alone in such a remote place. The exception was J.M. Scott, who sub-
The tent sagged ominously under the weight of the snow, threatening to collapse. If it did collapse, his life would come to a quick end. juice, oatmeal, pemmican, chocolate, tobacco, tea, and a batch of novels. Needless to say, he had no means of contacting the outside world in the event that something nasty happened. Day after day, he was obliged to dig through the snow that blocked the tent’s tunnel so he could go outside and
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get weather measurements. Icicles of condensation hung from the tent’s roof and dripped on his face as well as onto his increasingly uncomfortable sleeping bag. The tent sagged ominously under the weight of the snow, threatening to collapse. If it did collapse, his life would come to a quick end. Weeks passed, and blizzards raged continuously. One of the blizzards blocked the tent’s entrance so Courtauld could no longer crawl outside to read the weather instruments. Much of his paraffin leaked away, and thus he could use his stove only for cooking, not for heating. Ice choked the ventilation pipe, preventing fresh air from entering the tent. His feet became frostbitten. Also, he ran out of tobacco for his pipe and was obliged to smoke dried tea leaves. You might think he would have gone stark raving mad. But his journal informs us otherwise. Here are a few brief entries: “Beastly weather. Finished Guy Mannering. Jolly good book!” “My end shall be peaceful enough… and I have four bars of chocolate to eat during it.” “…[the] curious growing feeling of security…came over me as time passed.” To what can we attribute his seemingly zenlike attitude? Being a dyed-inthe-wool Englishman, albeit one with a distant French Huguenot background, his typically English stiff upper lip may have contributed to this attitude. But he also realized (as he put it in his journal) that brooding on danger can make that >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com
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danger much worse. Having twice been driven back to the coast by gale-force winds, Courtauld’s dogsled rescue party, at last, arrived at the station on May 5, 1931. They searched for the tent, but it was buried by snow. Then, at last, they saw the ventilator pipe barely sticking up out of the snow. “Are you all right?” shouted the expedition’s leader Gino Watkins into the pipe. To which Courtauld replied: “Yes, I’m perfectly fit, then added, “I’m frightfully sorry to have given you so much trouble.” When the rescue party dug through the snow and located him, he did seem fit, although somewhat thinner and his beard more matted than when they last had seen him. On the lengthy sled trip back to Angmagssalik, he spent most of his time reading The Count of Monte Cristo. Once he returned to civilization, Courtauld received an enormous amount of something he disliked far more than (for example) being frostbitten—namely, attention. Asked questions about his ice cap overwintering by the media, he would invariably come up with an exit line, such as “Sorry, but I must go now and meet my nanny,” or respond in a laconic manner. He was especially laconic in his interview with King George VI, who awarded him the Polar Medal: The King: I am sure you were very cold, Mr. Courtauld? Courtauld: No, sir. The King: You were hungry, though? Courtauld: No, sir. The King: You must have felt desperately lonely? Courtauld: No, sir. The King: I am happy to give you the Polar Medal.
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As for myself, I would have been happy to give Courtauld a COVID Medal, for his five months alone on the Greenland Ice Cap makes quarantining during the current pandemic ANW seem like a Sunday School picnic. Excerpted from Lawrence Millman’s in-progress book, The Last Speaker of Bear Build a prosperous and resilient future for your business...
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Field Trip Adventures beyond the PNW
Zion in Winter Story and photo by John D’Onofrio
L
et’s face it: In summer, Zion National Park is a zoo. Truth be told, it’s jampacked in late spring and autumn too. But in winter and early spring, one can still find quiet in this majestic jewel of the National Park System. Located in southwestern Utah, Zion is one among numerous marquee destinations (such as Bryce Canyon and Grand Canyon) found on the Colorado Plateau. Visiting this area is a road tripper’s delight, and the hiking is awe-inspiring. Snow falls here in the winter months, and while it lingers at the higher elevations above the canyon floor, it is generally fleeting down beside the Virgin River. A fresh frosting of sparkling snow on the red rocks is a treat for the eyes—and the soul. The possibility of solitude amplifies the bliss. On a sunny winter day, temperatures can be relatively warm (50-60 degrees) in the daytime but dip well below freezing at night so bring your woolies. A section of Watchman Campground is open all year, and on a cold, clear night, the stars are hallucinatory. ANW
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We’re open daily and within walking distance from the mainland. The Whale Museum: promoting stewardship of whales and the Salish Sea ecosystem through education & research. 62 First St. N., Friday Harbor, WA 98250 • 360-378-4710 ext. 30 • www.whalemuseum.org stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.
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Cascadia Gear:
Gear Spotlight:
Essentials for your next Adventure Warm, light and rugged. These are the qualities that distinguish a quality down jacket. The Helium Down Jacket from Outdoor Research (OR) nails all three. Warm? The 800-fill responsibly sourced goose down takes care of that. Light? Less than 13 ounces. Rugged? OR’s Diamond Fuse technology deploys unique diamond-shaped filaments that interlock to create a durable and highly abrasion-resistant fabric that won’t tear the first time it gets snagged on a branch. And the jacket stuffs into the left-hand pocket/stash sack for easy storage in your pack. More info: www.outdoorresearch.com FIND Adventures Northwest 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, at races and events, and area visitor centers.
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by Chris Gerston
Is this the one boot to do it all? While I’m generally skeptical of such claims, I have found that the Roxa R3 130 TI I.R. Ski Boot is a solid all-around contender: adept for inbounds, slackcountry, and backcountry skiing. This new interpretation of a three-piece Cabrio boot weighs in at 1520 grams (size 26.5), is compatible with either gripwalk or tech bindings (meaning it goes everywhere), and the 130 flex will drive any ski you like. The fit of the shell, 99-101 mm wide, accommodates most moderate volume feet, and the grilamid plastic—while being light, stiff, and un-affected by cold temperatures— is also easy for a boot fitter to adjust. Warmth and comfort are ensured by the intuition liners (definitely take advantage of our free liner mold with purchase of boots, especially because they are intuition liners). Mostly, what I love about the Roxa boots is the progressive flex inherent in the three-piece design. This allows for a little more flex at the top of the range of motion while skiing at slower speeds, but then the power of the grilamid at 130 flex stands up when you are really pushing the boot at speed in a turn. I’m also a huge fan of the simple walk mode mechanism and power strap buckle that allows you to take full advantage of quickly transitioning from ski to walk mode with efficient strides. So, yeah, this boot is built for the intermediate skier looking to advance or the experienced skier that wants to do it all. Backcountry Essentials, owned by Chris Gerston, is 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
Next
Adventure
Palouse Falls photo by JAMES RICHMAN Palouse Falls has always been a special place for me, filled with good memories of growing up and camping with my family. In recent years, it has become one of my very favorite spots to take my camera. The falls are beautiful in all seasons, but my preferred time to photograph the epic cascade is in the winter when ice is forming on the canyon walls from mist rising from the falls. One December, a few years back, anticipating freezing conditions, I arrived at the park before sunrise. After photographing dawn and sunrise, I hiked into the canyon below, which provided a different and literally breathtaking perspective on this wonder of nature.
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ubs.com/fa/davidmauro/ ubs.com/fs As a firm providing wealth management services to clients, UBS Financial Services Inc. offers both investment advisory services and brokerage services. Investment advisory services and brokerage services
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