Adventures Northwest Magazine Autumn 2023

ADVENTURES NORTHWEST AUTUMN 2023

Autumn Gold Adventures and Explorations

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INSPIRATIONS IN THIS ISSUE As User’s Guide to the Cascadia Marine Trail

Ken Campbell

The Liturgy of Autumn

David Inscho

How Whitewater Paddling Woke Me Up

Dawn Groves

Autumn Winds

Jules Howatt

Golden Times in the Brooks Range

Michael Engelhard

Fever at the Ocean’s Edge

Stephen Grace

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John D’Onofrio

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O Canada!

Autumn in the Rockies

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“We are bringing back the understanding of what it is to be connected. Those places where you’re alone and all you can hear is your heartbeat, all you can hear is the birds, or the wind, or the water. That’s where the songs come from, that’s what sacredness is. So these things that we do together come from the understanding that we are no better than creation, we are a part of it. When we bring our minds and our hearts together, we balance science with spirit… We are going to give ourselves a chance. We do fine work individually, but just think of what we can do together.”

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DESTINATIONS Contributors The Inner Landscape Out & About 3 Great Hikes ... for Autumn Peak Experiences eARTh: The Art of Nature Bright Lines: Lois Holub Field Trip: Torres Del Paine Cascadia Gear The Next Adventure

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Volume 18. Issue 3

CONTRIBUTORS

AUTUMN | 2023

Sitimorba is the alias for Earth Artist, Molly Abromitis. A self-taught woodworker and painter, Molly lives in an off-grid cabin in rural Washington and is dedicated to opening channels of life that wish to express themselves through her without hindrance. She spends her time oscillating between creating and being. Visit her at www.sitimorba.com.

Lois Holub lives in Deming, Washington, on the traditional land of the Nuxwsa7aq people.

During the first year of the pandemic, she began walking in an old growth forest preserve several times a week. She continues this practice today.

Her first poetry collection, The Next True Story of My Life, was published on her 60th birthday.

Ken Campbell is the Director of the Ikkatsu Project (www.ikkatsuproject.org) and author of several paddling books, including Around the Rock; A Newfoundland Sea Kayak Journey, and A Sea Kayaker’s Guide to the San Juan Islands. Contact him at ken@ikkatsuproject.org.

Jules Howatt has been climbing, hiking, and skiing in wild places since childhood. He is an IFMGA mountain guide, photographer, and father to two mountain guide children. They live in Shelter Bay, near Revelstoke, British Columbia.

Michael Engelhard is the author of Ice Bear: The Cultural History of an Arctic Icon and the forthcoming Brooks Range Traverse: A Thousand-Mile Arctic Summer. He lives in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Stephen Grace has authored many books, including Dam Nation: How Water Shaped the West and Will Determine Its Future and Grow: Stories from the Urban Food Movement, winner of the Colorado Book Award for Creative Nonfiction. He explores the Northwest’s natural history by backpacking, paddleboarding, skiing, trail running, and snorkeling.

Dawn Groves is a Bellingham writer who loves the Pacific Northwest and the Salish Sea. She is tricking out her Subaru, so she can work from all manner of lovely and weird locales.

Reg Lake is a 79-year-old, semiretired machinist, whitewater kayaker, sea kayaker, and kayaking instructor with two decades of guiding/exploring in Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. Currently, he is involved in several special projects with Sterling Kayaks in Bellingham.

John Minier is the owner and lead guide at Baker Mountain Guides.

Originally from Alaska, he has a deep appreciation for wild and mountainous places. Since 2004, he has worked across the western U.S. as a rock guide, alpine guide, ski guide, and avalanche instructor.

Christine Smith wears many hats. As the owner/operator of Northwest Navigation/David B Cruises, she combines her love for adventure and nature by guiding others on unforgettable journeys in Alaska.

Christine is also an author and dedicated naturalist, constantly exploring the wonders of the natural world. She enjoys photography, hiking, and journaling. She lives in Bellingham with her husband, Jeffrey, and three cats.

David Inscho is a believer in coffee, beer, and the profound power of Wilderness. When not at his day job, he can be found cruising on his sailboat or backpacking with his camera in the nurturing silence of our public lands. Visit him at david-inscho.smugmug.com.

COVER PHOTO: GRASSHOPPER PASS BY JOHN D’ONOFRIO

Adventures Northwest magazine John D’Onofrio

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THE INNER LANDSCAPE

W

hat a summer it’s been!

Blue skies and warm days. Soft, languid evenings. I’ve spent 34 summers here in Cascadia, and this one has been a summer to remember.

Can it be that we are on the cusp of autumn?

In Alaska, they say that when the last lingering blossoms on the fireweed are gone, the snow will not be far behind, and based on my observations of the fireweed garden behind my house, I think it’s true: autumn is waiting in the wings.

Truth be told, I welcome autumn with its resplendent color schemes and crisp, clear mornings when the light seems to sparkle and dance. And, of course, autumn offers us a lesson in unattachment as we leave the halcyon days of summer behind. Its beauty is somewhat bittersweet as we take another trip around the sun, remembering the beauty of the past, an-

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ticipating splendor yet to come, but most importantly, savoring the moment at hand.

Adventures Northwest has always been about savoring the moment at hand—seeking to explore the ways in which connecting to the natural world changes our lives, inspires us, makes us better partners and more fulsome contributors to the collective, emboldens us to be our best selves.

While we revel in attaining high places from which to view the spectacular scenery that surrounds us, we also find value in looking inward, mapping the landscapes of our psyches (and hearts). This, perhaps, is the true wilderness.

In this issue, we take a deep dive into the psyche, including a story by Stephen Grace about riding out COVID at the ocean’s edge. To be clear: this is not recommended, but his experience, as it turns out, was profound. We also introduce a new column, Peak Experiences, written by mountaineer John Minier, a seeker of more than summits, exploring the philosophy of authentic experience.

I hope you enjoy the journey.

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Out&About

New Clayton Beach Trail Opens

The trail that leads from Chuckanut Drive through coastal forest to the sculpted sandstone shoreline of Clayton Beach in Larrabee State Park has been a local favorite for many years.

But as its popularity has continued to grow, several issues became worrisome. Shortly before reaching the beach, the route led hikers down a steep embankment to cross the Burlington Northern (BNSF) railroad tracks. And due to the narrowness of the footbridge near the beginning of the trail at The new Clayton Beach Trail. the Lost Lake Trailhead, Photo by John D’Onofrio park personnel had no way to access the beach other than on foot, which made dealing with rescues, fires, and other issues difficult.

safe passage over the railroad bed, and on the other side, metal stairs drop down to a dirt path that winds through the woods, soon connecting back to the old trail near the beach.

Visiting Clayton Beach is an easily-achieved delight under any conditions, but when the tide is out, the opportunity to explore along the sandstone cliffs, sculpted by the elements into fanciful shapes, is especially enchanting.

The project was made possible by funding from the Washington Recreation and Conservation Office and Washington State Parks and aided by BNSF, the Washington State Department of Transportation, Puget Sound Energy, Konnerup Construction, and Seattle-based EarthCorp (a non-profit organization that did much of the trail work).

The one missing piece here is the lack of a crosswalk on Chuckanut Drive. Hikers have to cross this road from the parking lot to get to the top of the stairs that mark the beginning of the trail. Traffic often moves fast around the semi-blind curves in both directions, and crossing (especially with children) can be a harrowing experience.

The solution? A newly re-routed trail featuring a bridge over the railroad tracks, newly constructed boardwalks across wetland areas, and a wider bridge to permit motorized ATVs emergency access. The new trail opened to the public on August 1.

After crossing the bridge near the trailhead, the new route veers off from the old path and follows higher ground on a wide gravel trail, avoiding the low-lying wetland area that was quite a muddy slog during wet weather. Out of the gully, one can more readily appreciate the beautiful forest (and keep your feet dry!). At the train tracks, the new bridge affords

A Discover Pass is required.

The bridge over the railroad tracks.

Photo by John D’Onofrio

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North Cascades Climate Summit and Trail Fest Announced The North Cascades Climate Summit, based at the Mt. Baker Mountaineers Lodge at Heather Meadows, will bring trail runners together to deepen their relationships with the glaciers of the North Cascades and learn about the impacts of climate change.

Presented by Aspire Adventure Running in partnership with Runners for Public Lands, the five-day event will take place Photo by Nick Danielson from September 13-17. It will feature presenters John All, Zoe Plakias, Joe Boomgard-Zagrodnik, and Vic Thasiah. Trail runs will include Ruth Mountain, Hannegan Peak, Yellow Aster Butte, the High Divide, Chain Lakes, Ptarmigan Ridge, and Lake Ann, with a focus on the glaciers that adorn the surrounding peaks.

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3 Great Hikes for A ut umn

Cutthroat Lake

The trail to Cutthroat Lake offers an opportunity for the whole family to experience the splendor of autumn on the east side of the North Cascades. Roundtrip, the distance is a scant four miles, and the elevation gain is only 400 feet. Located below Cutthroat Pass at an elevaCutthroat Lake tion of 5000 feet, this beautiful lake Photo by John D’Onofrio sits in a forest of conifers (including scattered golden larches). The grassy meadows that encircle the lake make for an ideal place to enjoy a relaxing afternoon and soak up the vibrant color palette of the eastern North Cascades.

Trailhead: The end of the Cutthroat Lake Road (FR-400), found near MP167 on the North Cascades Highway (WA-20), below Washington Pass. USFS Northwest Forest Pass required.

Chain Lakes Without a doubt one of the most popular trails around Mt. Baker, the Chain Lakes Trail is best hiked on a weekday to mitigate the crowds of beauty seekers. Either done as an out-and-back from Artist Point or as a loop connecting Artist Point and Bagley Lakes, the trail passes Mazama, Iceberg, and Hayes Lakes winding through open meadows and elegant forests. For the out-and-back option, turn around at Hayes Lake and return to Artist Point. For the loop, continue past Hayes Lake and climb to Herman Saddle, with million-dollar views of Baker, Shuksan, and surrounding peaks before dropping precipitously to Bagley Lakes and the Mt. Baker Visitor Center. From here (if you haven’t left a vehicle at the Visitor Center), climb the Wild Goose Trail to return to Artist Point. Walking distance for either option is about 6.5 miles with an elevation gain of 900 feet for the out-and-back option and 1800 feet for the loop.

Trailhead: Artist Point, at the end of Mt. Baker Highway (WA-542). USFS Northwest Forest Pass required.

Grasshopper Pass The trail to Grasshopper Pass is part of the epic Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and ranks among its most scenic stretches. The road that climbs to the trailhead does most of the work. You’ll start walking at an elevation of 6400 feet, allowing you to enjoy the 11-mile roundtrip without undue sweat equity. Almost the entire route is situated above treeline, and the views are non-stop, with Mt. Ballard (8301 feet) and Azurite Peak (8440 feet) most prominent among the soaring peaks around the pass. In autumn, the landscape lights up with some of the most extraordinary fall colors in the North Cascades (including a wonderland of golden larches), and virtually the entire way is painted in high-voltage hues of magenta, crimson, orange, burgundy, and yellow. Total elevation gain is 1700 feet.

Trailhead: The end of FR 54-500, two miles from the Harts Pass Rd (FR5400), accessed from the Lost River Road in Mazama (total distance from Mazama is 21 miles). USFS Northwest Forest Pass required.

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A USER’S GUIDE TO THE

Cascadia Marine Trail Story and Photos by Ken Campbell Wildlife is plentiful, from guillemots to sea lions and, if you are fortunate, perhaps an orca, humpback, or gray whale.

Deception Pass, one of the most beautiful and demanding paddling spots in Puget Sound.

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P

uget Sound has more than 2,500 miles of shoreline, and each seems made specifically with paddlers in mind. From Olympia to Point Roberts, Shelton to Friday Harbor, there are infinite places to visit, trips to experience, and connections to make from one part of the Sound to another.

lets. It was a system that worked well for a long time, but as western Washington was settled and ‘developed,’ from the

For 5000 years (at least), the primary method humans used to transport themselves throughout the area was a small boat, most often a dugout Turn Point Light, San Juan Islands. canoe. Native paddlers utilized the intricate wamid-1800s up through the 20th centerways of the Sound like a highway, tury, the ideas around land use and riding the currents to and from villages ownership changed considerably. and fish camps along the bays and in-

In the late 1980s, local sea kayakers came together to address the growing threat of shoreline privatization sweeping Puget Sound. Areas used by paddlers for years sprouted Private Property signs, and the distances between access points were often more than most kayakers could paddle. Without a concerted effort to preserve what remained, the fear was that future generations of kayakers might lose the age-old experience of paddling these waters.

In 1990, these visionaries founded the Washington Water Trails Association and began working with Washington State Parks, port districts and municipalities, private landowners, and county governments, all with the

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goal of putting together a system of acue. Because they are only open to those cess points and campsites from one end arriving by human or wind power, of the Sound to the other. Their vision they are campsites you can depend on, included the idea of situating campsites five to eight miles apart—a distance compatible with humanpowered travel—making Puget Sound more welcoming to paddlers, opening up possibilities that hadn’t existed since the days of the dugouts.

There’s no other way to look at the venture than as a major success. Today, the Cascadia Marine Trail (CMT) consists of about 60 sites (the total number of spots can change somewhat due to various Working on breakfast. Cypress Head, San Juan Islands. factors), and every stop along the route is unique. Trail sites even on busy summer weekends. Some are usually located close to the water’s require reservations, and others where edge, a feature all paddlers highly valspace is extremely limited (looking at

you, Blind Island), but at most of the designated locations, you have a place to stay if there’s room to put up a tent.

For paddlers doing overnight and multiday trips along the trail, the result is serious peace of mind.

Each part of Puget Sound has its own distinct feel. South Sound is quieter, with almost all heavy shipping traffic ceasing south of Tacoma. Tidal rise and fall are more of a factor here than it is farther north, and while calm conditions are often the norm, currents can be strong in some places, such as Hammersley Inlet and the Tacoma Narrows.

Further up the chart, where the Seattle megalopolis dominates the eastern shoreline, the western inlets near Bremerton and Poulsbo or

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the Bainbridge Island shore can be welcome options. However, city paddling is not without its charms, and a passage through the locks from Lake Union to the brine of Salmon Bay is an experience to remember. Further north, you’ll find Deception Pass, the narrow gap between Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands.

This channel packs the most powerful currents in the region, more like a saltwater river than anything else. Just north of that, Puget Sound transitions to the San Juan Islands, a world-class paddling destination. The CMT sites peppered throughout the archipelago provide the perfect stepping stones for exploration.

With a regional population of 4.3 million and growing, one of the most surprising things about paddling the waters of Puget Sound is the opportunity for solitude. Sure, the area has its share of bustling waterfronts and big-city shorescapes, but it’s not too difficult for any kayaker to find a way

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past the hustle and bustle. Once you do, an older, more natural rhythm immediately takes over. There are still long stretches of shoreline that remain undeveloped, where it’s not hard to imagine what it once looked like before the neighborhood got so popular.

In the marine environment, wildlife is plentiful, from guillemots to sea lions and, if you are fortunate, perhaps an orca, humpback, or gray whale.

The beauty of the Cascadia Marine

Trail and the brilliant concept that brought that earlier group of kayakers together is the interconnectedness of it all. It’s possible, after all, to start in Puget Sound and paddle north to Canada, to the Gulf Islands, where the CMT connects with the British Columbia Marine Trail system and on up the Inside Passage and beyond.

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with the knowledge that each site features designated spots with the padANW dler’s needs in mind.

The Washington Water Trails Association The Washington Water Trails Association is a volunteer-driven non-profit organization engaged in monitoring and maintaining the sites and doing shoreline restoration work in many nearby areas. It’s worth becoming a member, not only to help keep the trail up and running but also for the guidebook that you’ll receive along with your membership. A valuable planning tool for your future adventures on Puget Sound and in the San Juan Islands, the guidebook is packed with specific information on each site on the trail.

More trail and membership info are available online at www.wwta.org

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The Liturgy of

Autumn in the

North Cascades Story and Photos by David Inscho

Golden Moment

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“Both awe and wonder are often experienced in response to nature, art, music, spiritual experiences, or ideas. In the midst of these moments, we can feel overwhelmed by the vastness of something that is almost incomprehensible—it almost feels like what we’re witnessing can’t be true—like we’re seeing something that doesn’t fit with how we move through and understand our everyday lives.”

- Brené Brown

T

hose fortunate enough to live here in Cascadia enjoy carefree access to wild places that inspire a trinity of feelings: wonder, reverence, and awe. In the moment, this can leave us speechless and deeply imbued with the incomprehensible.

What follows is an attempt to explore further and bring voice to that experience, or as Brené explains: “Awe and wonder are essential to the human experience. Wonder fuels our passion for

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curiosity and adventure.”

Four seasons of vibrant color bless the Pacific Northwest. Our glorious springtime signals the sun’s return in a thousand shades of hopeful green, and the abundant summer sun yields a dizzying kaleidoscope of multi-hued wildflow-

ers. Even winter’s colors can energize the senses as the forest’s understory is painted in the technicolor green of mosses, nourished by our generous rains.

But autumn is the culmination of the feast of color, a triumphant celebration of luminosity before the lights dim

John in his elem

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The heartbeat of Cascadia

23

once again.

One of my most powerful memories of autumn is standing in a spindly grove of larches in a high mountain cirque around the first week of October. Several miles of off-trail travel in the Pasayten Wilderness meant solitude was assured when I arrived, reverent and humbled by my surroundings. Warm sunbeams sifted through the canopy. I wanted to inhale their light like oxygen.

A strong breeze above stirred a flurry of needles, causing them to drift brightly through the shadows and create a golden carpet of spent sumSheep Mountain, Pasayten Wilderness mer at my feet. There was divinity in those precious moments robes of blueberry, not unlike the crimon the eastern margins of the Cascades son of a high cleric, punctuated by burnthat still lingers. ing mountain ash bushes. Every breeze There is also a sort of divinity on our carries the scent of frosted blueberries. western slopes, draped with the ruddy I have encountered black bears,

sometimes in close quarters. I consider them acolytes of the backcountry; they remind us of our place, but they are wonderfully peaceable if we stick to the agreed-upon observances of respect: tread

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lightly, honor hierarchy, and say nice things as we pass from afar. Then we are freed to amicably observe our respective liturgies: the bear foraging for calories, and I, seeking inspiration through camera lens and pen. We both need to gird ourselves for the winter.

However memorable singular experiences can be, a collective understanding emerges from these pilgrimages, shared these days with many other lovers of beauty. It’s no mystery why cars clot the highways for miles around each trailhead or why the faithful shuffle the dusty trails en masse as if they were pathways leading to holy sites. I solemnly commune with these souls as they pass, seeking their own bliss.

There is a supplicating quality to a climb that leaves the pilgrim properly humbled. It is then we best comprehend an unbidden simplicity, an ineffable unity with all of life on this beautiful planet.

There is an interesting paradox here too, and on occasion, ascending through a

windy shiver of dry leaves and rattling seed pods can bring us unexpected grief, a sudden awareness of the ephemeral nature of our time spent dancing on this breathtakingly beautiful planet. But yet

renewal is in the air: seed fuzz and the flashing silks of spider hatchlings ballooning upward on a sun-warmed breeze; or spawning salmon in the rivers below.

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The heartbeat of Cascadia

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nights as they lengthen and set the stage for sparkling winter constellations. The cold has dispatched the mosquitoes and made it possible to once again sleep under deep starlight without a tent. The long cold nights bring a greater appreciation for the rising of our nurturing mother star, melting away the frosty crust from our sleeping bags. That same cold glazes high mountain tarns with a delicate filigree of new ice, illuminated by the morning sunshine. With the sun swing-

ing lower toward the south, ridge line shadows may reach into the meadows with long cold fingers. Still, those shadows and the contrasting clarity of light in every scene ensure that the whole day is visually superlative.

Of all the seasons, autumn imbues me with a profound sense of the holy.

These scriptures are written in a lush chorale of color shimmering in the stained glass reflections of high mountain lakes, rock faces as ornate as any cathedral, and

larches chanting their golden prayers into vaulting blue skies. It is the staccato vespers of picas in yonder rockfall and more so these days, the incense of wildfires. It is an incomprehensible liturgy to behold.

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While autumn occupies a special place in the calendar, I hope we can all find something sacred in our shared wild places, no matter the season.

This sacred beauty can make fervent believers of us all.

ANW

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How

Whitewater Paddling

Woke Me Up Story by Dawn Groves

T

he Life Calendar on my wall is a tall stack of 1080 rows divided into groups of 12. Vertical columns divide the rows (months) into 31 boxes each, creating a giant grid representing every day/month/ year of a life spanning 90 years. I highlighted in green all the boxes corresponding to my past. Days I’ve lived. A thin band of rows remained at the bottom of the grid, which I highlighted in blue. These boxes represent my future, the days still to come.

bad swims, I stored the whitewater boat and returned to the sea kayak.

…As you discern the splash zone, the current picks up. Suddenly there’s thunder everywhere.

Kathy stayed with it and now travels for days, sometimes weeks, enjoying spectacular settings with her Class IV whitewater buddies. She always figured

On May 30, 2022, my nephew, Rob, died suddenly during the cyclocross leg of the Ski to Sea race. I was the kayaker waiting for his handoff.

That was when I stopped paddling. Stopped doing much of anything.

Seven months later, a kayak buddy, Kathy, took me to task about my never-ending inertia.

“You’re a woman of a cerPhoto by Simon Berger tain age. Your body needs activity, or it shrivels up I gave up too soon. and collapses.” She suggested I enroll in Back to the present, I was turning the spring whitewater course offered by into mush. Rob would be so disappointed Washington Kayak Club. in me. I had to shake things up. Go big.

It wasn’t an unexpected suggestion.

So, I took Kathy’s advice and signed About twelve years ago, we were part of a up for the whitewater course as soon as group of sea kayakers learning to paddle the Washington Kayak Club posted it rivers to better our ocean skills. I loved in January. Because it didn’t start until it—such fun. Unfortunately, after a few 28

The heartbeat of Cascadia

March, I’d need a big, hairy push to force me to show up. Enter the aforementioned Life Calendar. There’s nothing quite as disturbing as seeing your future compressed into a few rows of blue boxes at the bottom of a giant grid. Procrastination was no longer an option.

One day in March I found myself standing in a Seattle conference room getting to know nineteen other whitewater wannabees. I was definitely the mushiest.

The course syllabus was no-nonsense: Show up every weekend in March, no exceptions. Be on time, wearing proper gear. Saturdays were pool sessions, and Sundays were rivers.

After the morning meet-and-greet, I dragged my kayak into a scatter of fellow participants rinsing whitewater boats for entry into the pool. We practiced two hours of basic strokes and the beginnings of what would morph into kayak rolls. Good stuff but exhausting. I left wondering if I was out of shape or just plain old.

Sunday was the first river day. I arrived tired but committed.

We paddled in a light current, practicing a series of strokes and skill development games. The goal was to build confidence.

We learned more than a skill’s how; we also learned the why. At the end of the day, I was dead tired but happy.

The second weekend, we put in at >>> Go to

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Power House, a classic beginner stretch on the Snoqualmie River. We practiced strokes, eddy turns, ferries, and wet exits in real current. Capsizing was expected.

Experienced paddlers hovered nearby, ready to help.

My confidence soared. I was already anticipating the following Saturday and Sunday.

The next morning I couldn’t raise my left arm.

A strained rotator cuff forced Dawn in the water. me to sit out the Photo by Michael Deckert third weekend. I lost two critical days of skill development and practice. Anxiety bloomed. What if I couldn’t do the graduation paddle?

The final river day was at Big Eddy, a favorite play site on the Skykomish River with an ever-changing array of rapids

and obstructions. I arrived nervous, my shoulder secured with athletic tape. Due to the lingering snowpack, spring runoff hadn’t started, and Big Eddy was a little

on the low side. No matter. Exposed boulders and other hindrances would give us plenty of experience in what’s known as technical paddling. The teachers were excited.

The put-in was a gully under a bridge; kayaks balanced over rocks like a

spill of crayons. The air was colder, and the water faster than we’d experienced, but three weeks of skill-building gave us confidence. Everyone was ready.

Everyone but me.

I was anxious because of missing the previous weekend and concerned about my injury. Lack of confidence causes the body to stiffen, raising the center of gravity and destabilizing the kayak. Predictably, I caught an eddy first thing and capsized.

Despite an efficient wet exit and fast rescue, the water was frigid, and my shoulder ached from the cold.

I warmed up some during the next stretch but rapidly cooled again as we beached our boats to scout the day’s big-

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gest rapid. To our inexperienced eyes, it was a maelstrom. Instructors analyzed the hydraulics, identified the best lines to paddle, and pointed out features to avoid, such as pour-overs, holes, and boulders.

We had the option to portage on dry land, but nobody did.

I’d already discussed my concerns with the lead instructor, so he suggested I follow behind him. I was close behind when he headed downstream, chasing the bouncing boat.

There’s nothing quite like approaching a big rapid. A distant rumble precedes anything visible. Then, as you discern the splash zone, the current picks up.

Suddenly there’s thunder everywhere.

You jet into the churn hyper-focused, aggressive, paddling with everything you’ve got. Then it’s done.

The rapid was quick, maybe 15 sec-

onds. I made it through without mishap, shivering with adrenaline as the teacher shouted congratulations and waited for others to follow suit.

As I calmed myself in the eddy, the fourth fingertip on my left hand started burning. Instinctively I shoved it into my mouth. Might as well have slammed it in a car door. Every nerve blew up. I clasped it to my chest and bent over the front of the cockpit. What the heck was happening? After an interminable amount of time, I could finally release my grip, sit up, and slide the hand sans glove into my left pogie. From there, I carefully navigated the remaining rapids with a modicum of aplomb.

By the time we celebrated our success at the takeout, I‘d managed to ignore the damn pain. I later learned that I’d had my first experience with frostbite.

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Frostbite! Who knew? The doctor told me that once a body part is frostbitten, it’s more vulnerable to the same, only worse. So much for mid-winter sports.

One might think the combination of anxiety, cold temperatures, shoulder pain, and a bizarre frostbite situation would sour me on the sport. It didn’t. I love the river, and unlike many paddlers who choose one over the other, I still enjoy sea kayaking.

Whitewater is like downhill skiing: fast, fun, and intensely social. Sea kayaking is like cross-country skiing: internal, rhythmic, and physically satisfying. After a day on the sea, I feel good about myself. Calm and capable. But when I finish a day on the river, only one word captures how I feel: younger. No more mush.

Rob would be proud. Take that, blue boxes.

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The heartbeat of Cascadia

31

Autumn Winds

By Jules Howatt

W

ithout question, autumn is my favorite time of year.

I have always been in love with wilderness and the “more than human beings” that call these unique places home. My heartfelt desire is to mirror in my images the feeling and emotions evoked by these places and to express a deep sense of gratitude through sharing those moments with others.

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The heartbeat of Cascadia

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The heartbeat of Cascadia

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Golden Times in Story and Photos by Michael Engelhard

Fall morning on the Bettles River

36

The heartbeat of Cascadia

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the Brooks Range

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The heartbeat of Cascadia

37

D

raped from the ceiling, a Dall sheep cape is in the process of being cleaned. In the log home’s dim living room, it gathers the fall day’s anemic light. The rich, nutty meat sits in a wardrobe-size freezer nearby. As the year wanes, putting up stores for winter becomes an urge only those who inhabit lean land far from grocery aisles can truly appreciate.

Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay. Lead footing to beat the sunset, we had dodged semis

Before the age of manned flight, humans knew no smoother travel—rapids and rocks notwithstanding—than to be carried along by the current of a river.

and the rock shrapnel they flung at Seated around a rustic table, we’re our already spider-webbed windshield. visiting Berni and Uta Hicker, Bavarian immigrants and homesteaders who have lived on the south side of Alaska’s Brooks Range for almost four decades.

Neatly corded spruce and birch, solar panels, a windmill, and a generator cozy their Arctic Getaway, a cluster of rental cabins and outbuildings located in the hamlet of Wiseman (population: 14). Pioneer relics authenticate the grounds: a whipsaw, a Winchester repeater rifle, rusty leg-hold traps, huge blacksmith bellows.

Kitty-corner, in the groomed, grassy yard, a penned turkey gobbles, perhaps dreading Thanksgiving, while his white chicken companion struts, possibly knowing that her madeto-order eggs might prolong her lease on life. Breakfasts are served in the main house, a 1910 dance hall where Natives and miners whooped it up during a flash-in-the-pan gold rush on the Koyukuk River’s Middle Fork.

This morning, Berni percolates The second of two canyons coffee that could float horseAutumn’s flare had intensified the clouds shoes and flips sourdough pancakes for of dust churned up by the sparse traffic. two couples in the breakfast room. Our It’s my favorite road, a springboard for hosts enjoy the brief annual lull before bargain high-latitude ventures with serivans disgorge hordes of aurora tourists in ous, belly-flopping potential.

Wiseman.

The Hickers let the three of us crash We rumbled in, unannounced, in their sauna and in a cabin under conyesterday on the two-lane gravel road— struction, which I preferred despite its the Dalton Highway—connecting 38

The heartbeat of Cascadia

rough concrete floor since its windows admitted precious rays of sunlight, a commodity in short supply 60 miles north of the Arctic Circle in late August.

The following day, we unload our gear from two vehicles at a wooded cut farther north on the Dalton Highway.

The Hickers’ son Leo shuttles our truck back to the Middle Fork Bridge, where we’ll beach packrafts at trip’s end. Packs (and packrafts) hoisted, we follow the creek bed upstream, rock hopping, avoiding wet feet as long as possible.

From near the ravine’s head, wheezing like a chain-smoking dragon, I zigzag 4,000 feet up the broad back of a steep, sustained ridge, first on tundra, then on flaked bedrock, to a plateau birthing a Mathews River tributary. Tom Moran, a lanky, 6’5” playwright, grant writer, mountain biker, and marathon runner, steps uphill pretty much in a straight line, deliberately as a heron. His longtime buddy Jay Cable—clean-shaven, lanternjawed, looking like dirt wouldn’t stick to him, though a few extra pounds do cling to his 6-foot frame—has to pause in the ascent as often as I do.

“We hike pretty fast, do very long days (when necessary), and don’t stop to rest very much,” Tom had warned me in an email.

If the Mathews was running low due to a lack of snowpack, “there could be a lot of walking.”

To my relief, I manage to keep up, even at the expense of nourishment. My lunch is buried in my backpack. Rest breaks barely long enough to answer nature’s call force me to subsist on a single energy bar for the initial nine-and-a-halfhour leg. I had learned that fine dining didn’t rank among my companions’ pri>>> Go to

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orities when nearing Wiseman the previeven in an evergreen forest in winter’s ous day, they had inhaled rubbery, cold rude disrobing: dwarf birch and willow, Yukon River Camp pizza slices stacked balsam poplar and blueberry leaves— on the center console. rustling shallows of orange, burnt sienna, On the saddle, the wind panpipes scarlet, canary yellow, burgundy; and a monotone dirge on the paddle shafts strapped to my pack. The world opens, a book of sagas, an arena of giants, with views far west into Gates of the Arctic National Park—range upon range marches toward every horizon, paling as they recede. The view encircles more scenery than you could explore over the most fruitful hiking career.

Refreshingly, after the shaley mud at the pass, a rash Tom Moran and Jay Cable discuss the route at a 6,000-foot pass of ruby bearberry leaves glistens as if freshly painted. Willows burnight too, falls sooner and sooner each nish the air with a stained-glass glow as gilded day. Between periods of drizzle, we thread through stands hemming the spokes of heavenly light wheel across feeder stream. Much dead matter drops velvet slopes until afternoon clouds meld

stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.

into an ominous pewter backdrop.

Our camp on a bluff at the tree line overlooks the Mathews’ too-shallow braids. Lichen so deep it preserves footprints makes sleeping mats optional. It’s still fourteen miles to the Bettles River from where, with greater depth likely, we can paddle to the highway.

As the temperature dips, Jay and Tom build a driftwood fire on an outcrop below the high-water mark, befitting the racers’ minimal-impact philosophy.

We meander downstream beneath clouds cruising pelagic skies, fording the Mathews repeatedly, tracking through open forest, brittle or spongy underfoot, and skirt the lip of two canyons in search of water to buoy our miniature rafts. The blueberries are past their prime, rendered mushy by

The heartbeat of Cascadia

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the meat-locker cold. The sun’s arc flattens daily until, three weeks hence, darkness and light briefly poise in equinoctial harmony, and nature, holding its breath, braces for partial shutdown. Streams will skim over and sap congeal under bark. Ground squirrels will go narcoleptic for months and grizzlies will squeeze into dens to dream of fawn kills on greener pastures. Wood frogs will clot into olive hailstones awaiting their miraculous revival in the spring. The geese and cranes will have fled, taking their fellowship’s clamor along.

Silence will prevail.

Berni had warned us to expect sheep hunters here, and sure enough, we spot smoke wisps, a meat rack, humongous mule tracks, and sooty campfire rings. Ravens accent the spare bushes like notes on a musical score.

At the end of a mercifully mellow day, we pitch our second camp in a meadow by the river’s edge. Tom scales a bluff, scouting the down-valley stretch, while Jay and I relax by the tents. A few big, lethargic mosquitos seem to be waiting for the season’s curtain to fall.

In the morning, we launch the packrafts onto the Matthews at a nearby gravel bar and soon reach the confluence without too much scraping or bumping. The Bettles River easily doubles the volume while maintaining the Mathews’ gin clarity, which causes bottom cobbles to pop, gems magnified by a hand lens. With a rising sun behind us, we dig hard to catch the plaited flow’s deepest sapphire channels. I’m already sweating inside multiple layers.

Before the age of manned flight, humans knew no smoother travel—rapids and rocks notwithstanding—than to be carried along by the current of a river. A shoreline observer might see rafts zipping past like bright satellites; for a boatman midstream, landmarks rotate as earthbound constellations. A glimpse of eternity lies in this swirling. You can step into the same river twice. Rushing continuously seaward while also constantly arriving, the river remains the same.

Presently, an atmospheric counterpart, a fog tsunami, rolls over a fall-dappled upland but never advances beyond.

Tatters of mist ghost above the opposite bank, randomly bar-

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ing Wiehl Mountain’s craggy mien.

Civilization has shrunk to the rare buzzing of an overhead plane with its cargo of hunters and oilfield commuters. When quiet reigns, I hear twin paddle blades drip as the shaft rests on the drum-taut rafts. Breezes carry the rich funk of decaying plants. This sun worshipper’s madeleine, a scent equivaStory continued on page 42

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PEAK EXPERIENCES

By John Minier

Exploring the Inner and Outer Wilderness

I

’ve been wandering the mountains for a good part of my life. In fact, I’ve built most of my life among the summits and the euphoric experiences they offer. I derive my livelihood by moving through the mountains, and there was a time when the argument could have been made that, simply put, this was the entire purpose of my life. But lately, I’ve been asking myself, “Why?”

or the mountain. You’re with your Self (with a capital S). You’re in your body.

You’re in the moment. You’re not lost in the anxiety of what needs to happen next or the nostalgia or grief of what might have happened before. You’re in the present, and the present is where life happens.

back into our bodies or grounds us in the present. The mountains offer us many of these moments. Maybe you’re 30 feet out from your last screw on thin ice or waist-deep in blower powder. Or perhaps you’re just overcome by the beauty of a sunset over a jagged skyline.

All you know is that you feel alive.

I plan to continue exploring mountains, oceans, forests, deserts -- anywhere that turns my crank. But I recognize that my journeys are simply an exploration of Self, and the inner wilds of the Self can be expansive, adventurous, and terrifying. The outer wilderness is just my mirror.

ANW

I’ve been chasing peak experiences my whole life and haven’t yet found that deep, lasting sense of Over the years, satisfaction and I’ve realized that wholeness that I’ve my relationship been looking for, with the and I truly believe mountains and I’ve looked harder the outdoors than most. I’ve is generally also missed a lot founded on the of other things idea of peak along the way by experiences. As wrapping myself in humans living both the highs and in a modern lows mountains world, we must offer because John Minier and Mt. Williamson navigate through Photo by Jeff Montgomery that’s when the mundane I’m able to feel.

But the feelings are reality of every day. It’s easy to check fleeting, and I can’t just keep running out of ourselves when bills, paperwork, after the next dose of life on some parenting, or the myriad of other things far-off ridgeline.

There’s life happening this world requires consumes our all around me every day, and I get to time and energy. In this sense, a peak choose how to participate in it. experience is anything that snaps us

And that’s the point. You feel. That’s what we all truly want. You’re not really with the ice, or the snow, or the sunset,

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lent to the post-party blues, spurs memories of time lost, youth vanished, and opportunities squandered. Fall’s flavor, rivaling the best chocolate or romance, is bittersweet.

Final narrows sluice us to the foot of Sukakpak Mountain and into the Koyukuk’s Middle Fork, sweeping, milky, jadegreen. The peak’s marble bulk, ancient seafloor pressure-cooked and uplifted, resembles a deadfall marten trap, apparently, for which it was named.

As “People of the Meadow camp by the river Land,” the local Nunamuit saw objects familiar to them in the topography. Despite varied angles afforded by the river’s wheeling, I cannot solve this visual puzzle. I fo-

cus instead on precious moments free of thought, on being present, on what might be this year’s last hurrah in the sun.

“The seasons and all their changes are in me,” Thoreau journaled on October 26, 1857. My knees and toe joints, aching since the headwaters saddle, concur. So will my knuckles and shoulders tomorrow. When Ibuprofen is a staple, “Vitamin I,” ingested twice daily, you know your heydays are passed. Yet, as the ecstatic John Muir observed, “There is at least a punky spark in my heart, and it may blaze in this autumn gold...”

ANW

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We needed to find a campsite and pitch our tents before the arrival of a storm blackening the horizon. I worried that my Paxlovid prescription was wearing off and the virus was returning, mounting a new attack on my body and brain.

Cedar Creek Sea Stack

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A

fter three years of avoiding COVID, it finally caught me.

I got a Paxlovid prescription and went backpacking on the Olympic coast to battle the COVID demons at the ocean’s edge. Was it my fevered brain, or was the shoreline at Cedar Creek with its wave-sculpted sea stacks surreal? Did I actually see multiple orca pods hunting on two different days, observed from two different headlands? Gray whales migrating in the hundreds, chugging along like steam engines out in the blue sea? Two bald eagles

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with their talons locked in a death spiral? A raven vocalizing like a foghorn atop a Sitka spruce? A sea otter curled up on a rock scrubbing its face with seaweed, like a spa treatment?

In the intertidal zone, where land and sea blend and blur, a sonorous soundscape of wind and waves combines with sulfurous smells. Sensuous, tactile sensations, psychedelic colors, and the overlapping drama of beings are myriad and diverse. An experience at the ocean’s edge is one of complete immersion and total en-

gagement. Entering the strange realm of the intertidal zone can be transformative and transporting—and unsettling. Can we trust our brains to perceive the world accurately? What does the intertidal zone show us about not only the natural world, but also our own mind? What can exploring the ocean’s edge while delirious with fever teach us?

Gazing into a pool between the tides is as close as I’ve come to hallucinating without eating magic mushrooms. The first time I shined an ultraviolet light on sea anemones at night, I was astonished to see green and orange fluorescence, similar

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to Day-Glo psychedelia from the 1970s.

An anemone species in the intertidal zone has the same color scheme as blacklight posters designed to simulate the visual distortions of an acid trip.

During my fevered coastal trek, while kneeling to gaze into a tidepool, the pink tips of anemone tentacles were so vivid I could taste them like cotton candy eaten long ago, stretchy and warm from a machine that spun the pink confection at a carnival. And the lines that radiated from the center of an anemone sounded like “Kashmir,” a Led Zeppelin song I’d listened to on the tape deck of my first car, a 1979 Monte Carlo. This synesthesia, or mixing of the senses, seemed to last for several seconds as I stared into the pool, though I couldn’t be sure of the duration. Time had become as elastic as an anemone’s tentacles.

While my brain wobbled with delirium, I saw a chiton, its shell bordered by a bold pattern of yellow dots; its center emblazoned with wavy slashes of cyan. The

creature was grazing a crust of lipstickpink coralline algae as it crawled past what looked like an emerald flower the

Lined Chiton

size of a salad plate, the animal known as the giant green anemone. As I watched this anemone grab a crab with its sticky

tentacles and slowly stuff the creature into its squishy mouth, I realized there was as much to explore in my mind as on a wild shore. The waves of revulsion, fear, and beauty that flooded me when I observed life in the intertidal zone opened windows onto the many worlds existing in the human brain, each as real as the beings we behold at the edge of the sea.

Or as unreal.

Neuroscientist Anil Seth insists that we hallucinate our conscious reality. By this, he means that our brains cannot perceive what actually exists in the world outside our heads.

Animals with nervous systems dissimilar to ours experience a different world than we do. Flowers that our brains perceive as identical are easily distinguished by bees that can perceive ultraviolet light. The ultraviolet patterns on the flower petals are real, even though we cannot see them.

Consider chlorophyll. Is chlorophyll green because plants absorb green light

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to use in photosynthesis? This concept Seth claims? Seth points out that light seems right but couldn’t be more wrong. cannot enter our brain—our brain can The plant colors we perceive are proonly “see” electrochemical signals travelduced by the light they don’t use.

Chlorophyll absorbs the portions of the visible spectrum that plants need to produce their food: red and blue light. Photosynthesis doesn’t require green light. Instead of being captured by chlorophyll, the spectrum’s green portion is reflected. Plants are, in a sense, not green. In the real world outside our brains, plants are red and blue. But we are so distant from reality that we perceive a green mirage.

Color is not a physical property of things. It exists in the neurological wiring of three pounds of wet matter, the lump of brain meat inAggregating Anemone side a human skull. Color lives not in anemones in the sea nor leaves of plants on land. It resides in our minds. ing through its neurological network.

Do I really see the anemones I’m Our brain doesn’t passively register sensolooking at? Or do I hallucinate them, as ry inputs; it actively constructs a model of

the world. We don’t directly perceive objective reality. Rather, we experience what our brain—made of billions of neurons, each one a tiny biological machine interacting with other neurons in a network—thinks we should perceive, based on our brain’s past interpretations of sensory information.

Our brain predicts and models the world. This is a kind of “controlled hallucination,” asserts Seth.

Seth’s claim may sound radical, but the “predictive model” that Seth and other neuroscientists promote is, in a sense, nothing new.

The philosopher Immanuel Kant proposed in the eighteenth century that our knowledge of the world is not derived solely from the external stimuli that we perceive but also relies on the active role of the mind in organizing and interpreting sensory information. In her classic book of nature writing, “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” Annie Dillard explains that she senses

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only a portion of the light coming from the sun; she is blind to the ultraviolet and infrared light that other animals can detect. She writes, “A nightmare network of ganglia, charged and firing without my knowledge, cuts, and splices what I do see, editing it for my brain.”

Single-celled organisms lack the neurological sophistication to perform such editing, notes Dillard. Microbes interact directly with the world without filters and editing. Like enlightened sages of the living world, these simple beings perceive reality more directly than we do with our busy brains. These microbes are too small for us to see and too small themselves to see.

The complexity of our mammalian sensory organs, and our complicated primate brain, which is forever making predictions about what is happening outside our heads to help us survive, separates us from the world as it is, estranging us from reality. And this doesn’t apply only to color. Consider sound. What do you hear when a wave crashes on the shore?

A breaking ocean wave makes air molecules repeatedly bunch up and spread out, sending sound waves outward from the disturbance. Some of these sound waves enter your ear canal and

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vibrate your eardrum. Bones attached to your eardrum rattle. A sort of plunger links one of the tiny bones to a structure shaped like a snail shell; the shaking bone pumps the plunger up and down, causing the gel inside the snail shell to move. This moving gel stimulates nerves that send signals to your brain. Your brain processes the signals, translating them into sound.

What you hear is not the ocean. You hear a bone plunger swishing gel inside a spiral shell. Your brain translates what the incoming sensory information means and creates a controlled hallucination, a simulacrum of the ocean that helps you navigate a crashing wave and survive.

We don’t need philosophy to tell us we are trapped inside our brains. Physics and physiology tell us this is so. Our consciousness is restricted to hints of what is happening in the reality outside our head.

Our mind’s awareness of the outer world is like a prisoner confined to a windowless cell that reads messages slipped beneath a door that never opens. These scribbled messages can sometimes be misread.

The scientific literature on illusions—our misreading of reality—is vast and interesting to peruse. Seth demonstrates through mind-bending optical and auditory illusions that our brain assembles a model of reality, anticipating what it expects to encounter based on past experiences and information it has gathered. These predictions, however, do not always align with the actual world beyond our brain, sometimes leading to perceptual inaccuracies or illusions. Simply put, we don’t always see what we think we see, or hear what we think we hear.

This is not to say that an anemone or a wave isn’t real. If you touch an anemone, its tentacles stick to your finger, which this creature wants to eat. If a wave at the ocean’s edge knocks you off your feet, you could be swept out to sea, ending your life—nothing could be more real. But because our mind is confined in a brain imprisoned in a skull, our awareness cannot stray beyond the bounds of our

biology. We cannot know objects in the world as they truly are, as Kant proposed with his philosophy, Dillard illuminated with her prose, and Seth examines with his neuroscience.

Our brain, locked inside a lightless, soundless crypt of bone, guesses what it is experiencing based on incoming streams of data coded by neurochemical signals and by referencing past experiences accumulated throughout our lives. Evolution built the human brain to construct virtual worlds that help us survive in the real world. These virtual worlds assembled by our brain—worlds in which we live every moment of our lives—are hallucinations.

When we agree on these hallucinations, we call this consensus reality.

What did I really experience during my fever-fueled trek at the ocean’s edge?

Fortunately, I had a friend with me, so we could compare notes on our perceptions and come up with a consensus.

Aron Rosenthal, whom I’ve been adventuring with in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Northwest for two decades, had recovered from a case of COVID a few weeks prior to our backpacking trip. His brain, as far we knew, was free of fever and back to baseline.

My COVID-addled brain seemed to tweak my perceptions, causing sounds and colors to intensify and send my thoughts straying beyond their normal bounds, but Aron and I agreed that the shoreline around Cedar Creek is one of the most glorious places on planet Earth.

We concurred that a sound that baffled us, a bird vocalization coming from the tops of a Sitka spruce, was a clever corvid, a raven who had learned to imitate the foghorn further south at La Push. And we agreed that we had sat atop a headland between Cedar Creek and Kayostia Beach for hours on end, watching pods of orcas moving among sea lions, which we saw hauled out on sea stacks and islands, resting above the orca-hunted waves.

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see from shore orcas stalking prey on the outer coast.” The next morning, after we broke camp and started hiking south, we climbed a headland, and again, from shore, we watched orcas hunting sea mammals. “Okay, twice in a lifetime,” I said as we focused our binoculars on the massive dorsal fin of a bull orca moving among gray whales.

We agreed that we had seen many dozens, if not hundreds, of gray whales spouting and fluking as they traveled north. The cloudless weather was perfect for viewing life in the ocean far from shore. And we were in the right place at the right time of year to witness the migration of gray whales from their birthing lagoons in Mexico to their feeding grounds in Alaskan waters.

It was also the right season for bald eagles to lock talons in the sky, either two males fighting for territory, or a male and female testing their bond by grabbing each other midair and tumbling earthward, only to part at the last possible

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instant to avoid gravity slamming them into the shore.

The sea otter at the spa was the strangest scene we came across. Had my COVID-fevered brain conjured this image? If I had been alone, I might have dismissed a sighting of a sea otter out of the ocean as mistaken. Rarely do these sea mammals leave the water, I mentioned to Aron as we stopped to rest and hydrate after rounding the headland south of Chilean Memorial. Sea otters aren’t like river otters, land mammals who eat, breed, and den on land, even though they move comfortably through the water. Sea otters eat while floating on their backs, give birth in the ocean, and seldom venture beyond the waves. But Aron insisted that he was looking at a sea otter.

He was right. When I peered through binoculars, there it was: a sea otter hauled out on a rock, using its paws to rub kelp on its whiskered face. Sea otters have little body fat compared to other sea mammals, but their thick fur, the

plushest coat of any animal, gives them a plump appearance. After a few minutes atop the rock, the otter dropped back into the water and spun in place like a rotisserie chicken, winding seaweed around its body as it turned. Maybe this otter was injured and trying to soothe its damaged flesh with seaweed? Or perhaps it was just having fun, enjoying the delicious tactile sensation of seaweed slathering its skin as it spun?

While I stared through binoculars, mesmerized by the sea otter’s antics, the animal climbed out of the ocean and lay on a rock in the sun. This behavior did not match my mental model of what a sea otter should be doing, but my brain adjusted to the new information. The otter tucked its head next to its body and curled up like a napping dog.

Seth’s neuroscience research has led him to conclude that consciousness is not a uniquely human phenomenon because the conscious reality we experience is grounded in biological mechanisms that

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we share with other beings, from octopuses to sea otters. I realized that the sea otter on the rock was having an experience of its body warming in the sun. Human consciousness is one of many possible ways to experience the world. Every animal contains an inner universe.

Resisting the urge to follow the otter’s lead and snooze in the sun, I forced myself to stand and continue marching. Reality called. We needed to make use of the low water to get around a series of obstacles before the tide turned. And we needed to find a campsite and pitch our tents before the arrival of a storm blackening the horizon. I worried that my Paxlovid prescription was wearing off and the virus was returning, mounting a new attack on my body and brain.

Hiking a challenging coastal route riddled with seaweedslick rocks and steep headlands while sick with COVID was not an adventure I would have chosen. But Aron and I had been

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planning this trip for a few months, and he couldn’t get any other time away from work. While sprawled on my couch a couple of days before our scheduled start, moaning about my aching body and fatigue that I couldn’t shake, I started writing an email to Aron explaining that I would need to cancel. Before hitting “send,” I checked the weather forecast. A window of clear skies was predicted to open in the following days: sunlight and warmth. Favorable tides. No crowds in March. I recalled the wild beauty of the Olympic coast on past treks. After swallowing the Paxlovid pills, I revised my email. We were going as scheduled.

I would have preferred to finish the hike without COVID stealing my strength, but the perceptual effects of a feverish brain heightened the intensity of an experience that, regardless of my health and brain state, would have been a mind-bending journey.

To be clear, I am not recommending that you, dear reader, lick subway handrails to catch a virus and then go backpacking on a wild coast. But a confluence of coincidences, including a COVID fever, calm winds, clear skies, and the peak of the gray whale migration, led to one of the most remarkable experiences of my life.

After returning from my fevered trek at the ocean’s edge, I emailed some musings and photos to my friend Annie Proulx, who declared it the best COVID experience she had heard about. It takes a lot to impress Annie, who, along with having a brain overflowing with encyclopedic knowledge and wideranging experiences from her fascinating life, is one of the most celebrated writers working in the English language. I’m no Dillard or Proulx, but the notes and photos I sent to friends led to this story. Thank you, COVID, for giving me a fever that fueled my creativity.

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After our backpacking trip, Aron mentioned that Neil Young had composed some of his classic songs like “Cinnamon Girl” and “Down by the River” while running a high fever. Young credits the delirium with opening his creativity. The state of mind he describes— the loss of his sense of self as currents of creative flow swept him away—is reminiscent of a psychedelic experience.

Can COVID open the “doors of perception,” as Aldous Huxley explored in his book by that name, an account of his state of mind under the influence of mescaline? Had my fever played a role similar to mescaline, hallucinogenic mushrooms, or LSD? Had delirium induced by the COVID virus helped me better perceive the reality of the Olympic coast—a reality that exists in the world outside my brain? Or maybe my fever allowed me to glimpse the reality that my own mind mediates my experience of the world?

Perhaps COVID perturbed my brain’s “default mode network” (DMN), as Michael Pollan explores in his book “How to Change Your Mind,” published

in 2018. Psychedelics diminish activity in this brain network crucial to our sense of self. Neuroscientists suspect that the DMN is the source of the internal dialogue that tells us who we are at any given moment and helps us maintain a consistent sense of identity. When the DMN is diminished through psychedelics, meditation—or perhaps fever—our sense of self seems to disappear. New connections are made in the brain, allowing new insights, perspectives, and creative output.

I have seen many anemones while leading intertidal tours and exploring the ocean’s edge over the years. But before my fevered trek, I had never heard one play Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” nor had I hallucinated the flavor of carnival cotton candy while imagining the sticky taste of anemone tentacles on my tongue.

Huxley had neither COVID nor the Olympic coast in mind when he wrote “The Doors of Perception,” and the DMN had yet to be discovered when his book was published in 1954.

The title was inspired by artist and poet William Blake, who wrote in his 1790 book “The Marriage of Heaven and

Hell”; “If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” A fever had, if not cleansed these doors for me, at least removed some smudges, giving me a glimpse beyond their confines. Or maybe COVID had loosened the hinges on the doors? Metaphors mix freely in a fevered brain.

My delirium disturbed the usual patterns of my thinking, allowing me to play with ideas and images in new ways. A sea otter giving itself a spa treatment by rubbing kelp on its face was a vision that bubbled up from the boiling vat of a brain heated by fever. But this image blended perfectly with what appeared to be happening at the ocean’s edge. While watching the sea otter defy my preconceptions, I had a sense that the many worlds within the human mind, and the real world outside our mind, are stranger than we could ever imagine, no matter how strong a dose of psychedelics we take, no matter how ANW high a fever we run.

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Larch Valley above the Valley of Ten Peaks

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O Canada!

Autumn in the Rockies Story and Photos by John D’Onofrio

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A

utumn is enchanting in many places.

But our planet has some unique locations that manifest the season’s splendor in such vivid, phantasmagoric glory that hitting these places at precisely the right time is an experience one never forgets.

Golden larches and soaring spires make for a beguiling combination.

Obviously, the hardwoods of New England and the aspen forests of Colorado. The arcMoraine Lake tic plain burnished with gold; the cottonwood trees of the trails lead to Valhala-like destinations, Colorado Plateau that seem to be bent places that are hard to leave at the end of in prayer, worshiping the languid rivers the day. There are, of course, opportuniflowing through the canyons. ties to dive deep on multi-day backpackSomewhere high on this list are ing trips, and these can not be recomthe Canadian Rockies, a place I’ve remended enough, but even for the day turned to again and again. For years, hiker, the wonders are overwhelming.

I made pilgrimages to the Rockies Yes, the Rockies are crowded. Advanced during every season, including some planning is required. But these inconvememorable winter excursions. Each niences prove trivial when the last rays season is beautiful, but autumn is truly of the sun illuminate the larches below something special.

Sentinel Pass.

Excellent, well-constructed hiking

Moraine Lake/Larch Valley/ Sentinel Pass I’ve visited Moraine Lake many times. Its beauty is known the world over, a classic Canadian Rockies scene located in Banff National Park. The lake, fed by glaciers, is the color of dreams. Around these iridescent waters rise the Ten Peaks, a cavalcade of iconic ramparts, the summits frequently swaddled by clouds.

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pensive but worth it. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day.

The trail to Larch Valley and Sentinel Pass starts here, rising above the lake through a luxurious forest that thins as you climb, eventually transporting you to larch meadows with spectacular views of the Ten Peaks.

The final climb to Sentinel Pass ascends scree and rubble, with ever more awe-inspiring views.

It’s seven miles roundtrip to Sentinel Pass with 2400 feet of elevation gain.

You’ll need to make reservations on the Moraine Lake Shuttle Bus to visit Moraine Lake—as of this year, the parking lot at the lake is closed to personal vehicles.

Parker Ridge If hiking to Larch Valley or Sentinel Pass, be sure to allow enough time to descend and catch the last bus out at 7:30 pm.

Parker Ridge Parker Ridge rises west of the Columbia Icefields Parkway, just south

of the icefields near the northern edge of Banff Park. A well-graded trail transports hikers via switchbacks to the sinuous meadow-covered parklands stretching out amidst jaw-dropping mountain grandeur. There’s some excellent (and easy) wandering here on trails that traverse the

tom—the focus of tourist activity— is what most visitors mistakenly believe to be the Columbia Icefield). Equally impressive are the epic summits that rise above the blue ice, including 11,453-foot Mt. Athabasca, a glittering jewel in the crown of the continental divide.

The trail granting access to the ridge is a scant four miles roundtrip, with an elevation gain of only 1100 feet.

Once on the ridge, of course, the journey has just begun.

Wilcox Pass

length of the ridgetop, tinged in autumn’s magenta and gold.

Stupendous sights abound, including memorable views out to the Columbia Icefield proper, which feeds the Athabasca Glacier (this glacier, which descends almost to the valley bot-

The trail to Wilcox Pass, located in Jasper National Park, just north of Parker Ridge on the Icefields Parkway, is another easy ingress point to the wonders of a northern autumn. The way is steep at first—and covered in roots that, when icy, can make progress slow—but the grade eases as you ascend through a thinning forest, now adorned with an autumnal orange and red understory. At

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Bighorn, Wilcox Pass

a spectacular viewpoint, a pair of bright red Adirondack chairs sit beside the trail offering a place to rest and enjoy the sweeping views out over the valley below. The good folks from Parcs Canada have placed pairs of red chairs such as

these at various trailside vista points around the Rocky Mountain National Parks to encourage hikers to pause and contemplate the beauty of the world.

What a great idea! It’s an excellent place to sit and not think.

Adventures

The trail continues upward through the broad pass to barren slopes of boulders and scree. Passage is easy, thanks to the ingenious trail construction commonplace in the Canadian Rockies, and by veering west on a side trail, hikers

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reach a birds-eye view of the Athabasca Glacier streaming down from rugged peaks across the valley.

Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep inhabit Wilcox Pass, and it is not uncommon to share the view with these majestic creatures. I’ve been to the pass four times and seen them on three of those visits, the embodiment of the wild Rockies.

Roundtrip distance to the pass is five miles (but more if you explore, which you absolutely should) and the elevation gain is a fairly gentle 1280 feet.

Lake O’Hara First, the bad news: Getting the necessary permits to get to Lake O’Hara, located in Yoho National Park, in the autumn (or anytime) is not easy. Reservations for both the campground and the park bus required to access the lake (no private cars are allowed) are made available at specific times in March or Lake O’Hara April. A frenzy always ensues. You will need fortitude and luck to score one.

But let’s not complain about the restrictions. Lake O’Hara is so radically, consciousness-altering beautiful that were it not for the restrictions, it would surely be reduced to rubble by the masses, coming from far and wide, drunk with beauty. We owe a debt of gratitude to Parcs Canada for their stalwart stewardship in the face of constantly increasing demand.

But…if you do manage to secure a permit, prepare for an out-of-body experience. Lake O’Hara is astonishingly beautiful, and the trails radiating upward in various directions from the lake and campground offer easy access to specstories & the race|play|experience calendar online.

tacular alpine landscapes. Golden larches and soaring spires make for a beguiling combination.

A favorite trail leads to Lake Oesa, cradled in a high cirque, and accessed by a gentle climb through meadows and larches. The lake, at 7400 feet, is surrounded by towering peaks, rising almost 4000 feet above its shores. It’s a dramatic scene. You can continue across the Yukness Ledge, a somewhat airy alpine traverse that eventually descends onto the Opabin Plateau with its beautiful lake and larch forest.

From the Plateau, you can return to Lake O’Hara via trails that descend from either the east side beneath the cliffs of Yukness Mountain or from the west side, stopping along the way at lovely Mary Lake. Or—if you want more— you can continue across the alpine route, a climb up through boulders and scree to All Soul’s Prospect, aptly named.

Another sublime hiking destination is Lake McArthur, its vibrant aquamarine waters set in a barren bowl, a glacier hanging above its eastern shore.

The hike can be done as a circuit, hiking up the Big Larches Trail (some of the prime larch viewing in the Rockies) and back down via the McArthur Pass Trail past the Elizabeth Parker Hut. It’s five miles roundtrip with about 1,000 feet of elevation gain.

Other alpine routes lead to remarkable viewpoints and high mountain environments, places that would otherwise be the exclusive realm of climbers. One is the route to Wiwaxy Gap, a

The Fleeting Season It’s important to remember that autumn comes earlier here than in the North Cascades (or the American Rockies). So does winter: it’s not uncommon to see snowfall in mid-September (or earlier).

The seasonal transition is short, and invariably the autumn color palette in the mountains includes the gold of larches and the white of snow.

relentless climb to a rugged notch high above Lake O’Hara. It’s an arduous undertaking (1800 feet of elevation gain in only 2.25 miles to the Gap!), but from here, you can pick up the alpine traverse (acrophobes, beware) that leads across the legendary Huber Ledges to Lake Oesa.

Lake O’Hara is best enjoyed over several days by camping in the small campground, assuming you can secure a camping permit.

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Mt. Assiniboine Traverse The Mt. Assiniboine Traverse is a commitment, a once-in-alifetime deep dive into the Canadian Rockies.

In fall, this inspiring traverse through high meadows and subalpine forest is ablaze with color, and the views along the way are continuously inspiring. Mt. Assiniboine Provincial Park is truly a wild place – no roads enter the park, but the trail Mt. Assiniboine system is superb.

You’ll want to allocate some time for this excursion. The total distance is only 35 miles, but the numerous irresistible side trails will add many more miles. Take your time here and let the days pass. I took 12 glorious days to make the traverse and explored far and wide along the way. Every exploration was rewarding, every side excursion a feast for the senses.

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The traverse starts at the Sunshine Meadows Ski Area in Banff National Park, accessible via a shuttle bus from Banff. The elevation here is 7200 feet, so you have the benefit of starting high (the total elevation gain on the 34mile traverse is only 2500 feet).

After climbing over Quartz Hill, you’ll drop a little to Howard Douglas Lake (campsites here), then traverse along a ridge to Citadel Pass, Assiniboine rising ahead, before descending through the Golden Valley (a larch paradise) and into the chaotic Valley of Rocks. After the rocks comes Og Lake, a primeval place amidst rubble and boulders, with Assiniboine, closer now, looming to the south. Austere, inspiring campsites here.

The trail crosses Og Meadows to Lake Magog, a worldrenowned beauty spot, that reflects the majesty of Assiniboine in its turquoise waters. It’s like the Swiss Alps without the hotels, cog trains, and trendy bistros. There is a lodge here.

The Assiniboine Lodge, an institution in the Canadian backcountry since 1928, is situated at the lake’s northeast end and maintains a low profile.

Lake Magog is an excellent base camp for explorations of the remarkable country rising above it on all sides. The trail to the Nublet, and beyond to the Nub itself, yields mind-boggling views of Assiniboine and Magog. The trail to Windy Pass, which lives up to its blustery name, escorts you through luminous larches to an airy pinnacle, a place to sit and contemplate, to soak it in.

When it’s time to leave Magog and finish the traverse to

Sunday, December 18

Smoke Inhalation The last several years have seen wildfire smoke occasionally engulf the Canadian Rockies in autumn. Unfortunately, smoke seems to be the new abnormal due to global warming. The smoke is subject to wind direction and can change dramatically from day to day. Be forewarned: when it’s bad, it’s bad.

Check with www.firesmoke.ca before you go.

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POETRY FROM THE WILD

How I Saved the World

By Lois Holub “The word for world is forest.”

- Ursula K. Le Guin It was the earliest I’d been in the woods, maybe ever.

Too many scorching days in a row, and too hot to sleep before 3 am, I still managed to get up and out a mere hour past sunrise.

The trailhead offered shade while the sun filtered down in warm shadows and cool light.

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- Robert Michael Pyle

But sometimes even though I’m in the forest to forget the words, my thoughts keep pace with my footsteps.

I talk to world leaders, demanding climate action and accountability.

I tell radio callers which books to read next.

I exhort the guy upriver with the NRA yard sign and confederate flags covering his windows to forgodsake change the channel.

I tell Ukraine: I’m trying, I tell Rachel Maddow and the ghost of Mary Oliver: I’m trying.

I tell school teachers and Doctors Without Borders: I’m trying.

I tell my small grandsons, and my garden and my own conscience: I’m trying, in my head.

I’m trying to figure out how to save the world.

This morning when I realized, after passing the ancient cedar sentry around the second curve of the long trail that I was still in my head and not in the moment, I stopped.

I mean, I stopped walking.

I stopped thinking and trying and deliberating the words, and just stood there.

In the woods.

Breathing.

And everything came alive.

I mean, everything I breathed in was living — the hidden songs of the thrush and wren, the call of the bullfrog and chatter of chipmunk, the silence of the ferns.

I inhaled the breath of the ancestors, taken in and released again by these very trees.

I inhaled the past and exhaled the present right into the future.

The longer I stood there, still and listening, the deeper each breath became, warmed by morning light, cooled by dragonfly wings over the pond like a taste of tenderness.

And in that short eternity, in those still, precious moments with all my senses alive, I was not the birdsong.

I was not the trees.

I wasn’t even a woman.

I was the whole world, and I was saving myself.

Photo by John D’Onofrio

its conclusion at the Mount Shark trailhead at Spray Lakes, you can choose between two trails. Their names tell the story: Wonder Pass and Marvel Pass.

Campsites in the core area of Assiniboine must be reserved in advance. Needless to say, the demand for these world-class places to pitch a tent ANW is exceedingly high.

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Field Trip

Torres Del Paine

Adventures beyond the PNW

N

ine other kayakers and I completed a private kayak/ sailboat charter in Chile that took us from Tortel to Puerto Natales for ten days, visiting many of the glaciers that are too difficult to see by kayak alone. With my late friend Ken Brunton, we expanded our travels to include a visit to Torres del Paine National Park.

Ken was a great traveler and veteran instigator of many kayak explorations.

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Story and Photo by Reg Lake

Chilean Patagonia is unique for its many glaciers pushing right down to the sea, a unique combination of high-country scenery at sea level.

The remarkable topography of Torres Del Paine National Park is the result of a 12-million-year process of Plate Tectonics and erosion, leaving sculpted peaks and beautifully carved valleys.

Lago Grey (Grey Lake) is 146 feet above sea level. Its waters travel another 36 miles in two rivers to reach the sea near Puerto Natales.

On this particular day, the north wind had carried the Grey Glacier’s bergy bits to the lake’s southern end and against the gravel moraine spit that connects with Isla Mirador. After walking the spit, we stopped for a hot drink at Hotel Grey, where we saw trekkers walking across the strand, lending a sense of scale to the heroic landscape.

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Cascadia Gear:

Gear Spotlight:

Essentials for your next Adventure

Is Backcountry Essentials now a paddle sports store?

Guest Review by CD

by Chris Gerston

The Pacific Northwest is blessed with so many places for adventure.

Tall peaks, rugged coastlines, and deep valleys pull us toward the frontier, where our comfort zones give way to the exhilaration of the unknown. After returning to camp, however, the last thing we want is an adventure with the zipper on the tent or the discovery of wet gear inside. Thankfully, MSR® has created a family car camping tent that promises reliability, ease of use, convenience, and comfort. The Habitude™ 6 boasts more than 83 square feet of floor space and enough height for me (6’2”) to stand upright.

It was easy to put together (and take down!) the first time we used it and has simple illustrated instructions attached in case you need a reminder. The rainfly provides a generous vestibule, and the inside provides pockets galore to keep everyone’s headlamps and eyeglasses organized. The thoughtfully designed zipper ensures you’ll never have to search for it in the middle of the night. And man, there’s room for everyone!

More info: msrgear.com

LowePro Nova 200 AW II Camera Shoulder Bag I have used a wide variety of camera bags over the years to haul my photography gear. When backpacking, a hipbelt bag worn on the front works well, but for day hiking, a shoulder bag is my conveyance of choice. The Lowepro® Nova 200 AW II is ideal for this purpose. It’s large enough to hold one or two DSLRs and two or three lenses as well as all the accessories required for an extended foray into the wilds: spare batteries, filters, memory cards, etc. The padded shoulder strap makes it easy to carry for extended periods and the top loading flap (either secured with a zipper or single latch flap) makes accessing my gear quick and effortless. The built-in rain cover (stashed in a zippered pocket) offers solid protection when storms blow in and a multiplicity of side pockets make it easy to keep everything organized.

More info: www.lowepro.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.

A

s the Northwest gets warmer, it seems like we are all going to want to find some water sports to cool off with in the summer time. Backcountry Essentials has been researching what makes sense for us to offer the community. We have added two new brands in the pack rafting world, Kokopelli and Alpacka. We now offer super light boats for alpine lakes (3.6 lbs), bike rafting (5.2 lbs), and Whitewater Rivers (7.818 lbs) for sale or to rent. We also brought in the lightest Stand Up Paddleboard (SUP) made, the Kokopelli Chasm Lite inflatable SUP (12.9 lbs).

SUPs have become a great tool to cool off in the summertime, get a peaceful workout, or entertain the kids at the lake.

The problem has been the size and weight of the boat for transportation and storage. The Chasm rolls up to just larger than a roll of paper towels and also fits in your closet for storage or car for transportation without a rack.

The Chasm Lite is the definition of portability, packing into the included drybag with plenty of space for the pump, paddle, fin, leash (all included), and other basics, sunscreen, PFD, etc.

When inflated, the 10-foot long, 30” wide, and 6” thick SUP is a stable boat for lakes and slow-moving rivers.

So, is Backcountry Essentials now a paddle shop? Well, sort of. Staying true to our core, we encourage lightweight adventures for rejuvenation, including rentals and demos to help people find new passions.

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

MSR Habiscape 4 Tent Here’s another winning choice for family camping from the folks at MSR®.

The Habiscape™ 4 is a solid, comfortable four-person car camping tent that packs small and is relatively light (12 lbs., 11 oz) for its generous capacity. It sets up easily, and is well-engineered to withstand whatever the elements throw your way. The rainfly door can be rolled completely out of the way or, with the help of a few poles (sold separately), turned into a shade cover.

Another innovative feature is a Pass-thru pocket, which allows for accessing things like keys or headlamps from the inside or outside.

More info: msrgear.com

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Help build a resilient future for Whatcom County's future generations. Join us for a work party this fall!

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the

Next

Adventure

A Wolf at Dawn photo by CHRISTINE SMITH I work on a boat and count myself lucky that my day starts at 4 am. Early mornings hold a special place in my heart as they are quiet and contemplative. On this particular morning, we were anchored in South Sandy Cove in Glacier Bay National Park. As I climbed the ladder from my cabin to the galley to relieve our deckhand Matt from his overnight watch, I heard a ruckus from the nearby night roost of crows alerting me that something exciting was going on. Glancing out the galley windows, I observed Mt. Bertha in the distance, bathed in a delicate pink hue. I rushed to start the water for coffee in order to step outside and enjoy the sunrise, take a few photos, and then sit still on the back deck to listen to the world wake up while I waited for the water to boil, lost in the beauty of the dawn colors.

Hearing the water begin to boil, I returned to the galley, removed the pot from the stove, and reached for a spoon to scoop the coffee grounds. As I turned, I caught sight of a silhouette loping on the beach coming from the crow’s night roost. My heart raced, and I instinctively grabbed my camera. Through the lens, I confirmed what my heart told me, the silhouetted figure was a solitary wolf traversing the narrow strip of land still partially submerged by the receding tide.

The wolf’s movements were deliberate and graceful. I maintained my focus, tracking its every step through the viewfinder. Without a moment’s pause or hesitation, the wolf made its way across the strip of land and seamlessly blended into the tall grass. Nose pointed downward; it continued into the depths of the forest, disappearing as swiftly as it had materialized.

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