Adventures Northwest Magazine Winter 2020/21 by John DOnofrio

ADVENTURES NORTHWEST WINTER 2020/21

WINTER DREAMS Ice Climbing the Coleman Glacier Snowshoeing White Salmon X-Country Skiing in the Methow Colin Fletcher Friends of the Forest Lake Padden Soliloquy Mt. Baker Ski Area

2020-21

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INSPIRATIONS

IN THIS ISSUE

Much More Than a Boating Store

The Cold Shoulder Nick Belcaster Old Friends and Falling Snow

John D’Onofrio

Winter at White Salmon Creek

10 18

Winter Splendor in the North Cascades Bob Kandiko

Lake Padden Soliloquy Judy Johnston

To Plow or Not to Plow

Gregory Scruggs

Friends of the Forest William Dietrich

Discord at Silver Star

Fumbling Toward Fulfillment

Robert Wehrman

The Metamorphosis of Colin Fletcher

DESTINATIONS What Have We Learned? Out & About 3 Great Hikes ... for Winter Letters to the Editor Mountain Haiku Bright Lines: Roger Gilman eARTh: The Art of Nature Field Trip: Cathedral George Cascadia Gear Next Adventure: Blue Moon

7 8 9 9 12 13 46 48 49 50

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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CONTRIBUTORS Nick Belcaster lives, writes and plays in Washington State and is typically found above tree-line, refining the art of scree skiing and warding off hungry alpine snafflehounds. Neil Dickie focuses on landscape and astro-photography, and his main beat is the Saanich Peninsula of Vancouver Island. His work was included in a showing of Island photographers at the Art Gallery of Greater Victoria in 2018, and has often been featured in Island print and online media. William Dietrich is a Pulitzerwinning journalist formerly at the Seattle Times and is the author of more than 20 books, both nonfiction and fiction. He taught environmental journalism at Huxley College and with his students wrote Green Fire, a history of the college. The poet Roger Gilman lives in Bellingham and can be found around the northwest along Cas-

Volume 15. Issue 4 cade mountain streams and in Puget Sound salt marshes fly fishing and birding for poems. Formerly the poetry editor of The Chicago Review, he is a philosopher of evolutionary ecology and restoration biology and served as dean of Fairhaven College at Western Washington University. Roger currently serves as poetry editor of Adventures Northwest.

WINTER | 2020/21

vided ample free time for him to seek adventure in the great outdoors. His favorite winter quote: “In winter, every mile is two.” Stephen McMillan has been a professional artist for almost 50 years. His art is a printmaking technique known at aquatint etching. It allows him to create images with subtle tonal and color passages as he draws views of natural beauty. Explore his work at sonic.net/aquatint.

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.

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 Washington Post, Backcounty Magazine and other publications, he lists his religion as Turns All Year and he’s stoked for the La Niña winter.

Judy Johnston is a retired educator, writer, wife, mother and grandmother. She wrote a column for The Clinton Lariat for eight years.

Robert Wehrman is a composer, explorer, and the author of six books. His latest, Walking Man – The Secret Life of Colin Fletcher, is the biography of the famous walker and was a finalist in the Banff Mountain and Book Festival. ANW

Bob Kandiko discovered the Pacific Northwest when he attended graduate school at the University of British Columbia. 33 years as a public school science teacher pro-

COVER PHOTO BY BOB KANDIKO

Adventures Northwest magazine John D’Onofrio

Jason Rinne

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WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?

inter is here. For many of us, this has been the most challenging year of our lives. As the year draws to a close, it seems like a good opportunity to engage in some reflection on what we have learned from the ordeal of 2020. The Spanish philosopher George Santayana famously observed in 1905, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” So what have we learned? We’ve been given a profound lesson in interconnectivity. And not just the interdependence of homo sapiens but the interwoven structure of everything in the natural world. An education in the consequences of turning a blind eye to ways of living that have become fundamentally unbalanced in the delicate dance of sustainability that makes quality of life—in fact, life itself—supportable. Our connections to each other and to nature are not negotiable, but absolutely essential. We’ve seen how important a true sense of community is, the organization of our activities around a shared

principal of health and well-being for all, as opposed to what has become a bankrupt philosophy of personal gain at the expense of others. We’ve learned in no uncertain terms that the parameters of how we conduct ourselves on this blue-green planet are defined by science and reason, not by magical thinking or short-term profit. Truth matters. We’ve seen the dire implications of a society without justice—whether the injustice is steeped in racial, environmental or economic terms. Without justice and equity, our home is a house of cards. And we’ve learned that we are capable of change. We have discovered resiliencies and adaptability that expand the definitions of what is possible in our quest to build a better future, one that honors all people and nature, a way forward that moves beyond the self-centered focus of our history. A paradigm shift that embraces creativity and innovation in the service of our better angels. It’s going to be a tough winter but as we turn the page on 2020, we have before us an opportunity to reframe

our narrative, to re-invent ourselves as part of a greater whole, to rediscover our promise as a species. With new leadership and a clear vision of where we’ve gone wrong, we have a chance to build a world according to a more informed and more compassionate view of life on Earth. Harmony is not a goal, it is a condition of survival. We’ve had our wake up call. It’s time to get to work.

Editor’s Note: In light of the COVID-19 situation, we’ve suspended our Outdoor Events Calendar. Look for this to return soon!

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Out&About

Mt. Baker Ski Area in the Time of COVID By Ainslee Dicken The Winter era of COVID is upon us, and with the new season comes a whole new set of uncertainties. Here in the Pacific Northwest we’ve already witnessed massive disruption: unemployment, closures of small businesses and the steep plummet of tourism dollars that nourish the coffers of our communities. Despite all this: Mt. Baker Ski Area is doing just fine.

Photo by Katie Ann Lange

Nestled 2.5 hours north of Seattle, and about two hours southeast of Vancouver, BC, Mt. Baker Ski Area has been operated by an independent, locally-owned company since 1953. In the 1998-99 season, they experienced the all-time world record for snowfall is a single season, an amazing 1,140 inches, or 95 feet. They’ve since solidified their reputation as one of the best pillow-skiing destinations in the United States (according to snow-addicted friends), attracting devotees from far and wide. CEO Gwyn Howat, daughter of President Duncan Howat, says that one thing she loves about the mountains is how constant they are. “You look at Mt. Shuksan or Mt. Baker and you think of how long those mountains have been there. And you know that certain things remain the same: the snowfall, the environment, nature... all of that. So, it’s reassuring to know that will be the same [amidst the pandemic],” she says. However, she’s used to change, and this year pegs the meter. The ski area made the wise decision to discontinue operations early on March 15 in 2020. Since then the staff has been working diligently to create a safe and sustainable 2020-2021 season. Howat feels confident that they have it dialed in. “I trust our community and I trust the staff. I trust that we can all find a way through this in the most positive way possible. And I care deeply about that, because I know that the mountains are such an important place for people to have some fun and to support their health and wellbeing…to find some adventure and to do those things that contribute to human wellness.” 8

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Season pass sales, offered in autumn on their website, were paused on November 6 as a precaution but when asked if there’s been a drop in sales, Howat replied that the opposite has been true, saying she’s been amazed at how much they’ve sold despite losing their Canadian visitors, which she estimates was around 10-20% of their clientele. “We’ve been doing really well. We’re very appreciative of returning pass holders from last year and this year. We’re still holding strong with past sales. We’re very happy, and it actually exceeded our expectations, which is always a pleasant surprise.” Their website has maintained a COVID-19 update page since the beginning, and they’re now on their seventh update: thoroughly detailing what to expect during the season (which opened on November 20) and how to best navigate your winter fun taking into account the ongoing pandemic concerns. Though the site warns they may require online reservations for ski lifts on certain days, Howat feels that it may not be necessary. “I have a high degree of confidence that it would be very unlikely we would need reservations, but you’re hearing me hesitate as I don’t want to commit until we hear more guidelines from the state,” Howat says, “I also have a high degree of confidence that we’ll be able to handle the normal flow of traffic at the ski area,” although she says this will require the public to be “very cognizant of physical distancing and wearing masks.” Howat also mentions that another way the community can help Mt. Baker is to spread the love – visit on weekdays whenever popular—instead of weekends—to mitigate the crowds. “We’re one of the few ski areas still offering weekday rates,” she points out, an added incentive to bring people in during less crowded times. She emphasizes staying up to date with current conditions on their website (www.mtbaker.us), as they post regular updates. And as for the Legendary Banked Slalom, the ski area has decided to postpone until 2022, but the Locals Qualifier will still be held in February. ANW

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The Free-flowing Nooksack When the 25-foot high Middle Fork Dam on the Nooksack River was dismantled this summer, it opened up approximately 16 miles of prime habitat to endangered Chinook salmon for the first time in almost 60 years. The dam removal represents a long-sought victory for environmentalists, thanks to the tireless efforts of the Lummi Nation, Nooksack Tribe, City of Bellingham and American Rivers, among others. ANW Photos by Brett Baunton

3 Great Hikes for W int er Squires Lake

Squires Lake Park, located on the Whatcom/Skagit county border, is a relatively new park, created in 1995 (thanks to Whatcom County Parks and the Whatcom Land Trust). Cooperatively managed by the Whatcom and Skagit County Parks & Recreation Departments, in mid-winter it’s a delightful leg-stretcher that affords a peaceful and easy stroll around this tranquil little lake. After a gentle climb of 1/3 mile, the Squires Lake Loop Trail is reached. This mile-long loop circles the lake, weaving through mossy forest and beside bird-filled marshes (more than 50 species of birds have been seen here). Short side trips include the Beaver Pond Loop and the South Ridge Trail which climbs a bit to views of the Chuckanuts and a connection with the Pacific Northwest Trail (you could follow this to Montana!). Scientists agree: An hour or two spent on a winter’s day here will lower your blood pressure. Trailhead: Old Highway 99, 1 miles south of exit 242 off I-5.

Cone Beach

Letters to the Editor Share your thoughts!

Write to editor@AdventuresNW.com

So absolutely joyous to see the publication on the shelf at co op today!!! I’ve not yet even read it....waited to savor each page and article...even the ads! Holding this magazine makes me feel that things are more normal, as it has been an important part of my life for years. Congratulations that you are hanging in there!

- Lydia Stone, Bellingham

Cypress Island is a gem in the San Juans, a pristine and tranquil place, accessible only by private boat. This hike begins at Pelican Beach, an anchorage with six mooring buoys and home to a lovely campground managed by the Department of Natural Resources. From the beach, the trail heads southwest through beautiful forest for a half mile. Turn left on the Duck Lake Loop and follow this trail for .75 mile until you see an unmarked side trail veering left towards the water, ending at Cone Beach with its glorious view out over the picturesque Cone Islands. Mt. Baker rises The Cone Islands and Mt. Baker from Cone Beach in the distance Photo by John D’Onofrio like a dream.

Adventures Northwest gives me hope. Your autumn issue also inspired a fall hike. I spent a few days last week in Mazama, including hiking Windy Pass for the first time. Thanks for the suggestion. It was quiet up there. Just me, the wind and a couple crows riding the thermals.

- Mary Vermillion, Bellingham

I am just absolutely blown away by your magazine and the print quality, the articles and the advertising! It inspires me to want to do some hiking/camping… The beauty of what you capture is just awesome.

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- Hal Varrell, Bellingham

Trailhead: Pelican Beach DNR campground, Cypress Island.

Horseshoe Bend When the winter palette trends toward grey, the Horseshoe Bend Trail offers a counterpoint of vivid green. This short and easy walk beside the tumultuous Nooksack River enlivens the spirit and offers unique aesthetic pleasures: the combination of venerable, dripping rainforest and the wild whitewater of the unfettered Nooksack. The trail is not long—2.5 miles out and back—but there are numerous places to pause and reflect, to ponder both the drama and the tranquility of this splendid green enclave. Trailhead: Mt. Baker Highway (SR-542) between mile markers 34 and 35.

The heartbeat of Cascadia

Climber Scott Wilson ascends the ancient ice of the Lower Coleman glacier. 10

The heartbeat of Cascadia

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Cold Shoulder The

Story and Photos by Nick Belcaster

he gold Grand Marquis in the ditch was probably a sign.

But that was a mile or so back now. Driving up Forest Road 39 has become a death-defying experience. The higher we go, the more the road surface devolves, glazed over in a sheen of glare ice. The first snow of the season has turned against us. I’m joined by the only partner I could cajole, lie to or otherwise hijack into accompanying me on my pursuit of just one last climbing trip straight in the thick of the transition from fall to winter. Now, we’re considering how we’re even going to get back down in one piece. “Yeah, it’s a shit-show up there. We’re outta here.” When the man in the Jeep with 37 inch tires tells you this, it’s time to tuck tail. I manage to get the car turned around and into first gear, slowly lumbering downhill, only losing control a handful of adrenal-squeezing times. We agree to reconvene in one week’s time, hoping for another fleeting weather window and less Crisco-like pavement. The shoulder season does not avail itself to our entreaties easily.

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Seasons balanced on the razors edge. The first snow of winter contrasts with the deep blue of the summers exposed ice.

Whenever I tell people about Western Washington, it’s bound to come up. The rain. Rains a lot up there, huh? Like we’re semi-aquatic–vestigial gills and all. Moss behind our ears. I like to think it’s a bit more nuanced than that, that we have a specific rainy season, independent from the general drizzle. Wherein our handshake agreement with the Weather Gods allows for the loan of sunshine to be paid back as a lump sum, sometime between October and November. This is the shoulder sea-

son. An interlude for eternally optimistic outdoor recreationalists. Too cold to climb rock, not yet snowy enough to ski, and just about miserable enough to make backpacking a less-than-ideal affair, the shoulder season

is typically the time for reflection or planning, gear repair or purchase. For general repose. The rain falls in dark sails, luffing and snapping on shore. Most find a new hobby. Some are too foolhardy to stop what they’ve been doing.

Mountain Haiku By Bill Hoke

Pileated woodpeckers going tree to tree Flirting on the North Fork

Photo by Ken Salzman

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This time of year is typically a slow time at the mountaineering shop where I’ve somehow convinced the owner to actually pay me to fiddle with expensive gear all day. Once September rolls around and the gloss of the high season fades, we settle into a milder rhythm. The Sprinter van-types beat it to Vegas, but not us. We coil ropes and check for core shots. Drink beers at 3 p.m. The rain thrums the windows. On one such afternoon I am here in the shop, scrubbing the late-summer pumice mud from the lugs of mountaineering boots, when the realization comes to me: I don’t know what I’m doing next weekend. So I inquire around for ideas. One of my co-workers is going to try his luck skiing Heliotrope Ridge. Another may sneak in some running if this rain lets up. We pore over potential scenarios for multi-sport days: a ski in the morning and a paddle by afternoon, mountain biking to a bouldering spot. Anything goes with enough Gore-Tex and gumption. I grab another pair of boots, feeling strangely invigorated, pondering how the coming together of the seasons might offer some fresh facet of being outside, some new mix of challenge and reward unknown in the heights of summer or the depths of winter. Then, there are the realists. Later I ask another coworker what he liked to get into during these months. The answer, without much thought: “Soup, mostly.” Finally, it arrives. High pressure. Clear skies. Warm enough. Any desperate man or woman with the day off or a good enough excuse finds themselves headed for the hills. Some run or bike through the muck, the ‘Turns All Year’ folks are off skiing dirty smears of snow, and others, like us, head for the permanent exposed ice of our local volcano. Back on Forest Road 39. This time the road is free and clear (Grand Marquis is still there) and we pull into the trail-

POETRY FROM THE WILD

Snow Camp The lean of a snowdrift is temporary; the wind. By Roger Gilman Watching the moon bloom slowly from a sleeping bag through tent flaps high on a Cascade ridge, we recall how when we first met and first pulled covers over our ears no one had yet touched the moon; no one but us. Now that flags and cameras camp out there, no one lives in secret from this ice-faced spy. Nosy old fool, why peak in on us? Give us peace, give us back the warmth of day. Give us each other; forget the snow falling on the heather. Curled together in one big bag, backs to the wind and pile of snow crusted boulders grown blunt as old bear’s teeth, our love grows sharp as roots beneath our backs, while the ground chill creeps closer. The Earth is awake tonight, lying on its back, eyes wide open to the universe. But we’ll wake early and bribe the sun to pay attention to us, warm us -- we who have travelled far together, above tree-line, and now huddle on this wind-swept bald. Soon it will be spring: Let our love be like mountain heather holding together not only through snow-storm, but flash-flood. Photo by John D’Onofrio

head with ease. There’s a snap to the air as we pack away all the necessary seasonal accoutrements: thermoses of hot drinks, gloves, bigger gloves, microspikes, trekking poles with pow-

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der baskets, hell, one more pair of gloves. Then we turn onto the dark of the Heliotrope Ridge trail and begin climbing. The tread begins on dark loam but is quickly speckled in white. There is something about the first snow, the way it lays on the land, both concealing and accentuating the familiar contours. The rumbling glacial torrents that cross the trail and swell in summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heat are now tamed but unyielding, fringed around the rocks with a crystalline lattice of ice. For some reason the forestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s scent is especially sweet today. We climb through seasons, ascending from autumn to winter, reaching the small turnoff that leads down to Mirkwood Camp, a scattering of sites perched on the lateral moraine above the Coleman glacier. After descending the moraine we poke our way out onto the crumpled edge of the ice, donning crampons. The glacier here is studded with rock from the steady ablation of ice, once a long snowy finger that has melted back to the knuckle. I am surprised to count off the number of climbers already on the glacier, their ropes spanning multiple tiers of ice. I ramble up, finding an adequate face and fire a few ice screws into the ancient blue, equalize, toss down rope, rappel. We take turns making laps up the ice, swinging our tools, kicking our toes, each sending a spray of ice. Swing, swing. Kick, kick. We talk about the long-lost summer and the passing of autumn. We talk about the winter opening around us. But mostly we talk about being here, now.

From swinging your ice tools for the first time to getting overhung, Koma Kulshan has ice for everyone. 14

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A climber challenges himself on a cresting wave of ice on the Lower Coleman Glacier.

Eventually with arms burning and legs wobbly, pant legs sporting a few new crampon gashes and our rope turning icy, we pause to watch the other climbers. Many are trying ice climbing for the first time, and they work through the movements with encouragement from below. The clouds part and the fresh snow on the mountains around us gleams in the sun. The ice moves imperceptibly beneath us. The wheel never stops turning. Joy abounds in the margins, in the in-between of this shoulder season. Swing, swing. Kick, kick. Here, now. ANW

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Old Friends and Falling Snow Winter at White Salmon Creek Story and photos by John D’Onofrio The snow itself is lonely or, if you prefer, self-sufficient. There is no other time when the whole world seems composed of only one thing and one thing only. - Joseph Wood Krutch

am old enough to have experienced the profound benefit of long friendships.

annual excursion along these lines had become a custom, an obligatory rite of winter, a sacred duty. These fellows are all of an adventurous bent, easy-going and possessed of the requisite idiosyncrasies to keep things interesting and conversation scintillating.

The Valley of White Salmon Creek

The arc of a lifetime, when shared with folks who are special to you, is in some way measured and calibrated by these interactions. Things change. We change. But the joys of sharing the adventures that stir one’s soul with equally passionate people does not fade. A cadre of these old friends have made it a habit to join me on a winter outing each year, having long ago discovered a mutual appreciation for winter backpacking and snow camping, either on cross-country skis or snowshoes (the choice determined by both conditions and ambitions). An 18

The heartbeat of Cascadia

And so it was that after many years of these winter forays, we found ourselves facing a familiar quandary: We had finagled a weekend where our party of five could all get away and now we had to choose a destination. As usu

al, this involved an in-depth strategic planning session at Boundary Bay. On this occasion, the session lasted even longer than usual. We thought about Rainier (too far to drive), the Wells Creek Road (not enough elevation to insure good snow) and a variety of other potential destinations both familiar and unknown. Finally, we settled on White Salmon Creek, accessed by snowshoeing the White Salmon Road off of the Mt. Baker Highway. At the time, none of us had been out that way before and the prospect of enjoying the winter alpenglow on Mt. Shuksan was tantalizing. After copious pondering and much poring over topo maps, a plan began to take shape… When Friday night rolled around we found ourselves heading up the Mt. Baker Highway, filled with anticipation for a weekend of adventure. We camped beside the Nooksack River at a favorite >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

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overnight stop on the way to the mountain. As usual at this time of year, we were the only ones there. Somewhat Evening Blanket less predictably, the sky was clear and a mantle of stars provided a canopy for our campfire. In the morning we’d hike into the valley of the White Salmon. For tonight, it was time to kick back beside the fire, telling stories and laughing the unfettered laughter of good friends enjoying an evening together in the woods. The night grew cold, but we were warm and comfortable by the fire. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl serenaded us as moonlight painted

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the river with an ethereal golden luster. Life was good.

The morning was clear and emphatically cold. There were tracks in

the snow beside the river: John speculated that they might belong to elk. We made coffee and breakfast beneath giant cedars and gathering clouds, broke camp and headed up the road towards the mountain. It began to snow, lightly at first. As we ascended the Mt. Baker Highway, the snow began to fall harder, reducing visibility to a hundred feet. We pulled off at the White Salmon snow park and loaded our packs and the infamous sledge—a converted plastic sled that Gary had commandeered from his kids. The sledge was sort of a tradition with us, utilized over numerous winter

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outings and over the years we’d refined our sledge technique considerably. Stowing essential items in a dry bag, we lashed it on using an elegant rope system of Gary’s devising. We carried our own “campfire” on the sledge, a fire pan and Duraflame logs, insuring zero impact when we camped. We shouldered our packs and strapped on our snowshoes. Gary slipped into the sledge harness and we set off up the White Salmon road into the falling snow. We followed the road up and over a rise and then began Morning Excavation the long descent into the valley of White Salmon creek. At an obscure junction we turned right (why not?), paralleling the creek, unseen but presumably somewhere below. The snow was really flying now and our views were limited to the other members of the party, moving in a line through the swirling white. The route became rougher as we fought our way through thickets of slide alder across a slope. The sledge kept getting hung up in the trees. Joe, venerable beyond his years, hauled it through the worst of it and the route petered out altogether on a little bench amongst the trees. We decided to make camp here on a more-or-less The Journey Home level patch of snow, pitched the tents and excavated a living room/kitchen in the drifts. Dusk (and more snow) fell and we ate our dinner beside a crackling fire beneath a tarp, strung from spindly 20

The heartbeat of Cascadia

alders, taking turns shoveling off the tents which were quickly becoming buried. Dick produced a bottle of fine port from the sledge and we toasted our good fortune. Then one by one, it was off to the business of dreams in the deep hush of a winter night, disturbed only by the need to get up in the wee hours to shovel the snow from the tent. Morning came early, bright and clear. We dug ourselves out of our tents and emerged into a sparkling world of white beneath a royal blue sky. At least a foot of new snow had fallen and there was not a breath of wind. Gary got the morning fire going (bless him) and we put on the water for coffee. We relaxed beside the fire and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of buckwheat pancakes. It was a Jack London moment. Shuksan was framed between snow-mantled hemlock; a breathtaking sight in the crystalline morning light. The quiet was periodically broken by the roar of avalanches and the croaking of ravens. Gary checked his two thermometers—one said 40 and the other said 15. As usual, the truth lay somewhere in the middle. We got to work digging out the tents and our packs, buried in the snow. The tents would be far heavier on the hike out, thanks to the clinging ice and snow but thankfully we had the trusty sledge. We hoisted our packs and started back through the tangle of alder in the deep

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powder, a joyous and vigorous enterprise. The mountains were magnificentâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a Robert Frost poem come to lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;cloaked in fresh snow, gleaming in the cold sun, the summit of Shuksan adorned with a Old Friends plume of spindrift. We spread out as we made our way through the woods, each of us alone with our thoughts, moving in silence except

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for the crunching of our snowshoes and the occasional whump of snow falling from a branch. All too soon, we reached the trailhead, dug out the vehicles (a lot of digging on this trip!) and loaded our gear for the journey home to Bellingham, happy, weary and energized, all at the same time. We pulled onto the Mt. Baker Highway into the après ski traffic and headed west into the late afternoon sun toward home. ANW Winter Light, Mt. Shuksan

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Winter Splendor in the

North Cascades By Bob Kandiko

he jet stream of moisture-laden clouds has pummeled the Pacific Northwest for days. The winds begin to shift from the southwest to the northeast, bringing cold, dry air from Canada, driven by an encroaching high pressure system. The stage is set and the curtain of grey slowly rises, revealing the stars of the show: the jagged peaks of the North Cascades decked out in a fresh mantle of powder snow clinging impossibly to nearly-vertical cliffs against a backdrop of the bluest of skies. Let the show begin! Top Row (L-R): Baker and Snow Patterns; Winter Sun on Shuksan; Snow Hoodoos Middle Row (L-R): Iceberg Lake and Shadows; Winter Window; Sastrugi Bottom Row (L-R): Koma Kulshan and Lenticular Cloud; Church Mountain; Mt. Rexford

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Lake Padden Soliloquy Story by Judy Johnston

t’s chilly here this morning, unlike the recent fall day I was inspired to walk around Lake Padden. It had been months since my last complete loop, but I was determined to give it a go, it being such a beautiful day and all. I parked above the swimming area and headed off, my trusty walking stick as my companion. Why not start with Heart Attack hill? Approaching this challenge, I was treated to vistas across the lake to the Chuckanut Hills including a kayaker slipping silently beyond the shore, a picturesque snapshot on the sun-sparkled water. Then, the hill. One step at a time as I began to recall the many times I ran this route. Cresting the hill, a group of laughing, chatting ladies walked by; a moment of envy at their companionship and fun. And then the deeper woods. Oh, I’d forgotten how majestic the wise old trees are, how fresh the glades slipping off the path, fern strewn. A feeling of peace, of being unhurried, of refreshment settled around me. Stopping to give homage, I place my hands on gnarled bark…the message was quite clear: “I’ve been here for hundreds of years, draw on my strength and shed the worry, the clutter, the sadness: life will flow on.” I got a sense of permission to take my time, sit when I wanted to, breathe, reflect and drink in the scents of pine and cedar, sun warmed. But I continued on. Several dog walkers, buggy pushers and joggers 26

The heartbeat of Cascadia

passed with a friendly response to my masked greeting, a pleasant sense of community. Sunlight pierced through the colored leaves as well as the lofty fir and cedar and it felt good to crunch through the fall detritus. Rounding a bend, another hill —up and then down, remind-

I sat on one of the many memorial benches, enjoyed a refreshing drink and reveled in not needing to hurry…no one awaiting me, no schedule to keep. It was around this half-way point when Jim and I had walked together that I’d joke, “this walk is just too long, I think I’ll go back.” He heard it more than once and indulged my attempt at humor. How many times had we walked this path together? He often stopped to pick up pinecones and interesting small pieces of wood, each a treasure in his eyes, while I, sometimes impatient, waited to walk on. Continuing, I caught glimpse after glimpse of more views of the lake through leafy frames. And now, the curve in the downward path revealing the baseball fields, more people enjoying this lovely place. I sit again watching the ducks waddle around hoping for a handout, the drake guarding his less lovely mate. The playground, usually alight with the laughter of playing children and their happy parents, now Covidquiet, a bit forlorn. A memory of being here a year or so ago with Photo by Chara Stuart my granddaughter Kaila, her tiny hand in mine as she said she was ing me of cross-country skiing here on a glad I was with her and then skipping off cold winter day, and the exhilaration of to play. a challenging bike ride or two. And oh! And on I go, the home stretch. The Another memory of a solitary walk durseat where Jim and I used to sit, especially ing a high wind, the trees flaying their in his final years of being at home. Quiet arms as if to tell me: Watch out! Limbs talk, mutual appreciation of the sights, could come down! Recalling the moansounds and fragrances around us. A gening of the wind as it whipped through tle communion. Seeing a few fishermen, I huge branches and pushed me along remembered several years of OPENING brought a smile to my soul. (Story continued after Arts & Culture Guide)

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DAY OF FISHING: My husband, the biologist who planted this lake and dozens of others with nice fat trout hungry for a fly or a worm. A couple of way-too-early-risings to take my energetic young son David and his best buddy Jaimie for a first crack at fishing, their enthusiasm better than coffee to get me going. Another time with my aging dad, excited to the point where he lost his pole during a cast. We caught a few fish that day and he, childlike, reveled in every moment. Now the blackberry stretch where motor sounds invade the quiet; hurried souls off to do something important. A mother with her toddler paddling in the shallows, a few companionable groups and an occasional solo walker, sometimes in deep contemplation. Dogs, sunshine, and oh, for goodness sake, a handsome older gentleman attired in running shoes, lapping me. I had noticed him the first time he passed and nearly let out a “whoo hooo!”, my version of a teenage whistle, maturity and restraint—however limited—winning out. I watched him jog on. Then the steep steps and there’s my SUV, old friend, a welcome sight to my aging legs and hips. But also with a lift of spirit and a bit of pride. I did it! This place, this Lake Padden: my challenge, sprit lifter, refuge, a place to cry. A store house of memories, hopefully with more to come. ANW

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To Plow or Not to Plow? That is the Question along North Cascades Highway as Methow Valley Seeks a Sno-Park at Silver Star Gate Story by Gregory Scruggs

Photo by Gregory Scruggs

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fter a conspicuously dry fall, the 2019 winter solstice was wet and wild in the Pacific Northwest as a Pineapple Express drenched the region with moisture. Seattle shattered a 120-yearold precipitation record by over an inch, but my hopes for liquid gold turning to powder in the high country after an agonizingly slow start to the ski season were dashed. At the loftiest reaches of Washington resort skiing, repeating circuits on Crystal Mountain’s Green Valley chair kept me above the frustratingly high snow line. But spooning feet of fresh chowder was hardly consolation for gear that wetted out on the walk from the parking lot to the base chairlift under the deluge. Scanning the Cascades telemetry, however, yielded a possible backcountry bonanza: cooling air east of the crest conspired to turn the tropical torrent into a wintry Christmas present above 4,000’. An atmospheric river laden with moisture had produced five feet of snow. North Cascades Highway (State Route 20) had closed for the season to over-the-crest traffic less than two weeks prior, one of the latest closures on record amidst a drought-stricken autumn. Fortunately, the Washington State Department of Transportation (WSDOT) website and app both indicated that the road was open on the east side to the Silver Star gate at elevation 3,200’, close enough to reach the goods. After an oh-dark-hundred wakeup on December 23, my ski partner and I drove five hours, only to find a snow berm at Early Winters Campground (elevation 2,200’), some seven miles before our destination. WSDOT was days late updating their public-facing messaging. While snowmobile access is common in the area, solely human-powered travelers like ourselves were out of luck. stories & the race|play|experience calendar online.

On one of the shortest days of the year, 14 miles of round-trip skinning up the highway was not going to make for much of a ski day. Skunked, we retreated to Mazama gear shop Goat’s Beard Mountain Supplies, where manager CB Thomas pointed us to a nearby foothill with some short skiable pitches between scrub brush that bottomed out on zigzagging stretches of forest road. Not exactly the North Cascades powder fest of our dreams. Thomas, who has spent a decade of winters in the Methow Valley, finds the eastern wintertime terminus of Highway 20 a mercurial moving target. “The road closure has changed almost every year,” he said. The unpredictability has meant that in some seasons, his 14 backcountry ski setups are regularly rented out over the busy Christmas holiday if out-of-town skiers can drive up to the Silver Star gate and start climbing straight from the trailhead to destinations like Delancy Ridge. But the premature closure nixed that option for the 2019-2020 season. “Without that access, we are relegated to frontcountry skiing only and our rental fleet will more than likely sit there unused this winter,” he said. There is one solution to this public lands winter access conundrum: making Silver Star into a Sno-Park. Thomas claims that there has been considerable legwork in the Methow Valley to advocate for a new Sno-Park, but so far the state is tight-lipped about the subject. “There have been discussions with user groups about putting in a SnoPark at Silver Star Gate,” confirmed Washington State Parks and Recreation spokesperson Toni Weyman Droscher. “However, nothing is firm at this time– it’s a work in progress.” According to WSDOT’s map of Highway 20, the stretch from Early Winters to Silver Star is free and clear of avalanche paths, but regularly plowing those seven miles is still a big expense for a cash-strapped agency, which is

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facing major budget shortfalls due to plowed as far as Silver Star gate into the COVID-19 recession. Even before January, the solstice snafu also caught the pandemic, the 2018 cost-cutting the Methow Valley’s snowmobile owndecision to move the western seasonal closure four miles downhill sparked a backlash from winter recreationalists. Although WSDOT’s snow-clearing equipment is deployed midwinter to maintain through-routes like Stevens and Snoqualmie Passes, there is no lack of heavy machinery in the Methow Valley, just a lack of funds. “There are plenty of people here who have plow trucks or blowers that we could contract to go do it CB Thomas, Manager of Goat’s Beard Mountain Supplies. Photo by Gregory Scruggs if the Sno-Park were put in,” Thomas said. There is precedent for this ers off guard. Thomas estimates that kind of partnership: A non-profit raises there are 40-odd valley residents who money in Montana’s Gallatin Valley to park snowmobiles at the eastern terkeep Hyalite Canyon open for winter minus for the duration of the winter recreation. as a jumping off point for snowmobileWith Highway 20 frequently assisted backcountry ski touring at

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Washington, Rainy, and Easy Passes. When WSDOT made the surprise announcement that they would leave the road closed at Early Winters, several people were forced to spend a day skinning to the Silver Star gate and digging out their sleds. “It’s hard for me to understand what the strategy is—when they close it and when they don’t,” said Paul Smotherman, who owns North Cascades Mountain Hostel in Winthrop. “I was expecting them to plow at least one more storm.” “The decision to move the closure point has always been based on the weather and is not a scheduled event. While it usually happens in January, it can happen at any time,” said WSDOT spokesperson Lauren Loebsack. While Smotherman shrugged off

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the dig-out day as one of the hazards facing snowmobile owners who choose to leave their sleds at the unplowed end of a state highway, he is warm to the idea of reliable access to Silver Star gate in the form of a Sno-Park.

Paul Smotherman, owner of North Cascades Mountain Hostel. Photo by Gregory Scruggs

“Those extra seven miles when the days are already super short—that’s an additional 30-plus minutes of a cold ride,” he said. Methow Valley backcountry skier

Silver Star Spires.

Photo by Bob Kandiko

Joel Forrest similarly would like to see Silver Star remain open all winter. “It provides fantastic access to really great skiing without needing a snowmobile,” he said. “Knowing that I have to get my snowmobile ready at the beginning of the day is a deterrent for me to get out because you could easily get out before a day of work when the road is open.” Others are less enthusiastic. Betsy Cassell-Thomas moved from Whatcom

County to the Methow Valley seven years ago for more sunshine and better climbing, though she and her partner keep snowmobiles at home. “Skiing in the Methow is great but it’s hard work,” she said. “[WSDOT] is not here to provide recreational opportunities. In short, this sounds like an unrealistic idea.” Back at Goat’s Beard, CB Thomas acknowledges that making Silver Star into a reliable winter destination could

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lead to an uptick in snow machine traffic, including nimble snow bikes that can follow a skin track through the forest and highmark on prime skiing terrain. But if bureaucratic inertia could be overcome to establish a Sno-Park,

he believes there might also be hope for an effort to establish clear boundaries between motorized and non-motorized users: namely creating a long overdue winter travel plan in the OkanoganWenatchee National Forest. ANW

New Sno-Park Opens at Press Time As we went to press, the USFS announced that the controversy surrounding a Sno-Park is finally resolved. The new Silver Star Sno-Park opened to the public in November, the result of funding from both federal grants and local trail and snowmobile interests.

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Putting the Community in the Community Forest Story by William Dietrich

ometimes the most effective conservation occurs close to home. Parks, greenbelts, and Land Trust conservation easements are encouraging examples. So is the four-decade-long quest by a citizen’s organization known as Friends of the Forest to protect more than 2,000 acres adjacent to Anacortes.

Island city one of best ratios of forest-topopulation in the nation. And thanks to internet publicity, it increasingly draws visitors from five counties, including the population centers to the south. At the base of Mount Erie—the

History

It’s a woods and lakes mecca that has become a recreational refuge during Covid-19. The community lands are a marvel of conifers, maple, and alder. There Little Cranberry Lake. Photo courtesy of Friends of the Forest are quiet lakes and plenty of wildlife: deer and river prominent 1,273-foot peak that crowns otters, osprey and owls. Bald knobs Anacortes Community Forest Lands— bloom with wildflowers in the spring. the number of parked cars increased Lily pads blossom in beaver ponds. about 150 percent in 2020 compared The preserve gives the Fidalgo 34

The heartbeat of Cascadia

to previous years, said Assistant Parks Director Bob Vaux. With the pandemic keeping recreationists closer to home, the preserve has become a microcosm of forest issues nationwide. It is avidly used not just by hikers but by bikers, horse riders, paddle boarders, the occasional motorcyclist, and legions of dog-walkers.

This community crown jewel didn’t just happen. Early city watershed lands were supplemented by decades of generous land donations. The result is two big blocks of woods that stretch from Mount Erie north almost to Guemes Channel and encompass Whistle, Heart, and Little Cranberry Lakes. More than fifty miles of trails wind through the mostly second-growth forest, which also has a >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

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few stands of old growth. It was when the community became alarmed at city clearcutting in the 1980s that Friends of the Forest formed to halt logging, promote more forest acquisition, and spearhead a donation program to buy permanent conservation easements from the city at the rate

The Friends decided it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough to preserve the forest. The trees needed an educated constituency, so the

There are quiet lakes and plenty of wildlife: deer and river otters, osprey and owls. Bald knobs bloom with wildflowers in the spring. Lily pads blossom in beaver ponds. of $1,000 an acre. What was expected to be a 20-year campaign took less than half that, with 1,800 acres now under easement held by Skagit Land Trust. The nearly $2 million raised is a permanent endowment, with interest used for further acquisitions and care.

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Forest Discovery Day Camp.

Photo courtesy of Friends of the Forest

organization began conducting classes and hikes for children and adults to

create a cadre of conservationists. For many years the forest educator was Denise Crowe, an early leader of the protection effort. Now a younger generation serves as paid staff, funded by donations to the Friends. Asa Deane is Executive Director and Beck Pittman is the new Forest Educator. Both have backgrounds in environmental education. Friends of the Forest works closely with the Anacortes Parks Department and the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Forest Advisory Board, which are responsible for forest management, trail repair, and regulation. The goal is to balance access with protection and enhancement. City ownership began way back in 1919 when Anacortes acquired watershed lands around Little Cranberry and Whistle Lakes, paying $135,000 to Washington Power and Light Company. Gus Hensler donated 120 more acres at the Mount Erie summit in 1934, the first of a series of bequests that have continued into the 21st Century.

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Yet the forest was still something ting, removing 1.2 million board feet of of a city afterthought until condominitimber from 1987 to 1989. ums were proposed in 1977 at Heart In response, Friends of the Forest Lake, which was then managed by was formed in 1987. The founders ralthe state Department of Natural Resources. A forest tour circa 1900. Environmentalists moPhoto courtesy of Friends of the Forest bilized and in 1980 the DNR property became an undeveloped state park. Those 436 acres were transferred to city ownership in 2002. The legacy of logging in Skagit County has deep roots. Most of Fidalgo Island had already been logged by 1900. With Anacortes tapping the Skagit River for its water supply, the city began revenue logging of its second growth watershed in the 1940s. By the lied the community to halt the logging 1980s, selective cutting wasn’t turning a and launch an education program. The profit, so managers turned to clearcuttiny all-volunteer organization eventual-

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ly raised enough money to hire Crowe as an educator. Friends helped convince the City Council to adopt the conservation easement program in 1998. Today’s allvolunteer board of directors is working to expand and further professionalize the organization.

Challenges The community forest lands remain a little paradise. But managers wrestle with fire, drought, invasive species, abutting subdivisions, a rock and gravel mine, and lakes that can be choked with milfoil and algae. Challenges are growing. “There’s not a user group out there that doesn’t have an impact,” said the city’s Vaux. Most problematic are dogs. Too many forest users ignore rules to keep

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their animals on leash and clean up their poop. Dog feces inject bacteria and viruses into the ecosystem, just as human waste does. Unleashed dogs can frighten other hikers, chase animals,

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of the forest, now capped with a meadow, become a 1.5-acre bike skills park with a track for beginners. Over 80 young cyclists packed a City Council meeting in support, but protest erupted over concentrated recreational development. The project is now on hold while the state Department of Ecology tests the landfill for potential leakage of contaminants. Horses churn mud and leave manure. Motorcycles, which are still allowed in summer months, damage trails too. The city was trying to come up with a policy on e-bikes when Covid-19 hit, postponing a resolution.

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A few people, sometimes homeless, build fires or shelters. There was a small forest fire at the Orange Wall of Mount Erie in July of 2020. A 17.6-acre fire at Little Cranberry Lake in 2016 burned toward houses before it was stopped by fire crews. Climate change is a broader issue. The forest has suffered drought for several years, resulting in a large die-off of young cedar trees. The same heat has warmed the lakes and led to more weeds. Heart Lake was expensively and successfully treated, but the fix is probably temporary. Adjacent to the lake is a rock and gravel pit run by Lakeside Industries. While city revenue from the pit has been used to help pay for forest acquisitions and education, the mine stretches for a

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kilometer: a distance as long as the whole of downtown Anacortes from Guemes Channel to the Safeway at 12th Street. Even with resource royalties, needed improvements are slow to happen. The city has had a plan to redo the ugly gravel parking lot at Heart Lake and build a trail along Heart Lake Road since 2009. It hasn’t been able to find the money. Faced with all these challenges, Friends is charging into the future with a renewed commitment to partnership with Anacortes schools, guided hikes, and both printed and social media information. The hope is that 2021 classes will be less restricted by the pandemic—and that forests recreationists ANW become forest stewards. William Dietrich is a journalist and author who serves on the Friends of the Forest Board of Directors.

Education, Advocacy, Stewardship; Learn More Learn more about The Friends of the Forest (and support them with a donation) at www.friendsoftheacfl.org. Downloadable maps, available there and at www.cityofanacortes.org, help visitors navigate the network of trails found on the Anacortes Community Forest Lands.

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Fumbling Toward Fulfillment The Metamorphosis of Colin Fletcher Story by Robert Wehrman

olin Fletcher was the world’s most famous walker, an extremely popular author, and dubbed the first thru-hiker and father of modern backpacking. His was an outspoken voice supporting wilderness preservation: when Fletcher had something to say, people listened. Few people realize today that most of his fundamental vision for wilderness travel—and his world view— was kindled in the Pacific Northwest between 1953 and 1956.

and The Man Who Walked Through Time are chronicles of his first two mega-treks and were quickly followed with The Complete Walker, in which he

An immigrant who opened up a part of North America we had forgotten, Colin was best known as the first person to force, in one arduous solo journey, a passage afoot through the length of Grand Canyon National Park. Prior to this he walked from Mexico to Oregon along California’s eastern deserts and mountains. This was decades before the Pacific Crest Trail came into official existence. Not many people were doing such Colin Fletcher in Chalfant Valley, CA 1958 things in 1958. explained to us in remarkable detail how Each of these exploits generated to live comfortably in the backcountry. books, both of which appeared during Fletcher urged us to go out into the Vietnam War era, a time when many the green world to reconnect with ourwere looking for alternatives to the orselves and the planet. He showed us dinary life. The Thousand-mile Summer 40

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that walking could be contemplative as well as functional and taught that all things natural, living and non-living alike, should be protected from rampant human development and destruction. The idea resonated with the youth who were at that time being conscripted by their own government and sent to Southeast Asia to serve as cannon fodder. And so it was that hundreds of thousands of college-age students and returning Vietnam Veterans followed Fletcher’s footprints into the wilderness to reconnect with the land. Because of his writings, backpacking quickly became a pastime for millions of others who had not previously identified with the return to the land movement. Families began hiking on their vacations, people went further into the wilderness to camp, fish, climb, or simply commune with nature. This was followed by an explosion of backpacking equipment production and sales beginning in the late 1960s; a boom for which he was at least partly responsible. Two decades earlier, Colin was a lieutenant in the Royal Marines and assigned to the first wave to storm the beachhead at Normandy on D-Day. He was later promoted to captain for heroic deeds that resulted in saving an entire company of marines. Had we >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

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been with him that stormy June morning in Landing Craft 517, dreadfully seasick, vomit-filled bilge water swirling around our ankles, awaiting certain annihilation on the beach, we would have seen no hint that he would become the world’s guru of wilderness foot travel and a major voice for environmental preservation. Against the odds, he survived the war and began a long transformation. While Fletcher would argue that his metamorphosis into the Pied Piper of walking continued throughout his life, many of his significant changes occurred during his immediate post-war years. Even so, we would not have detected the enormous transformation he was undergoing had we observed him in Kenya, where he lived from 1946—1952 and worked as the dairy manager of Spring Farm in the Rift Valley; one of Earth’s most beautiful places with its wonderland of lakes fringed in the bright pink of flamingos that line the shores.

Fletcher’s personal notes mention that he did not bring a love of nature with him when he left Africa. In hindsight, Colin wrote that he simply did not yet have eyes to see the beauty and its connection to all things from the natural world, both living and non-living.

Parachutes of white gossamer thistles floated on the warm currents of toffee-scented air, every so often dropping into the water lapping quietly against the grassy shore at the end of the dock. The most important thing he brought with him from Africa was his desire to become a writer. He’d certainly not seen nature’s beauty on his job as a shipment manager in charge of ferrying expensive cattle by air from Ireland to New York. Fletcher’s next employment

offered little relief in this area—he worked as a driver hired to shuttle new cars from Montreal to Edmonton and Vancouver. His notes mention the splendor of the Great Lakes and Rocky Mountains, but the idea of nature’s beauty faded quickly as he sat shivering on a park bench in frozen Vancouver counting his dwindling funds. The reality of his situation was clear, so he rented a room in a sleazy motel near the docks and bought some warm winter clothing. Next came a stop-gap job digging ditches in the frozen earth. He took time off for the 1952 year-end holidays, spending the time drinking at an old waterfront dive, but all too soon it was back to work hacking through frozen black munge with a pickaxe. “It was a very dark time in a dark place,” he wrote his stepdad. He cooked and ate canned food in his motel room and saved every penny he could so that by summer he could afford to continue his travels.

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As spring approached, the skies cleared, the days grew longer, and Fletcher began to see the sheer beauty of British Columbia. The wildflowers were springing up everywhere, formerly frozen rivers and lakes were now filled with hungry salmon and big trout, and the mountains beckoned, rekindling his wanderlust. So, he bought a sleeping bag, a tent, and other modest camping gear and set off for the backcountry. He hitchhiked hundreds of miles through still-frozen mountains to the Northwest Territories to fish the big icy rivers there and then spent a month living in a tent while fly-fishing along the Wigwam River, a tributary of the Elk River in eastern British Columbia known for its huge bull trout. He noted that it was this trip that opened his eyes and he began to contemplate and absorb the Northwest’s majestic beauty. In spite of his austere lifestyle, funds ran short, so he returned to Vancouver and took a job bussing tables and wash-

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ing dishes at Kirby’s Koffee Korner. “It was a demeaning and boring job,” Fletcher said. “One that seemed to be preventing me from working toward fulfilling my dream of becoming a writer. But it kept me alive as I fumbled toward fulfillment.” During this time his long-lost father, Reggie, showed up in Vancouver. Colin had not seen him—with one brief exception during the early post-war— since he was five years old. They utterly

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failed to reconnect. The visit reminded him that in his childhood days after losing contact with his father and grandfather, his best friends were the animals, the wind, and seashore sounds rather than people. Under these bleak circumstances Fletcher began writing his first book, It’s the Altitude, and attempted to publish several articles about fishing in Africa. The articles were not picked up by any periodicals, so he continued working the degrading job at Kirby’s until spring when he landed a job as a prospector on nearby Vancouver Island. Although he slowly evolved throughout the war and years in Africa into the man we would know as the walking guru, this job marks a pivotal moment in his transformation. For a two-month spell, he surveyed and staked land along the shores of a long finger of a bay using a white wooden rowboat with an outboard motor. He fished as much as he labored staking claims. It was during this time that he began to focus on the true beauty of the forest. His awareness of the unequivocal magnificence and value of nature expanded because whenever he saw the desecrated slash of a clear-cut forest, his blood began to boil. He noted the stark

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contrast between the rich green splendor of virgin forest and those vast swatches of the island, often miles across, on which every sizable tree had been felled and then dragged by loggers to one of the collecting points, knocking down worthless saplings, gouging the earth so violently that when the carnage was over the steep hillsides stood torn, raped, and battlefield-bare. All summer he lived in an old boathouse situated in a meadow on the edge

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of Cowichan Bay. It had been converted into a rugged picturesque wooden cabin complete with a set of antlers mounted over the door and an outhouse out back. Here, the mountains shoot straight

down into the water, casting their reflection across the mirrored surface. The trees stood back, permitting enough sunlight to reach the dappled green grass dotted with white avalanche flowers sur-

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rounding his cabin. Along the sides of the clearing, thickets of fat salmonberries grew in the shade of wild ferns. Sometimes he’d sit on the dock out front of the cabin smoking cigarettes, staring off into the water pondering, wondering—dreaming the water the way some people dream fires—why is my life so empty? It is beautiful here, completely harmonious. I should feel fulfilled living such an idyllic life. At times the emptiness shadowed him everywhere he went. One warm, sunny afternoon, as he sat on the dock fishing, watching a pair of psychedelic green and pink damsel flies copulating on the wing, a stunning blond woman about his age strolled out of the woods and into the open area around the cabin. Surprised and smiling, Fletcher stood up to greet the unexpected guest. Although at first startled to see an unexpected man alone in the woods, she introduced herself as Stella and told him she worked as a nurse for a doctor in town. He offered her a seat on a nearby boulder as they watched a pod of killer whales cruise lazily past the little wooden pier. Tall, jet-black dorsal fins jutted from the orcas’ glossy obsidian skin as they slowly undulated along the

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Fletcher writing in the converted boat house on Cowichan Bay, Vancouver Island

smooth surface of the water; geysers of their spray lingered in the warm afternoon air. Fletcher was never much for idle chitchat, but they sat together talking for hours while the sun slowly arched across the warm ultramarine sky. They watched as blue herons circled the end of the bay, sometimes dragging their feet in the water leaving long, thin parallel wakes behind them as they searched for food. The afternoon fish were jumping, creating circular bullseyes on the glassy water. Parachutes of white gossamer thistles floated on the warm currents of toffee-scented air, every so often dropping into the water lapping quietly against the grassy shore at the end of the dock. Squirrels chattered and birds sang from somewhere deep in the forest behind them, completing the resonant harmony of the scene. Colin and Stella developed a relationship throughout the rest of the summer and he moved in with her in the fall after the prospecting operation closed down for the winter. She went

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to her part-time nursing job in Chemainus and he stayed home working on It’s the Altitude. One day Stella came back from work to find him sitting at his little typewriter, staring off into space, lost in thought. She startled him when she came in. She smiled and said, “You must be in another world.” “Huh? Sorry. Just working things out in my head.” “From the look on your face I’d say you were far away; you didn’t even make the bed,” and started pulling up the blankets. He jumped up to help. “I don’t understand what’s come over me, I can’t stand an unmade bed.” “Don’t worry Colin,” she said as she took him in her arms and began rubbing his back. “No, it’s not like you to leave the bed unmade. But you are changing, undergoing a glorious metamorphosis.” She took a step back to look at him. “Yes, I’m certain you will be a famous writer within the decade.” “Definitely,” she added. “You’re breaking free. Shucking off the person you’ve been taught to be and changing into the one you truly are. You were just visiting purdah.” “What on earth do you mean?” he asked, suddenly uncertain. “You are Welsh, dear, but were schooled in England. I spent some time there just after the war. As a nurse,” she added brightly. Then she darkened a little and said, “I saw the pressures they put on children to conform to the traditional English ideal.

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You know, stiff upper lip, no complaining, terribly proper, sorry old chap, and all that. From the start I could see this in you. But now you’re changing, Colin. You haven’t heard of purdah, have you?” He shook his head. “Purdah is the name for the curtain used to separate the women from the men in Indian homes. It’s also a sort of mental isolation. This is where you were when I came home just now.” Fletcher later noted that in this one conversation he realized he was detribalizing from his formative roots in England and he learned about purdah. He came to understand that going into purdah was the secret to focusing tightly on the writing at hand and from this time on nearly always went into mental and physical isolation whenever working on a writing project. He and Stella broke off their relationship in spring of 1956 and he returned to the old boathouse for another

summer. It’s the Altitude was rejected for publication and he filed the manuscript away, never to return to it. By early fall he’d decided to head to Mexico and its warm winters. So, he purchased a purple 1950 Plymouth Woody station wagon—which he christened The Ark—and began driving south along the coast highway, camping as he went. He commented in his notes— which he was now taking almost habitually—about the natural beauty along the coast and was clearly growing more and more enamored with the nonhuman world. He’d spent much of the previous decade living alone, or with Africans who didn’t speak English, and solo in Canada; he was well on the way to becoming the reclusive environmental activist for which we remember him. He’d worked as a ditch-digger, dishwasher, prospector, fisherman, road builder, driver, cattle shipment manager, dairy farm manager, inde-

pendent sales representative, combat soldier, and bicycle messenger. This is a fairly good resume for a writer in training. But he had not yet become the writer/walker for which we remember him, nor had he ever walked away from civilization carrying everything needed to live in the pack on his back. But he carried with him his new-found love of nature, writing, walking, strong ideas of self, and his knowledge of purdah. We’ll leave Colin heading south in The Ark, driving into his destiny as a famous American iconoclast writer. His change wasn’t fully crystalized, but it was well underway. He’d land The Ark in San Francisco in October 1956 where he would meet, love, and lose the woman of his dreams, and much to our benefit, begin working more seriously at his quest to be a writer, and in the end, become the world’s most famous walker. But he was still fumbling toward fulfillment. ANW

The art of nature

eARTh Stephen McMillan: The Art of Aquatint

Though I moved to Bellingham, WA in 2006, I have been coming up to the Pacific Northwest since 1970. Whether it was camping in the San Juans, bike tours around the region, or backpacking in the Olympics and Cascades, I have always loved the incredible natural beauty here. I hope to share some of my love of the natural world through the etchings that I create out of my experiences on these adventures. See more of Stephen’s work at: www.sonic.net/aquatint.

Top (L to R): Winter Zen; Sisters Middle (L to R): Snow Patterns; Winter Path; Chuckanut Fog Bottom Left (L to R): Winter Reflections; Snow Bird

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Field Trip Adventures beyond the PNW

Cathedral Gorge Story and photo by John Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Onofrio

e load our daypacks and set off down the Juniper Draw Trail in the brilliant morning sun, winding our way through the fluted bentonite formations of Cathedral Gorge. The valley floor is dotted with brittlebush and stunted junipers, except around the bentonite formations where nothing grows. Overhead great cumulous clouds gather in an operatic fashion: high drama in the wild west. At the north end of the valley, the route dips beneath a ridge of teeth worn smooth by the desert wind. Right on cue, the wind picks up, blowing sand in swirling curtains. We take refuge in the Moon Caves, strange drip-drop slot canyons that carve labyrinths in the towering bentonite pillars. I notice a small white feather drifting down into the slot and then another. I look down and see that the floor of the Moon Cave is covered in white feathers. As the afternoon gives way to evening, the light grows softer, dream-like. When the sun drops below the western rim, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s almost a relief. Beside the campfire, we listen to the coyotes sing the blues beneath a canopy of stars. ANW 48

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Cascadia Gear:

Gear Spotlight: Line Sakana Skis

Essentials for your next Adventure Therm-a-Rest NeoAir Topo Luxe Sleeping Pad ®

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Just when you thought sleeping on the ground couldn’t get more comfortable, along comes the NeoAir Topo Luxe from Therm-a-Rest. This sleeping pad sets a new standard for comfort with four inches of cushion that insures that your hip bones will never touch the ground. Despite its thickness, this pad—if inflated accordingly—is firm with minimal bouncing, an issue with some other uber-thick pads. Inflation and deflation are made easier courtesy of two one-way valves and the Topo Luxe comes with a handy inflation sack that spares the huffing and puffing. The regular/wide size is a generous 72” long and 25” wide and weighs 1 lb. 11 oz. Sweet dreams are assured. More info: thermarest.com

Arc’teryx Radsten Insulated Men’s Jacket Here in the Pacific Northwest, staying warm in winter requires more than insulation. The Arc’teryx Radsten Jacket offers ample insulation to be sure, but this jacket is also waterproof and windproof. And yes, thanks to its GORE-TEX construction, it’s breathable as well. The Coreloft™ Compact synthetic insulation delivers the warmth with surprisingly little bulk. As one expects with Arc’teryx, the design features are thoughtful and impeccably rendered: underarm vents help mitigate body heat when active and the spacious hood and cuffs feature gaskets to deter winter’s bite. And oh yes, it’s soft and supple to allow for easy movement when cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, or just walking on Taylor Dock at sunset. More info: arcteryx.com

Hillsound Flexsteps™ Crampons Microspikes can make all the difference when it comes to winter hikes on icy trails. The Hillsound Flexsteps feature 18 1/4” high impact, stainless steel spikes to ensure traction and keep you going in challenging conditions. Velcro straps secure them to your hiking boots or shoes and the broad step-in area makes taking them on or off a snap. More info: hillsound.com

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by Chris Gerston

I have skied the Line Sakana at demos for the past three years and each year it was among my favorites. Maybe it’s because of the unique swallow tail that makes this ski so well rounded and playful. The Sakana’s tail is pretty flat, which typically means that as you drop through the fall line of a turn, the tail loads up from the force generated as you slow down and playfully pops you into your next turn. Rockered tails, on the other hand, tend to release more readily when loaded up in a turn resulting in a ski that can make a greater variety of turn shapes. The swallow tail of the Sakana gives you the best of both worlds. At 1770 grams, the Sakana weighs in as average-to-heavier for touring and light compared to other inbounds skis, which translates to a great 50/50 ski for in or out of bounds. It has a great big tip and tail, so at 106mm in the waist, this ski really floats in powder. But don’t think that this is a one sided ski—I had a blast making a variety of turns on groomers and never felt that it lacked for inspiring confidence at speed. Bottom line: This uniquely-shaped ski is playful, carves well, and floats great for its width. But beware: you will most likely get lots of comments in the lift lines. $749. 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 Sponsored review

Olympic Mountains Trail Guide 4th Edition (Mountaineers Books) Published way back in 1984, the original edition of Robert L. Wood’s Olympic Mountains Trail Guide (OMTG) quickly became the standard bearer for hikers wanting to explore the spectacular mountains of the Olympic Peninsula. Encyclopedic in scope, the OMTG has inspired countless journeys to destinations both famous and obscure. But…things change. And so it is that the newly published 4th edition is a welcome development indeed. Updated by stalwart hiker, climber and poet William E. Hoke (author of our regular Mountain Haiku feature), the new edition was published in September. Hoke is the perfect man for the job, both by virtue of his 50 years of exploring the Olympics and his long friendship with Wood, who died in 2003. Determined to update the guide to reflect the sometimes drastic changes that have taken place over the last 35 years while preserving Wood’s voice, Hoke has added 29 new trails and updated maps in what can best be described as a monumental labor of love. The new OMTG is without a doubt the resource for hiking the Olympics. More info: mountaineers.org/books engaging publications in the region. Info is at AdventuresNW.com/advertise or by writing to ads @ AdventuresNW.com.

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Once in a Blue Moon photo by NEIL DICKIE It doesn’t often happen that the full moon (a ‘blue’ moon, no less) rises in a path that intersects our region’s tallest, most statuesque peak, Mt. Baker, but my research informed me it would happen on Halloween evening. I aimed to set up my tripod at lonely Baynes Beach in Saanich, BC. But behind schedule, I stopped two kilometers short at Cattle Point in Oak Bay. It worked well, and many had flocked to this scenic spot that evening, including several kayakers. As I watched the spectacle unfold, two of the kayakers, obviously awestruck, laid down their paddles and gazed at the moon

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Adventures Northwest Magazine Winter 2020/21

Articles inside

Lake Padden Soliloquy

Fumbling Toward Fulfillment

The Friends of the Forest

The Cold Shoulder

Old Friends and Falling Snow

To Plow or Not to Plow?