Adventures Northwest Magazine Autumn 2021 by John DOnofrio

ADVENTURES 15 NORTHWEST

EBR ATIN EL

YEARS

AUTUMN 2021

BACK TO BC! Hiking in the Monashee Mountains Running the West Coast Trail Fishing Lessons on Sapeye Lake Climbing Birch Mountain

The Colors of Cascadia Forest Bathing Snowy Lakes Trial by Fire

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INSPIRATIONS

IN THIS ISSUE

Off-Piste in the Pinnacles Tim Ahern & Rick Lindberg Running B.C.’s West Coast Trail

Jade Belzberg

Hooked on Differing Fishing Philosophies

Judy Johnston

An Island in the Sky

Lawrence Millman

Jess Findlay

Joy, Suffering, and a New FKT

Angling in B.C.

A Deep Appreciation Autumn in British Columbia

The Colors of Cascadia Brett Baunton

The Art & Science of Forest Bathing Suzanne Rothmeyer

Autumn at Snowy Lakes John D’Onofrio

Camden Jones

Trial by Fire

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“My religion is nature. That’s what arouses those feelings of wonder and mysticism and gratitude in me.” - Oliver Sacks

DESTINATIONS Oh Canada! Out & About Letters to the Editor 3 Great Hikes ... for Autumn Bright Lines: Joe Wilkins Mountain Haiku eARTh: The Art of Nature Field Trip: The Wild Atlantic Way Cascadia Gear The Next Adventure

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Volume 16. Issue 3

CONTRIBUTORS

AUTUMN | 2021

Tim Ahern is an avid hiker, backcountry skier and kayaker, with a main focus on the Pacific Northwest and East Greenland. In addition to writing travel articles, he is an illustrator and has published three books on James Joyce. Brett Baunton is a photographer, wilderness explorer and environmental advocate. With photo credits ranging from National Geographic to National Parks, his latest passion project is advocating for Wild and Scenic protection of the Nooksack River on Instagram @wildnooksack. www.brettbaunton.com Jade Belzberg is a freelance writer and running coach based in Sedona, AZ. When not writing or running, Jade and her husband care for their 24 rescue animals. Follow along at www.jadebelzberg.com Jess Findlay is a professional nature photographer from Vancouver, British Columbia, where he guides instructional workshops. His work is focused primarily on photographing the wildlife and landscapes of the Pacific Northwest. Bill Hoke came to the Pacific Northwest in 1970 and began a lifetime of climbing and hiking. He’s hiked 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. Judy Johnston is a retired educator, writer, mother and grandmother. She wrote a column for The Clinton Lariat for eight years and taught writing at Sehome High School in Bellingham, WA. She enjoys long walks with friends, and is creating children’s stories with her grandchildren. Camden Michael Jones is a 24-year-old wildland firefighter turned high school STEM teacher. When he isn’t playing with fire, he can be found hiking around

Again, Lost in the Arctic, and—forthcoming— The Last Speaker of Bear. He has a fungal species named after him, Inonotus millmanii, and keeps a post office box in Cambridge, MA.

the Pacific Northwest, working out, trying new recipes, or yearning for more tattoos. He currently lives in Condon, OR with his wife. Born in Anacortes, WA., Rick Lindberg has held day jobs in the roofing, waste management, package delivery, graphic design and film making industries. In spite of, and because of this, he has spent much of his spare time in the North Cascades. He continues also, his attempt to work in pastels.

Kevin Murphy’s first North Cascades backpacking trip, from Rainy Pass on Hwy. 20 to the end of the PCT in B.C., was in September, 1979. On it, he encountered hail, thunderstorms, extreme heat, black bear, and US border personnel who had serious doubts about letting him back in to the country.

Christian Martin is a freelance writer in Bellingham. He specializes in outdoor writing with a focus on natural history, environmental issues and adventure travel. His most recent journey was to Iceland in June, where he hiked to the Geldingadalir volcano, soaked in countless hot pots and hung out with thousands of puffins.

Suzanne Rothmeyer is a branding, content and portrait photographer (and occasional writer!) based in the Pacific Northwest. When not working, you’ll find her traveling, camping, hiking, SUP-ing, and hanging out with her favorite people.

Stephen McMillan has been a professional artist for almost 50 years. His art is a printmaking technique known as 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.

Joe Wilkins is the author of a novel, Fall Back Down When I Die, praised as “remarkable and unforgettable” in a starred review at Booklist, and a memoir, The Mountain and the Fathers. He has published four collections of poetry, including When We Were Birds. He lives in western Oregon. ANW

Lawrence Millman is the author of 18 books, including such titles as Last Places, Our Like Will Not Be There

COVER PHOTO: JUAN DE FUCA TRAIL, B.C. BY KELLIE PAXIAN

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OH CANADA!

utumn is my favorite season.

Sure, I love summer as much as the next guy, and truth be told, I’m a big fan of winter and spring. But autumn speaks to me. It’s the season of transition. It’s about letting go and planting one’s flag in a state of constant change. Autumn offers us a yearly lesson in nonattachment. So many of our troubles, it seems, are caused by attachments, by hanging on when we should let go. Autumn reminds us that time is fleeting… and precious. The greenery fades, but then is reborn in Mardi Gras colors that would embarrass P.T. Barnum, a flaring of tail feathers so brilliant, the light and color will see us through the watered-down days of grey winter waiting in the wings. Autumn is a doorway. And this particular autumn we’ll get to head north once again to visit British Columbia as the border has finally been reopened since its pandemic-mandated closure in March 2020. Boy, have we missed it… To whet your appetite for a return to B.C., we’ve highlighted some amazing adventures to be had north of the border. Tim Ahern, who has captivated us in the past with his madcap escapades in the Picket Range and on Mt. Baker, describes a spectacular—and little-visited—destination in the Monashee Mountains. High drama everywhere you look and plenty of room to lose yourself. Jade Belzberg shares her quest to achieve a “Fastest Known Time” on Vancouver Island’s legendary—and rugged—West Coast Trail. Judy Johnston comes

The heartbeat of Cascadia

clean on the difficulties of reconciling opposing fishing philosophies on Sapeye Lake in a lighthearted attempt to preserve marital bliss. And last but certainly not least, Lawrence Millman relates the tale of his ascent of a remote mountain in northern B.C. with a venerable harmonica-playing Austrian climber by the name of Gernot Dick. True story: I was hiking up a wild green valley in Iceland a few summers ago and encountered an old man along the trail. We got to talking. I told him that I thought that Iceland was the most beautiful country that I had ever seen. He paused for a moment. “Have you ever been to British Columbia?” he asked. Happy Autumn!

“What I especially love about Adventures Northwest, besides its fine writing, stunning photography, the great breadth of topics and landscapes, and the poetry, is the unusual way in which it seeks and often finds real intimacy with the rest of the natural world. So many outdoors publications seem to want to subject some mythic “Nature” to the exploits of the Human, and with gusto. Adventures Northwest recognizes that people are truly a part of nature, and that an adventure worth having should celebrate our wholeness with the lands, waters, plants, magazine and creatures, rather than subordinating them to our own bravado.” Subscribe for Home Delivery at - Robert Michael Pyle www.adventuresnw.com/subscribe

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Out&About

Protecting the South Fork Nooksack Valley

Whatcom Land Trust adds 1,000 acres to Conservation Corridor Prospects for the long-term health of the South Fork of the Nooksack River are looking better than ever, thanks to the recent purchase of 1,000 acres in the Skookum Creek Watershed by the Whatcom Land Trust (WLT). The $3.5 million parcel, in the shadow of the Twin Sisters Mountain Range, compliments the Land Trust’s $2 Million purchase of 1,400 acres in the watershed in 2019. Now known collectively as The Skookum Creek Conservation Corridor, these protected lands are contiguous with the Nature Conservancy’s Arlecho Creek Old Growth Preserve and Lummi Nation forest lands, creating a more than 4,000-acre preserve along this largest and most vital tributary of the South Fork.

WLT Executive Director Gabe Epperson explains: “This historic acquisition represents the protection of an entire wildlife corridor connecting the base of the Twin Sisters in the upper Skookum watershed to the South Fork Nooksack River seven miles downstream. This is the most significant landscape-scale acquisition we’ve completed in Whatcom County and demonstrates our long-term commitment to climate resiliency and habitat protection for the benefit of future generations.” The purchase was made possible by a $1.25 million contribution from Whatcom County’s Conservation Futures Fund, as well as numerous grants and

The Twin Sisters Range from Skookum Creek Photo by John D’Onofrio

donations by Land Trust supporters and business partners. Since 1984, WLT has permanently protected more than 24,000 acres throughout Whatcom County, including 14,000 of public parkland, 1,200 of working lands for agriculture and forestry, 12,000 acres in the Lake Whatcom Watershed to ensure clean drinking water for 100,000 residents, and more than 36 miles of marine and freshwater shorelines that preserve wildlife habitat. More info: whatcomlandtrust.org

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North Cascades Bluegrass Festival Returns After a one-year hiatus, the Deming Log Show Grounds will once again be filled with the down-home twang of uniquely American music as the North Cascades Bluegrass Festival returns on Labor Day Weekend (September 3-5). Featuring such Lonesome Town Painters genre luminaries as Special Consensus (two Grammy nominations) and the Gina Furtado Project featuring Gina Furtado (two International Bluegrass Music Association nominations for Banjo Player of the Year), the festival will also feature local favorites such as the Prozac Mountain Boys and the High Mountain String Band. In addition to the performances, there will be workshops on topics ranging from clawhammer banjo to fiddle improvisation, food and craft vendors, a beer and cider garden, and lots of on-site camping. Scheduling a festival during a pandemic required a lot of “debate and discussion,” according to Festival “co-conspirator” Daniel Tepper, who also serves as Board President for the Whatcom Parks and Recreation Foundation, the Bellingham-based non-profit that organizes the festival. The event will be following all CDC, Washington State, and Whatcom County recommendations in effect at the time of the festival and organizers “strongly encourage” all attendees to be fully vaccinated a minimum of 14 days prior to arriving. More info: https://ncbf.fun/

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3 Great Hikes for A ut umn

Bagley Lakes

Here’s a splendid autumnal walk for the whole family. The Bagley Lakes Trail makes a delightful (and easy) circuit around these diminutive lakes, cradled in a basin beneath Table Mountain and Mt. Herman, in Mt. Baker’s Heather Meadows area. In addition to the tranquil tarns, you’ll pass epic columns of basalt-like andesite, waterfalls, glacial erratics, and colorful meadows. In late September the mountain ash adds vibrant color with its orange leaves and red berries. The loop covers four miles with an elevation gain of only 300 feet. It’s beautiful even on a rainy day (remember them?). Trailhead: The Heather Meadows Visitor Center, MP56 on the Mt. Baker Highway or from the far, right-hand corner of the vast parking lot near the upper Mt. Baker ski area, 21 miles east of Glacier.

Grasshopper Pass The Hart’s Pass area is justifiably famous at this time of year. From here, several glorious trails lead to wide-open vistas of East Side splendor. One of these leads to Grasshopper Pass, wandering along a ridgeline among larches and autumn foliage so luminous that you might want to bring sunglasses. This is a section of the Pacific Crest Trail so you may encounter giddy thru-hikers, nearing the Canadian Border and the end of their journey. The aesthetics are Grasshopper Pass superb: multiPhoto by John D’Onofrio hued meadows, Sound of Music panoramas, stupendous views of Mt. Ballard and Azurite Peak. The pass is 4.7 miles from your car, but the journey is easy and immensely scenic every step of the way. Trailhead: At the end of FR 54-500, two miles from FR-5400 (Hart’s Pass Rd.), near the Meadow Campground, 20 miles uphill from Mazama.

Lake McArthur The Lake O’Hara area in the B.C. Rockies is a hiking wonderland, especially in the autumn. Towering peaks; alpine meadows; lonely, windswept lakes; luscious larch forests—it’s a beauty lover’s dream come true. Among the handful of world-class trails that emanate from the lake, the route to Lake McArthur distinguishes itself by virtue of both its incredibly scenic approach via the Big Larch Trail and its jaw-dropping destination at the aforementioned lake. Starting at the Le Relais Day Shelter, the trail climbs through golden larches to a fork where you have the choice of the high-line or low-line trails. Both lead to paradise. Round-trip distance, either way, is about seven kilometers (4.4 miles) with an elevation gain of 310 meters (1,020 feet). Trailhead: Le Relais Day Shelter, accessed from the shuttle bus that runs from the Lake O’Hara parking lot, 13 km east of Field, B.C. or 12 km west of Lake Louise, Alberta, just off the Trans-Canada Highway.

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Off-Piste

in the

Pinnacles Story and photos by Tim Ahern Artwork by Rick Lindberg & Tim Ahern

aving survived the tangled vegetation of Washington State’s Picket Range, my climbing partner Rick and I decided to set an entirely different goal by choosing a trip that started at or near treeline so we could avoid bashing our shins and having our glasses knocked off our heads while enjoying the outback. Rick did a deep dive into the mountaineering literature and surfaced with a real find, an entire range actually, that had been off our radar until now: British Columbia’s Monashees. Set in

this 200-plus mile-long stretch of peaks, Monashee Provincial Park requires an eight-hour drive from Seattle, but boy, is it worth it! Imagine what the Cascade’s Enchantments must have been like for the first alpinists wandering there unhindered before all the restrictions were applied to preserve it. In the Monashees we traveled for days up and down ridges and past lake after lake without seeing a single soul (human or grizzly). Canada just swallowed us up; it is a very big place. Mount Severide

Artwork by Rick Lindberg

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The trip to and from the Pinnacles had its own share of high points, including the opportunity to hear the one-part western, one-part highlander Okanagan accent; drives alongside enormously long azure finger lakes purportedly harboring the cryptozoid ogopogo; valleys devastated by the previous years’ forest fires; the bizarrely Mexicanthemed town of Osoyoos on Canada’s southern border just opposite the frontierthemed towns on Mount Severide Washington’s northPhoto by Tim Ahern ern border; signs officially proclaiming “Hitchhiking is Legal”; and the scenic North Cascades Highway that Rick has often bicycled. It’s always good to have a climbing partner for whom

cycling 5000 feet uphill on a bottle of water and a few candy bars is just a nice way to stretch the legs! The trail to Twin Lakes starts at the end of a 27-kilometer drive up

gravel and rutted dirt logging roads due north of Cherryville. Someone had carved a smiley face at the beginning of the path, which we took as a good

omen. This destination, less than two miles in on the flank of Boulder Peak, is popular with weekenders but apparently not at other times, leaving it to just us and the miniature groundhogs/ mountain squirrels. Ne ver t heless, that evening we dutifully stashed our food far away from our tent in a bearproof container and placed our pepper spray and ice axes within easy reach inside the tent door in case any handto-claw combat was called for in the middle of the night. The trail faded away by the time we attained the ridge crest early the next morning but there were no obstructions beyond, for the foot or the eye. The tallest ground cover

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the summit were a little daunting. All we knew was that there was a snow ascent, so we concluded that the chute to the right of the peak most likely was our route. Deciding to make our approach from a lake on its western flank, we spent the day traversing the Monashees via rock swatchs, wildflower-filled meadows, and the occasional tree patch.

Anemone

“Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges— “Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!”

Photo by Tim Ahern

was the wonderful ten-inch high Anenome occidentalis, which looks like a Doctor Seuss creation. After testing some inhospitable routes ending in cliffs, we descended a previously overlooked scree slope down to a generous cluster of lakes, and from there, we climbed to a series of higher ponds until we successfully skirted the east edge of Neapolitan Knob and Wimpy Peak. It was that there we got our first view of our ultimate destination, 8,435 foot Mount Severide. Its series of ridges and a prominent snowfield of unknown steepness leading to

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The Explorer Rudyard Kipling Long ago, this glaciated range, originating from a rare double subduction event followed by granite extrusions, had held its head above the 7000-foot thick Continental Ice Shelf covering Canada in this region. We were trekking where either the ice pack or the glaciers had receded or disappeared altogether, but not before smashing everything to pieces, leaving a thick layer of till and drift covering the area. Soil and lakes eventually formed in the basins, resulting in a rug-

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surprise, there was no indication anyone had ever pitched a tent. The next morning, we began the ascent of Severide, traveling diagonally along its broad northern escarpment. After crossing a prominent spur, we lashed on crampons and marched up the steep tongue of snow that led to the final massif. A quick scramble led to the summit, where we were amazed at the sight of the magnificent southern Pinnacles: more dramatic peaks and azure lakes. A peep over the edge revealed a sheer three-thousand-foot drop, making Severide a candidate for base jumping. The registry lodged in the summit cairn listed only eight parties in the last three years! That amounts to about six summiteers per year, again very surprising. The descent included a joyous slide down the snow slope and a jump in the pool back at camp. We did a few sketches while relaxing after our adventures.

Anemone Occidentalis Artwork by Tim Ahern

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ged Eden. In fact, a Gaelic speaker who was mining in the area in the 1880s christened them “Monashee,” which roughly translates as fairy mountains. We eventually descended a steep heather slope to a lake where, to our

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After chatting with a pair of climbers heading for Severide, we returned to Twin Lakes, where we found several fellow campers from the nearby towns for neighbors as the weekend was getting underway. Everyone carried bear spray, although no one we talked to had ever

POETRY FROM THE WILD

Klamath, Self-Portrait By Joe Wilkins I tried matching, once, the beats of my heart to the wing-pulse of the kingfisher up and down the river. I read religiously the idiot scribbles of fire-scars on the ridge above Jenny Creek. Against the moss I set my lips just so and pulled from the seep a dirty mouthful. And when thrashing through the willows I scared up a black bear – which leapt into the river, swam straight across, and before disappearing into the far trees forever turned back – I tried seeing what the bear saw.

The birth of mountains from the dust, And these billion dreams. -Himalayan Pilgrim

Photo by John D’Onofrio

We awoke to an intermittent light rain issuing forth from a narrow but persistent band of clouds directly west. The Monashees are high enough to make their own weather by squeezing out any moisture that evaporates from the sunny valleys between them and the coastal ranges.

It was a pleasant temperature for the return hike, but we decided to avoid the now windy and misty ridgeline route that we had initially planned in favor of the drier east side. The weather immediately improved, and we were once more in the land of nuttenhidenflickentailers and pixies.

heard of a bear sighting in these parts. No regrets from us on that point! But imagine our surprise when, returning to our car, we found its doors and windows muddied by bear paws. While we had been on the lookout for them, they apparently had gone looking for us! ANW

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Running BC’s West Joy, Suffering and a New FKT Story by Jade Belzberg

ome years ago, my husband and I backpacked the West Coast Trail, a remote, strenuous 75 km (50-mile) route located on British Columbia’s Vancouver Island. The biggest problem in attempting the trail isn’t the condition of the trail itself, which can range from dry to Ohmy-God-I’msinking-andmy-shoesare-gone muddy. It’s not the high tides that can entirely stop any forward progress or the 70 ladders, 130 bridges, and four cable cars that must be negotiated along the way. It’s not even the seven-kilometer long deep-sand beach section or the rotting planks, mud pits, and massive root systems that require crouching, ducking, scrambling, and balancing. No, the most challenging part of tackling the West Coast Trail is just getting there in the first place. From Bellingham, WA, it’s an 20

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hour’s drive across the border to the Tsawwassen ferry terminal, followed by a two-hour ferry trip to Vancouver Island and another three-hour drive to the southern or northern trailheads, depending on where you begin. This isolation is also what gives the trail its

eerie, wild feel. Initially built in 1907 as an emergency rescue route for shipwrecked sailors, the route traces the margin of the Graveyard of the Pacific, where more than two dozen ships have been wrecked on the rocky shores. Hundreds of years before this, various First Nations communities that call this area home, including the Huu-ayaht, the Ditidaht, and the Pacheedaht

First Nations, used the trail as a trading path. The weather fluctuates from mild and dry to wet and cold, and then there are the nine months of the year when it’s so stormy and dangerous that the trail is closed. Low-lying fog hovers over the beaches, and your imagination tricks you into thinking you might just see a wolf or bear emerge from the forest and walk out in front of you. If you’re lucky, you just might. The area is home to the densest population of cougars in North America, and black bears freA rare stretch of smooth sand. Photo by Nickademus de la Rosa quent the trail and beach alike. Wolves, although less common, live here too. We’ve yet to see any of these large mammals, but we’ve lucked out with the weather both times we traversed the trail. The first time we backpacked the route in three and a half days and found out that schlepping 30-40 pounds of gear on our backs and living off of dried lentil soups isn’t nearly as much fun as feeling like you can fly through >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

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Coast Trail the forest in running shoes and a tiny vest. And, truth be told, I had my eye on the possibility of establishing a new Fastest Known Time (FKT). So, our question wasn’t if we would be back to run the West Coast Trail, but when?

Across the Narrows That day turned out to be August 16th, 2018, when we secured a date through the permitting system. We decided that starting at Pachena Bay in the north and finishing at Gordon River in the south made the most sense, both to be in line with previous Fastest Known Time (FKT) attempts and to begin in the early morning. The southern trailhead can only be accessed by a quick boat ride, but since the ferry doesn’t start running until 9 a.m., that meant we would be running into the night—which, thinking about bears, neither my husband nor I wanted to do. So, in order to make it happen, we drove two vehicles to Vancouver Island, parked one at the southern trailhead (where we also took our mandatory orientation and picked up

our permit), then drove the additional three and a half hours to the northern trailhead where we slept in the back of our car overnight. The first few miles are the easiest, which means taking advantage of relatively smooth, root-free trails. The morning was still cool as we began, and I wore a light windbreaker as soaked ferns brushed against my legs. The one worry that clouded the first few hours of the run was the ferry: Nitinaht Narrows had to be crossed by ferry; there was no way around it. The catch? The ferry didn’t begin operating until 9:30 a.m., so we needed to time our run precisely. Arriving too early would mean wasting precious minutes waiting for the ferry to arrive and just like in a race, when you’re seeking a new FKT, every minute matters. Just before 11 a.m., I saw a clearing through the forest ahead. We jogged down the steep path and popped out at the edge of the trail where two groups of backpackers were waiting for the ferry. We had missed the first ferry run by more than an hour, but

Running the West Coast Trail sometimes requires taking cable cars, climbing ladders, or scrambling up logs, like this one. Photo by Nickademus de la Rosa

as luck would have it, the backpackers had been there a while and had already whistled for the boat to return, which meant that yes, there was the ferry, headed our way! We stepped on board, and the group of us headed across to the other side to reconnect with the trail. Nitinaht Narrows is home to one of two makeshift restaurants along the trail and this one, casually set up on a long dock, serves fresh crab or wild salmon and baked potatoes thick with

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butter. My stomach grumbled. It was hard to keep running. We pushed on, running as quickly as we could up half-rotted cedar planks. Several sections of the trail can be completed either by forest or beach, but we decided to stay in the forest due to the deep sand and rocky shoreline lining most of the coast. Ladders broke up the more difficult sections that occasionally required us to use our hands to lower ourselves off large roots or muddy, oil-slick rocks.

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the shore that was so off-camber my left hip was several inches higher than my right? Was it the rocks, newly revealed by the ebbing tide and slippery with bright green algae? We decided Nitinaht Lake, where you can that neither option enjoy fresh salmon or crab if you was ideal, but the have time to spare. Photo by Jade Belzberg faster we made a decision, the better. At long last we found ourselves ourselves and our tiny packs onto the back in the forest, climbing more ladcable car and rejoiced when it felt like ders up to a high point that led us into we were zip-lining across the river. more treacherous terrain. Clustered in At the last cable car, at kilometer 62, this section are three of the four cable the trail cut inland. What in fresh hell, cars on the trail, but we opted to take I thought, as we cursed gnarly roots and only two of them as the river was low huge mud pits where the only option was enough on the first crossing to simply to go straight through. I was tired; we run across the water. The cable cars both were. When I stopped to calm my that we did take, however, were a fun breathing, I found my legs quivering. reprieve from the run itself. We threw As the kilometers ticked slowly by,

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Trail Tips • Think carefully about starting at either end of the trail. Beginning in Pachena Bay (the north) means crossing the Nitinaht ferry earlier in the day and potentially being stranded once you reach Gordon River in the south. Beginning in Gordon River means starting no earlier than 9 a.m. (when the first ferry leaves) and thus finishing at dusk or in the dark, depending on your speed. • The trail is super remote. Carrying a small first aid kit is necessary as there are plenty of hazards on the trail. Nick and I also brought EpiPens and Benadryl since we’re both allergic to bee stings—we passed four signs warning of hornet nests directly next to the trail.

we noticed the forest growing dim as daylight waned. About this time, we also began observing substantial amounts of

• Never run this trail alone unless you’re very, very experienced in the backcountry (and even then, you’re taking a risk.) • Be prepared to spend a night on the trail if something happens—extra food, an emergency space blanket, and layers are vital. • Check the tides. Many of the beach routes are impassable and extremely hazardous, during high tides which can impede progress. • This is wildlife country. Know how to avoid an animal encounter and what to do if you see a cougar, bear, or wolf.

blueberry-studded scat all over the trail: bears. The ferry stopped shuttling people over from Gordon River to the south

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trailhead at 3:30 p.m., which meant that we wouldn’t see anyone else from here on out. The last thing we wanted was to run into a bear at the end of our run, so we talked loudly about anything we could think of to give the bears a warning. At kilometer-marker 70, a yellow sign indicated 5 km to Gordon River, the finish. But by all accounts, these last three miles were some of the hardest of the run, with long climbs and steep descents that only lead to rocky,

root-covered climbs again. When my watch beeped for kilometer 75, I felt despair. Where was the finish? All of a sudden, the trail dead-ended at a ladder that went straight down to a beach, and, at the bottom of the vertical ladder, the trailhead. 13 hours, 18 minutes, and 21 seconds: we had finished the West Coast Trail, and I had claimed the new female FKT. ANW

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Angling in BC Hooked on Differing Fishing Philosophies Story and photo by Judy Johnston

arriage takes a lot of work; no one will argue that point. Having differences in religion, child-rearing ideas, and/or politics can make it even more challenging. What I’m about to describe is even more serious: differing philosophies about elegant fly fishing and lowly bait/lure fishing! For some couples, this divergence is more confounding than any of those mentioned above. Allow me to illustrate. My husband and I have been married 53 years, and in the early years, Jim was quite pleased that I would take up any fishing rod as the whole notion was new to me. I rather enjoyed fishing, especially with my new, blue spinning rod and lots of varieties of BAIT. As we traveled the country, moving here and there, both of us were pleased and surprised that I caught fish, had fun, and began to become more independent with my gear. I got over being squeamish about putting a worm or gooey fish eggs on my hook and managing my own occasional tangled lines (gutting fish would come later). All this time, Jim smiled patiently as he, with his storehouse of knowledge and expertise, used his hand-made flies and fly rod to lure gorgeous fish from every stream and lake we visited. Then the honeymoon ended. Jim bought me 26

The heartbeat of Cascadia

a fly rod, deciding it was high time I learned to fish the “correct” way. Now, you must understand that my husband has taught many people to fly fish in his

sixty-plus years of pursuing this activity, and, generally. He’s been successful. Not so much with me. The words still echo in my head: “False cast from 10:00-2:00! Keep your wrist rigid. Focus! I do not want to be wearing that fly as an earring! On the forward cast, pretend you are striking a nail! Not that way! This is not a spin

ning rod! Stop releasing the line when it is straight up in the air! For God’s sake, woman!” And so our lessons would go, occasionally ending with Jim shaking his head and me in tears, contemplating divorce proceedings. The worst insult to Jim (or best compliment to me, depending on your perspective) was that occasionally, as my line would ungracefully pool into a ball 10 feet from the canoe, a nice fat trout would weave its way through and suck in the fly. Jim would stare in disbelief, especially when his perfectly cast fly would fail, at that moment, to catch a fish. While he usually cheered all my successes, he would be a bit more subdued at these moments. We did have one mutually successful day of fishing on Sapeye Lake, east of Williams Lake, B.C. The scenery was gorgeous, rivaling vistas of the Alps. The camping was pleasant, the day perfect with no breeze and lovely warm sun. For some reason, I was tuned into the mechanics of the cast. We had the whole lake mostly to ourselves, and we both caught beautiful fish. I had fun, and Jim was thrilled with my “advancement”, becoming newly hopeful for a positive future in this marriage of mixed philosophies: worms vs. flies. Unfortunately, one good day does not a fly-fishing conversion make. Slowly, I gravitated back to my favorite >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

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method of fishing with a spinning rod and bait. I continued to bait fish with fair success, and yes, there were days when the fish would be rolling and leaping that I’d take out my fly rod and troll one of Jim’s beautifully tied flies behind the canoe. Compromise, after all, is the essence of a good marriage, right? (Did I mention that by this time, we had two canoes? Go figure). However, spinning gear and bait or lures just seemed more sympatico to me. I must say, although I still don’t claim to be a fly-fisher person, I truly admire the beauty of the art. When Jim is casting, it is like ballet. The line sings back and forth through the air, and he can place a fly far away, precisely at the edge of a riffle or in the shade of a shoal, right where the trout are lurking. His hand-tied flies are considered works of art, many of them his own inventions designed from decades of studying fish and their feeding habits. Fly fishing is a thing of beauty, for some to practice and some to merely observe. Yes, this marriage can be saved, although my advice to young couples is, don’t try to teach your spouse to drive or fly fish; you’ll keep your blood pressure down and save a few grey hairs. This reminds me of a story: A fellow was out fishing on the river when a funeral procession wound its way along the road some distance away. The fellow set his fly rod down, took off his hat, and stood quietly for a moment. Another fisherman observing this behavior couldn’t help but notice and said, “Wow, I’m impressed that you would show such respect for the departed.” The first fellow countered by saying, “Well, after 40 years of marriage, it seemed like the least I could do.” The moral of the story? Be patient with each other, and enjoy your fishing trips no matter what gear you use! ANW

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An Island in the Sky Story by Lawrence Millman

tlin is a former gold mining town located near the Yukon border in the extreme northern part of British Columbia. From the moment I arrived there, I found myself staring at Teresa Island, which, crowned by Birch Mountain, rises 4,567 feet above Atlin Lake, making it one of the highest inland islands in the world.

an entire forest of lodgepole pines felled by an avalanche. The footing was precarious. A single false step could mean a sprained ankle or a downward tumble. Gernot, who was nearly seventy, sprinted over the recumbent trees with the aplomb of a mountain goat. Although much younger, I alternately walked or crawled over those same trees

The longer I stared at this uninhabited mass of rock and boreal forest, the more I wanted to plant my feet on its snow-capped summit. Finally, after I made a few queries in Atlin, I found just the right Birch Mountain, Atlin Lake. person to take me to Photo by Liz & Anders Treiberg/WeDiscoverCanadaAndBeyond.ca the summit — an Austrian mountainat the speed of a sluggish tortoise. eer-artist named Gernot Dick. Having completed our traverse So it was that Gernot and I of the fallen forest, we headed up a chugged off from the mainland in his streambed created by the summit’s motorboat. Once we reached the ismelting snow. Occasional patches of land, he chose a route that followed a ice sent me skidding and sliding in all steep avalanche chute on the northwest directions. I looked up at the summit, side. According to Gernot, this route and it seemed to be telling me, “Better would not only keep us out of the isthe sideways path than the straight and land’s virtually impenetrable forests, narrow one.” but it would also give us an opporA waterfall now blocked our progtunity for an advance sighting of any ress, so we climbed a ridge and scramgrizzly bear that might be interested in bled over more fallen trees. Gernot una human meal. sheathed his machete and slashed away As it happened, our initial ascent some of the more recalcitrant branches. took us through what a bear might As he was doing this, he admitted that have regarded as an alfresco restaurant he preferred the island in the winter, — a dense growth of raspberry bushes. when you can snowshoe or ski on top Higher up, we began walking on top of 28

The heartbeat of Cascadia

of all this debris. At last, we were above treeline and hiking up a slope that stood at an almost vertical tilt with the rest of existence. After an hour or so, we stopped to rest on an incline, and as Gernot played a medley of Tyrolean mountain songs on his harmonica, I gazed out on the world. Several thousand feet below us, Atlin Lake was an expanse of turquoise that suggested the Mediterranean rather than the Canadian North. Cumulous clouds sailed by overhead like a fleet of luminous cauliflowers. The green of the mainland forests seemed to surpass any other green I’d ever seen, even in the tropics. I informed Gernot that I was ready to make the descent. “You’re not interested in the summit?” he said with a look on his face that suggested I was a wimp. “This mountain, if you want to call it that, is only one-seventh the height of Everest…” I shook my head. For I couldn’t imagine the summit being as splendid a place as the one where I was now seated. Also, I had the distinct impression that Teresa Island wanted to be alone now — alone with its waterfalls, its fallen trees, its raspberry bushes, and perhaps with even a few bears, but without a pair of human invaders. And so we started down. ANW

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Appreciation Autumn in British Columbia By Jess Findlay

or as long as I can remember, my life has been centered around seeking out experiences in wild places and spending time with the wild creatures within them. In more recent years, as I’ve grown to understand more of what I’m observing in the natural world, and my ability to access and move through more of the terrain that surrounds me improves, my appreciation continues to deepen. I’ve never felt more connected to, or grateful for, the place I call home: British Columbia and the Pacific Northwest, and for the opportunity to share its beauty with people around the globe. See more of Jess’s photography at www.jessfindlay.com Visit AdventuresNW.com to view an extended gallery of Jess Findlay’s photography. Top Right: Sleese Divide Middle Row (L to R): Sumallo, Fall Colour Fire, Tantalus Dawn Bottom Row ( L to R): Silvertip, Spotlit Larches, Cascade Mountain Layers

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Colors of Cascadia The

Story and photos by Brett Baunton

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here are many lists of the “Best Places in the USA” to see fall colors. A typical list consists of 20 ultimate destinations with no mention of the Cascade Range. This is truly wonderful as it means more blueberries for the bears and us without busloads of tourists. Despite capturing many beautiful images of colorful deciduous forests in the Northeast and aspens in the Rockies, I have not found a good enough reason to miss our spectacular fall color in the North Cascades.

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In my experience, the prime colors of autumn start in the Alaskan arctic around late August and rush south with the season towards the Cascades. The variety and intensity of colors in Cascadia rate superhigh on the splendor scale. Fortunately,

October Rain on Maples

with many alpine trails through meadows and wide-open spaces, there are great wilderness options for hiking and camping. Ridges and meadows are aglow in crimson, orange, and gold with a touch of remaining greens in front of towering peaks mantled with the blue ice of glaciers. Nothing compares to our majestic North Cascade mountains in this regard.

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Cascadian Crimson

Each fall, we seek beautiful high country trails lined with the glowing red foliage of wild blueberries, orange mountain ash and golden alpine larch exploding into peak color. To top it off, it’s not unusual to get a dusting of snow in late fall, adding an ideal icing on the cake! These are the colors of a photographer’s dream. One can enjoy hiking vigorously without sweating or swatting mosquitoes and the variety of mushrooms is impressive. Usually, late August through early October is the best time to visit for fall color, although the timing and quality are different each year. Every fall, when the days become shorter, the rewards of hiking grow even greater. Rain or shine, the colors of Cascadia are always on the ANW top of my list.

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The Art and Science Story and photos by Suzanne Rothmeyer It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air, that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit. -Robert Louis Stevenson

how they define success and happiness. The psychological fallout that isolation, disease, and unemployment have brought is its own pandemic. But there was an interesting side effect—at a certain point, people started going outside in droves.

hat comes to mind when you hear the term “forest bathing”? To be honest, the first time I heard it, I imagined a bucolic scene of floating naked through—you guessed it, a forest worthy of a fairytale. But that’s just me imagining my best life. Studies show that shinrin-yoku (literally “taking in the atmosphere of the forest”) has many psychological and physical benefits. Coined by the Japanese in the 1980s, the concept was a government response to increased stress levels and burnout in the workplace. Coupled with a campaign to raise awareness around preserving the country’s forests, the idea took hold. The program’s success triggered a flood of studies in the ‘90s, producing some surprising results. What does that have to do with us today? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, 38

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Immersion

but the COVID-19 pandemic has had a very real effect on our psyches. After experiencing the forced shutdown, many people reevaluated their lives and

As an outdoorsy person, I couldn’t help but notice the dramatic uptick in bodies on the rivers, lakes, trails, and mountains I spend time on. And this, in turn, seems to have further reinforced the reevaluation of how we spend our time. Why? What is it about immersing oneself in nature that results in such a profound rethinking of our state of being? And what is happening in our brains and bodies when we slow down and interact with the natural world? It turns out that spending as little as 10 minutes connecting to nature has significant health benefits. The concept is not new. What ancient cultures knew >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

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of Forest Bathing intuitively, recent studies are now confirming. It’s quality—not quantity— that makes the difference. Running on a wooded trail will not provide you the same benefits as a slow walk. Taking time to connect with all five senses to the natural world around you can ease depression, lower blood pressure and reduce anxiety— along with a host of other benefits. The evidence is growing - nature is good for you. One of the many benefits of spending time in the forest is the effect of breathing in the phytoncides that certain mature trees give off. These phytoncides increase something called “natural killer cells” in your body (yes, they’re real). Among other things, these “NK cells” fight viruses, cancer, and inflammation. Hmmm. Is there some innate knowing in us that drew us into these spaces in the middle of a viral pandemic? Or was it as simple as cabin fever?

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In my quest to find out more and experience forest bathing for myself, I signed up for a tour with a seasoned guide. Laura Ward of Earth Elements in Bellingham met me in a wooded park off of Chuckanut Drive and took

me on a 45-minute deep dive into attentiveness. Now, if that sounds intimidating, trust me when I say she was warm, welcoming and although we took it slow, the time flew by. So what do you do when forest bathing? First, there are two primary methods—sitting or standing, and walking.

Of course, you should feel free to combine these as you see fit, which is part of learning how to follow your senses. Think about how a child, when left alone, plays, how they respond to some inner impulse—trusting it as they move through their play. Do that. If you’re walking, walk slowly. If you’re sitting, choose a quiet spot and plant yourself in an attitude of mindfulness. Leave phones and other electronics at home or in the car. Choose any quiet, green space, but a forest is ideal. Take a moment to ground yourself. Be still, listen to your breath, and tune in to your five senses of sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste. Be in the moment. As cliché as this sounds, think about it… how often are we, really, in the moment? What does it feel like to stop, close your eyes, and recognize a smell that takes you back into a memory? To allow

The heartbeat of Cascadia

that to come to you through all your senses rather than through a piece of technology?

stopped often and drew my attention to details often missed. We spent minutes on a flower—observing the color, the design, the comings and goings of

Forest bathing increases cerebral blood flow, which improves cognition and flushes out toxins.

Pay attention to all your contact points as you move through the space—your feet, hands, eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Notice your body in relation to your surroundings—with closed eyes, tune into sounds, and with open eyes, notice colors. Look at the leaves, the bark, the light, and shadow. Then, go macro: stare at a leaf or flower and take in the color variations, the structure, the scent. Paying deep attention to detail expands perspective and increases focus and attention span.

Nature’s Pace As we drifted down the trail, Laura

breath it in and notice the scents it carried. With a gentle attitude of receiving, her suggestions were never intrusive or mechanical. I found myself with a sense of being in my body that felt at once calming and powerful. Something was definitely happening. Adopting nature’s pace threw into relief the typical way of moving through our days on high speed, attached to devices, rushing through experiences. According to the EPA, Americans spend over 90% of their time indoors.

insects and bees. She prompted me to close my eyes and feel the breeze—to

Laura works with both the young and the elderly. She describes the discomfort many of the younger clients experience when leaving their phones behind and their struggle to focus. Scientists warn about our addiction to technology—the dopamine hits that keep us engaged. It’s rewiring our

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and psychologically. We have to ask ourselves how we want to wire our brains and to what end. We get to decide that! Time in nature—at nature’s pace—decreases aggression, reduces stress and anxiety, increases compasDid you know hanging out with Japanese Cedars lowers blood pressure, and other types of cedars can slow Alzheimer’s?

Come to Your Senses Some believe energy transmission through the eyes to be the most powerful exchange of energy in our bodies. We take in “noise” and then release it through our eyes. While this might sound too new-agey for many, scientific studies show significant changes in the brain from gazing at the natural world. What our eyes are taking in matters. Moving from a computer screen to a wide vista or forested path is undeniably restorative, both physiologically

sion, and improves cognition. It can lower blood pressure, improve sleep, reduce glucose in diabetics, help with depression, and increase focus and attention span. These days, this sounds like a must-have list of benefits for us all, don’t you think? Tuning into all our senses and connecting with nature is free. If you’d like some guidance to get you started, I highly recommend signing up for a forest bathing tour with Laura. It’s often help-

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ful when forming a new habit to have some initial direction or the occasional refresher. My walks help tune me into myself and my connection to the world around me, and in doing so, bring my attention back to my truest priorities. I can’t help but think if we were all tuning out more of the external noise and more into 360-220-3215 our deepest knowing, the world would be a better place. Taking the time to ground ourselves is like recalibrating our true compass. nonstop onslaught of information and Not Your Average SailingThe Charter ... All ages and abilities can enjoy us fun and unique distractions keeps hydroplaning over a more deeply lived sailing adventures, customized sailing instruction, withsailing moreexperiences! compassion and a real (not virtual) conor life... carefreeone skippered Book Your nection. Think of forest bathing as a wild sensory adventure Cruise Now! that reveals something about yourself and the world. Call it whatever you want—a habit, a ritual, an exercise, but give it a try and see if it doesn’t surprise you. ANW

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Autumn at Story and photos by John D’Onofrio

Fall colors above Cutthroat Pass

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Snowy Lakes

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Needles, an assortment of elegant spires rising to the east. Our destination is the Snowy Lakes, some six and a half miles

views down to the depths of the valley and up to the summits above. The trail here has been dynamited out of the pre-

Could this be an under-reported consequence of climate change: mountain goats being displaced from their traditional habitat Upper Snowy Lake and being replaced by shaggy-haired poets? distant from Cutthroat Pass, a place that Someone should look into this. I had not visited in 15 years. Those sweet After exchanging some elegiac pleaslittle lakes hold an exceedingly warm spot antries with Kevin, we continue on the among my mountain memories; my prePacific Crest Trail towards Granite Pass, vious visit had been undertaken with my enjoying the shifting perspectives of the sons when they were enthusiastic teenagers and we had shared a few spectacular father-and-son days together by the lakes in the By Kevin Murphy shadow of Golden Horn. We traverse the rubbleAlthough I am not mechanically inclined strewn slopes of aptly-named I have lately gotten into constructing clocks. Granite Ridge, weaving our way My models are crude but effective. through the sculpture gardens of Instead of cut jewels and gold, fallen stone slabs, some the size of UPS trucks. The trail then drops I use materials like dead leaves via a series of tight, semi-radical and shadows, switchbacks to Granite Pass, los pond scum and huckleberries. ing 600 feet in less than a halfMy alarm clocks have no bells or buzzers, rather, mile. After the rough descent in they erupt in silence, the blazing sun, the larch shadows and blueberry buffet of the and not at a predetermined time, pass provide a welcome respite but when before continuing up the Swamp an eruption of silence is necessary. Creek Valley, with its enchanting

cipitous cliffs of Tower Mountain and in places, rock slides have reduced the tread to a narrow ribbon across the scree slope, compelling me to focus my attention on each footstep and to practice the art of mindful boot placement, lest I end up in Swamp Creek far below. The unmarked side trail to Snowy Lakes climbs steeply over rough terrain and through stands of delicate larch, their golden needles providing an exquisite contrast to the rough-and-tumble rockscapes of the high country. The views, already expansive, grow wider with each upward step. Lower Snowy Lake, in its meadow basin, is tempting, but we keep climbing. The Upper Lake—located smack dab in the middle of a high, windswept pass—is where we’re headed and the sight of it, as we crest the pass, takes my breath away. The surface shimmers with reflections of Golden Horn and Tower Mountain, cradled by soft golden meadows, luminous with larches and littered with artistically

fter a delightful evening spent camped on the Pacific Crest Trail beside Porcupine Creek, Jesse and I crest Cutthroat Pass in mid-morning, but instead of the mountain goats that one often encounters at the pass, we encounter Kevin Murphy, the beloved poet from Bellingham, camping among the rocks by his lonesome. Unlike the goats, he doesn’t inquire about salt.

CLOCKS

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scattered glacial erratics. Seeking altitude and solitude, we climb to the top of a promontory high above the lake and make camp among the granite, blueberries, and larches with a splendid view of a chorus line of beguiling peaks. After dinner, I lean back against a comfortable rock to watch the nearly full moon rise over Tower Mountain. The evening silence is music to my ears. In the morning, I linger over my coffee as the sunlight spreads across the mountains, banishing the early shadows. After a suitable period of contemplation, I set off to explore the general area, leaving Jesse to his book. I have always found a unique joy in wandering alone, without a specific destination or plan, and in these high and open lands, the rambling is delightful in all directions. Following the tiny outlet stream from the upper lake to the lower one, I discover a complicated system of splashing channels flowing through sinuous grooves in the rock from pool to pool, each carpeted by luxurious green moss, reminiscent of a Zen garden. Rocky steps climb through meadows of crimson and gold, and I stop often to sit on one conveniently-placed boulder or another and consider the aesthetic possibilities of the various juxtapositions of color and texture, the brittle softness of the vegetation, and the unyielding granite. The afternoon slowly drifts by, timeless and peaceful. There is time to think and there is time to stop thinking… The sun slides between unknown peaks, the lake turning a dusky rose. Golden Horn shines like the kingdom of heaven. By the time I get back to camp, the sky is crowded with stars. Another clear, shining morning: cloudless sky, ebullient light, and moonset on Mt. Hardy. Today we’ll hike back to Cutthroat Pass, where we’ll enjoy one last night in the wilder-

Mountain Haiku By Bill Hoke

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ness. The morning light is bright and clear as we head back down the trail, gliding happily through the larch gardens. It’s true what they say about the gestalt of backcountry travel: It takes a few days to settle into the experience, to begin to feel the rhythm of the un-civilized world, and to move in time with the wind in the

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trees, the water flowing over rocks, the syncopated bassoon sound of bird wings beating the air. Above Granite Pass, we stop and rest on the rocks, enjoying a few moments of quiescence. After a few days in the backcountry, the silence is entirely comfortable. There is no need for the abstraction of language. As we approach Cutthroat Pass, the trail grows busy with blissed-out backpackers. The weekend has arrived, the larch are peaking, the sun is shining and the air—which has been fouled by wildfire smoke for much of the previous month—is crystal clear. I have never seen so many hikers at Cutthroat Pass. Never seen half as many. Seeking isolation, we climb rock and scree, dropping our packs on a lonely little ledge with a commanding view out to the epic peaks that surround us: Agnes, Sinister, Dome. I wander across the mountainside in the incandescent light of early evening, watching the sun drop behind the jumble of mountains,

The art of nature Autumn Colors

then lean back in my Therm-A-Rest chair and watch the full moon rise. I can’t be

On the Snowy Lakes Trail

certain, but I catch a whiff of something like winter on the wind. Sunrise is always especially beguil-

ing on the last morning of a backpacking trip and today is no different. I crawl out of my warm sleeping bag into the half-light of dawn; a muted blue-grey, details indistinct. As the sun peers over Snagtooth Ridge, colors emerge and the morning light gradually etches the shattered rock around our camp in sharp relief, emphasizing the contrast between the vibrant morning light and purple shadow. Moment by moment, the colors grow more saturated: gold, orange, purple and crimson spread as if by a palette knife across the slopes. The sky is robin’s-egg blue and a few wispy clouds drift above the ramparts, scuttling overhead in the chill morning wind; the first real clouds that we’ve seen in a week. Alas, all too soon it is time to go, so we shoulder our packs and begin the journey home, winding our way down through open larch forest, finding a different variation of autumn paradise around every bend in the path. My pack feels weightless and I sail through the forest with a buoyant heart, stopping

eARTh

By Stephen McMillan

Autumn is one of my favorite seasons. I love the crisp air and bright colors. As a printmaker it is a particular challenge to create etchings expressing this intensity of light. While a single plate might work for a winter snow scene, fall demands a full palate of colors, requiring three or four plates to mix into a celebration of light. Each plate has to be drawn not only for how it will look, but also, how it will mix with the other plates. See more of Stephen’s work at: www.sonic.net/aquatint

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Top Row (L to R): Lily Pads, Lake Terrell; Ducks, Lithia Park Bottom Row (L to R): Autumn Leaves, Colors, October Colors, Autumn Light

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often to photograph the splendor. It’s amazing what a few days of living outside among wall-to-wall, round-t he-clock beauty can do for the beleaguered soul. I am grateful for this morning of felicity and peace, after a tumultuous summer of pandemic-fueled anxiety. I make a point of soaking up the idyllic autumnal dream-light that illuminates the landscape: golden trees, blue sky, white clouds. This lingering Autumn Splendor vision, I feel sure, will sustain me and carry me forward into the uncertain darkness of winter. ANW

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Trial by Fire Story by Camden Jones

Camden Jones, Lakeview IHC as he shields his face from radiant heat during a burnout operation on the Lionshead Fire. Photo by Chance Ison

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ive fire seasons weigh upon me. My knees, though they have only seen 24 summers, creak and snap with each step; my wrists, elbows, and shoulders crackle from having absorbed the shock of uncountable swings of my Pulaski into compact, dark earth; my feet bear the memory of miles, flayed raw. Five fire seasons in the Pacific Northwest, and my body is a different shape than when I started. But then again, so is the landscape.

spent nearly all of July and August working with two local Interagency Hotshot Crews (IHCs)—Winema IHC and Lakeview IHC—on various fires across the west. 2018 was hotter still. In 2019, I ac-

When the Forest Service hired me in 2016, my duty station was in my hometown of Paisley, Oregon, where the Fremont-Winema Forest was our playground. On slow days, we patrolled the woods The Lionshead Fire at sunset, September, 2020. Photo was taken from Spike Camp and clearly shows the wind pushing the fire to the east. in our Type-4 engine, playing Photo by Chance Ison cards in shady campgrounds and visiting the various lookcepted a position on Lakeview IHC and out towers to see if we could spot smoke returned there for the 2020 season, fighton the horizon. I fought a number of fires ing fires in Alaska, Montana, Wyoming, that year, including the Pioneer Fire in Arizona, Colorado, Washington, and Idaho, but on the whole, I had a peaceful Oregon. Yet, I did not return for the 2021 three months before returning to college. season. The summer of 2017 was hotter. If they stay in the business long There were more fires, higher temperaenough, every firefighter faces a moment tures, less precipitation, and longer days. I

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when they must confront their fragility. Some might hike a thousand miles over the course of twenty years and become close friends with the shadow of their mortality, while others hang their boots up at the end of their first season. I have stared into walls of boiling flame, gazed at old-growth forests bursting into radiant light before crumbling to ash, and felt the awesome power of pyro-cumulous storms collapsing around me. I have trekked through knee-deep ash pits lined with glowing coals, cut-down snags that could crush my soft body into a mess of pulp and bone, and felt the stinging hot rain of ember fallout against my face. Yet, through all my experiences, there has only been one day where my vulnerability was fully revealed against a backdrop of utter futility. The Lionshead Fire on the Warm Springs Reservation began in August of 2020 during a lightning storm and was one of dozens of active fires across the Pacific Northwest. A combination of too-few initial response resources, steep terrain, a high concentration of fuel loading and ‘dead-and-down’ on the ground, and temperatures in the mid-90s with

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A column of smoke rises through a stand of timber on the Lionshead Fire. Later, a wind shift will spread fire into the valley below the road. Photo by Camden Jones

strong diurnal winds quickly expanded the fire to several thousand acres. Lakeview IHC fought the Lionshead on two different assignments, arriving the first time on August 25th after nine days on the Crane Fire near Lakeview, Oregon. Already fatigued, we spent a handful of days conducting hasty burnout operations using both aerial-ignition (our crew had a drone with aerial-ignition capabilities) and hand-firing before returning home for a couple of days to recover. We returned to the Lionshead almost immediately to find our previous work had been rendered null and void by violent windstorms and aggressive

complex firing operation at night. Other crews had finished preparing their lines, and a contingency plan was in place in case this burn-op failed. In addition, a red-flag warning was in place due to extreme winds from the east (a common factor in the explosive growth of many of Oregon’s largest fires) and low relative humidity recovery overnight. Gibilisco, the captain of our crew, selected me as one of the four burners, and I grabbed a drip torch. The plan was simple: in a staggered formation about twenty-five feet apart, we four burners were to put fire on the ground and let it burn the underbrush in a controlled setting. The strategy was such that, by burn-

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afternoon pushes across miles of uncontrolled fire line. Shortly after arriving, the order came to prepare a road (create a fuel break adjacent to a road or other natural feature to be later burned out), and soon six saw teams were leapfrogging each other. Progress was slow as the saws had to contend with jack-strawed deadand-down while battling the slope that threatened to tumble the teams down the mountainside. The crew spent four days on four different roads. The Incident Management team in charge was indecisive, changing plans and strategies almost as often as the wind shifted directions. Finally, we received the order to conduct a highly

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ing the understory, we would create a fuel break between the road and the main front of the fire, thus robbing it of energy and hopefully slowing or stopping its progress. We had completed dozens of burnouts exactly like this one earlier in the season, but I was uncomfortable because of the winds. However, since we were on the southern front of the fire, I figured the east winds would simply push our burn parallel to the line and into the base of Mt. Jefferson. I was wrong. The burn began as planned, the holding resources stretched out behind us (they kept their backs to the fire, constantly scanning the unburned forest to the south for spot fires from falling embers). We had completed nearly two miles of the intended four by 9 p.m. Gibilisco swapped me and the other burners out with fresh crew members to give us a break, and I dropped my pack to grab a snack and rehydrate before taking my place among the holding resources. Then, bent over my pack with my headlamp on, I noticed the dust and smoke swirling past my face change direction. The wind had switched. A halt was called to pause the burn-op, but it was too late: a stand of fir trees ignited, torching out with flames over one hundred feet high, and I watched with dismay as thousands of firefly-like embers crossed the line into the valley below the road. In minutes, dozens of spot fires were roaring in the area we were trying to prevent from burning, acrid black smoke was billowing in all directions, and visibility fell to a few feet. The radio on my hip squawked. “Lakeview, Division Bravo.” The Division Officer (the fire staff in charge of the entire operation) was calling Mugz, our crew supervisor. “Go for Lakeview,” Mugz answered instantly, evidently waiting for the call. “Hey Mugz, any chance we can pick up those spots?” Mugz took half a moment before responding in a few terse words. “None. It’s gone.” “Okay. Let’s get everyone pulled back to the safety zone and cleared out.” Division sounded upset, almost like he wanted to cry. I realized that he was likely as exhausted as we were. As everyone was. Technical Excellence & Integrity Since 1999

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Mugz called the crew channel on were completely, or nearly, destroyed; the radio and gave the instructions fires grew to astronomical size in a matter for us to pull up the road to the safety of hours, pushed by the hand of a relentzone at the halfway point of the burn. less wind. Resources were stretched to I joined my fellow crew members from further down the hill as they marched past, and we arrived at the safety zone in a few minutes. A dozer had cleared an area larger than a football field down to bare, mineral soil; dusty, volcanic silica. The wind was blowing from the east again but frequently shifted towards the south, sending smoke and choking dust swirling into our eyes no matter which direction we faced. Standing there in the ankle-deep dust, we watched the fire roar past on three sides and into the Mt. Jefferson wilderness. Firefighters who survive being burned-over describe the sound of the inferno as a freight train rushing by mere feet from them. We weren’t burned over, but there was enough fire Eric Ogden (L) and Camden Jones (R) pose on a dozer line that all sound disappeared beneath in front of a burning slash fire. the waterfall-like howl punctuated by Photo by Michael McGirr the deeper crashing of falling trees. The east-wind event that vastly the breaking point. Within a day of our complicated and ultimately fouled our failed burn operation, the Lionshead Fire burn operation impacted wildfires across burned around Mt. Jefferson and the the Pacific Northwest. Numerous towns Beachie Creek Fire and the P515 Fire, which were responsible for razing the towns of Detroit and Gates, damaging multiple other communities, and killing at least five people. Located in Historic The next day, I watched as the Downtown Port Townsend Lionshead merged with Beachie Creek. Walking distance to the ferry Their double-headed column darkened (360)385-5467 • 1-800-735-9810 the sky as far as I could see to the west, Check our website for seasonal specials: pouring smoke into the Willamette www.watersthotel.com Valley. I could see dozens of additional smoke columns to the north and south as 635 Water Street, Port Townsend, WA other fires chewed up the landscape. Five fire seasons weigh upon me, though at times, I am almost without their weight. On that ridgeline, however, I felt every ounce of their burden. With destruction reigning absolute on the horizon in all directions, it seemed the entire West was on fire. It burns ANW still.

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Field Trip Adventures beyond the PNW

The Wild Atlantic Way Story and photo by Christian Martin

hen Americans travel to Europe, many flock to the antiquities, looking to trace the roots of Western Civilization. They tour the crumbling Coliseum baking under the Roman sun or the Acropolis of Athens standing timeless in the glare of Aegean heat. But for this son of the Pacific Northwest, give me the lichen-encrusted ruins, ring forts, and standing stones weathering solemnly under the grey skies of the rain-lashed edge of Ireland. The Wild Atlantic Way is a 1,500mile route that snakes up Ireland’s west coast, threading together epic scenery, colorful towns and ports, beaches, farms, and lonely moors. It rises over barren mountain passes and hugs crumbling cliffs, knotted by looping turns with barely enough space for two vehicles to squeeze by. Flocks of wandering sheep slow traffic, and road signs offer directions in the traditional Irish Gaeilge language. Millennia of various civilizations have left traces along the Way, including megalithic tombs, medieval castles, churches, and Bronze Age stone circles, plus Celtic, 56

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Viking, and Prehistoric artifacts preserved in rural museums. It is a bewildering array of rubble from across the eons. And better yet, most of them are scattered across farm fields and bluffs overlooking the ocean: beautifully situated, subtly signed, and free to visit —if you can find them. For example, Kilmalkedar Church on the Dingle Peninsula was built in the 12th century in the Romanesque architectural style. Quite old indeed, until you learn that it was constructed atop a monastery founded in the 7th century by St. Maolcethair. Look around, Celtic crosses are jumbled together with a medieval stone sundial, an “alphabet stone” with Latin inscription, and a fivefoot stone pillar notched in the mysterious Ogham script dated to 600 A.D. Or the nearby Gallus Oratory, a structure shaped like an overturned boat that has stood overlooking the harbor at Ard na Caithne for 1200 years! It is constructed of nothing but precisely cut dry-stacked sandstone blocks and is amazingly waterproof. The highlight of my trip exploring the southern end of the route was visiting the island, Skellig Michael. It was the last sailing of the season and the small boat

rocked and rolled through 18 miles of Atlantic swells to a tiny landing dynamited out of the face of a sheer cliff. I leaped ashore and ascended 600 slippery stone steps upwards into the clouds. At the top of this ragged-tooth of stone sits the well-preserved ruins of a terraced monastery founded around the sixth century. Remarkably, Irish monks scratched out a living here, living in stone beehive huts, fertilizing their garden with seaweed, mumbling their prayers. It is a forlorn place far removed from the distractions of the world. Exposure to the elements is constant, including rain squalls, hurricane-force winds, and waves breaking on the unforgiving shore. Lord Dunraven wrote in 1871 that “the scene is one so solemn and so sad that none should enter here but the pilgrim and the penitent.” That’s me—more pilgrim than penitent—wandering the mythic landscapes of western Ireland under leaden skies, buffeted by winds and salt spray, following my imagination through the stony ruins of Long Ago in a setting not that different from my home in the Pacific Northwest. ANW >>> Go to AdventuresNW.com

to read ANW

Essentials for your next Adventure San Juan Islands Boater’s Guide The folks at Blue Latitude Press (based in Anacortes, WA) have established themselves as the source for cruising guides to the waters of the Pacific Northwest (they also have the market cornered on guides to the Pacific Coast of Mexico and the Sea of Cortez). Their newlypublished second edition of the classic San Juan Islands Boater’s Guide celebrates the joys of adventuring by boat in this beautiful archipelago on the Salish Sea. Illustrated with more than 70 GPS accurate charts, the Guide combines exhaustively detailed nuts-and-bolts navigational info with engaging narration that shines the light on countless points of interest—both on the water and on land—including parks, trails, restaurants, museums, and a plethora of the special places that make cruising these islands such a joy. If you want to get the most out of your time in the San Juans, you’ll want this book. More info: bluelatitudepress.com

Merrell® Women’s Snowcreek Cozy Leather Polar Waterproof Boots With cold weather waiting in the wings, keeping your feet warm and dry becomes paramount, and Merrell’s Women’s Snowcreek Cozy Leather Polar Waterproof Boots cover all the bases. Featuring a fleece-lined removable EVA foam insole, they’re warm and toasty. They have great traction on slippery surfaces, thanks to the Quantum Grip™ soles and are supremely comfortable. Whether you’re hiking through the season’s first snow in the North Cascades or heading downtown for the First Friday Art Walk, they’ll keep your tootsies happy and dry. More info: www.merrell.com

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Gear Spotlight:

Ogso Schwarztor Skis & Black Diamond Helio 350 Bindings by Chris Gerston

Is it too early to talk skiing? It’s never too early. This spring and summer I had the pleasure of testing out the Ogso Schwarztor skis (178cm) and the Black Diamond Helio 350 binding (made by ATK). This kit made my summer trips on Mt. Baker very light on the way up and silky smooth on the way down. Ogso is based in Chamonix, France and new to the USA. The Schwarztor weighs 1450g (178cm) and proved to be amazingly responsive, smooth, and quick-turning for a 104mm ski underfoot. The closest examples of similar skis are the DPS Wailer 112 and the Rossignol Soul 7, which they kind of resemble with their crazy clown-shoe rocker profile. The Helio 350 binding is my shining star of summer skiing. I absolutely love this binding. Its weight is about half of what a Tecton, Kingpin, or Shift weighs, and it has brakes. On my volcano days, inbounds, and slackcountry days, it exceeded my expectations. It looks like another classic-heeled tech binding with light weight as its primary virtue, yet I couldn’t feel the difference in how it skied against other AT bindings with an alpine heel piece trading weight for increased control. On one day of testing, I had a super-heavy damp burly alpine ski, and was wearing some light weight seemingly underpowered touring boots, and the Helio did an amazing job of bridging the gap in that system. 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

Adventures Northwest Magazine Autumn 2021

Articles inside

Field Trip: The Wild Atlantic Way

Trial by Fire

Autumn at Snowy Lakes

The Art and Science of Forest Bathing

The Colors of Cascadia

Angling in BC

Running BC's West Coast Trail

An Island in the Sky

Off-Piste in the Pinnacles