Adams, August 2016

Dear Mountain:
When I first saw you
I thought maybe we could be friends.
Was I wrong?
Yours truly, Dave
(By the way, I like your glaciers.)
- Trail #112 -

Well, now that I'm here, I'm even more impressed.
I'd like to see more.
If possible.
Within reason.
Maybe.
I feel small now.

Yet I decide to come closer,
Feeling smaller than small.
To see if I can touch you, ice. Glacier ice.
Glacier ice of Adams Glacier.
Well named.
And to see these tracks.
Made by a stone departing on a summer adventure.
A stone. Am I right?

But when I get there, to the glacier,
The space is taken.
Just as I arrive at the lower skirts of ice,
A strange old man appears,
And then, after I leave, and turn to wave goodbye,
And wish him well,
He is no longer there.

See?
See that dark cliff along the bottom?
There. That's the ice. Where it meets snow.
That is where I went, where he was, where we were.
For a few moments. Together.
I have the photograph to prove it. You saw it.
Right against the ice we were, standing.
Standing in the wind, in the sun, in the after noon.
I touched the ice there, where the old man stood.
But now, descending, it's just me again.
Not even a strange old stranger to wave to.

Well, regardless, the day is not done.
Its life continues.
Clouds arrive to play with the sun,
Which reaches around them,
Touching far mountains.
Which glow happily. And sing.
In wave after wave.
Hello, hiker. We are here too. Hello.
I believe.

What can I say?
What is there to say?
I don't say.
Perhaps I hum along quietly.
Perhaps not.
No matter.
The mountains seem content.
Am I? To be here?
Yes. I guess I am.

And still later, the sun again.
Lower.
Dimmer.
Redder.
Dancing on the glacier.
This happens a lot, does it?
Doesn't it?
Today it does.

I never get done with it, the looking.
Only darkness, when it comes, stops my admiring.
Luckily I know this place.
Found it my first time here, years ago.
Quiet.
Out of sight.
Private, but open.
With a good view.
Water.
And room to sleep.

Ah.
There you are, Old Rainy.
I thought you'd be here for sunset.
Way off, but impossible to miss, aren't you?
Always. As always.
I'll be back one of these days, to walk with you again.
But not quite yet, not today.
When the time comes.
When it comes.

Walking, walking. Around the mountain.
"Round-the-Mountain", "Trail 2000", "PCT".
All the same.
A collection of names for one trail.
But no matter.
No matter what, the dust.
I leave my tracks too. With others.
A trace. My passing signature.
I endorse.

Different this year.
There was fire. A year ago.
Or two, or what? A while. A while ago.
A while ago there was fire.
No fire now, but fire sign.
Every where. See it?

But life is here. Always.
Life cannot be defeated. Fresh every spring.
All around. Near us. Surrounding us.
Fresh. Clean. Green. Moving gently when a breeze.
Scattering its shadow everywhere, without a care.
Step.

It reached from the south, north, way up.
Traveling.
Fire.
Is its own wonder.
Has effects.
Easy to see, years on.
But today is quiet.
All over. Quiet. Warm.

Another landmark. A marker. A hint.
Good to find.
Things are confusing this year.
Because of fire, and so
All a bit off.
With yesteryear's memory
Not quite matching today's mountain.
So good, then.
Good to find a marker.
Get a clue.
What clue is it? I wonder.

Past that then.
Into the open.
Beyond old fire.
Beyond forest.
Enough sky here for a world.
Good Adams, fine Adams.
You are my friend, I think.
Are you?
— Hellroaring Valley. —

And beyond.
Look up. See.
See that?
Ridge of Wonders behind.
And around left. It flanks.
Curves around, surrounds.
Embraces.
And from the front, once again confronts.
One day, I think, I will go there.
— Big Muddy Valley. —

Splash.
Burble.
Bubble.
Spray.
It has no name.
Neither do I.
Being only a thing.
Here today.
See?

Yes. Up there. One day. Not now.
One day.
But tomorrow,
Tomorrow I meet them.
Two people.
Up there now.
Out of sight.
Taking another route.
I will meet them, crossing Big Muddy creek.
Will show them a place to cross in safety.
Which I found by accident.
Perfect sharing. My reason to be here?
Could be. My purpose.

And next morning, before all that,
This.
Coming alive with the sun.
For me. For us. For today. For now.
For ever and today.
Nothing to say.
Look.

You learn a lot that way.
By keeping still.
By waiting.
By looking.
By letting the world happen.

Not all extremes are bad.
But being extremes,
They have short lives.
Short lives lost quickly.
Which is why it is good to recall
These words:
Lightning flashes,
Sparks shower.
In one blink of your eyes
You have missed seeing.
So thank you again, crazy
Old Mumon, long dead. 1260.

Crunch.
Step.
Crunch.
Third trip around,
This mountain.
Third time lost trail.
Third experience
Finding secrets.
Step.

Not all who wander are lost.
Only me.
Alone again.
On unique traverse,
So I think.
Take your time.
Use your head.
Check map.
Observe sun.
Find landmark.
Don't forget to look.
Panic only if it helps.
And don't forget to look.

There it is. Again.
Landmark.
Sky-scratcher, rain-catcher.
Wide of my trail but with me.
Trail? Close, near. Only look.
Friend Rainier will stand.
Good to navigate by.
Trail? From here, left.
Go left I think.
West.

Round the mountain's north.
Past Little Muddy creek.
Past Foggy Flats.
Past the PCT hikers up early, jogging,
Chasing Canada.
Past all of it, all of them.
Back.
To my secret campsite.
Under the glacier which sits
Singing its single silent deep note.

Which is an alarm,
A warning,
An alert.
A promise.
"Be up for it. Look east. Early."
I am. I do. It is.
There.
East. Early. Up. There.

Transient, another extreme.
Another secret unshareable, because.
No one else is there.
To share. Those moments.
Then.
All gone. Quickly. Quickly over.
Too quickly.
Brushed aside by Sun,
Which owns the sky.

Leaving another hiker to fumble off.
Toward home.
Dragging shadow.
Leaving a last batch of tracks.
Among dapples.

Previous Adams:

Adams West, April 11, 2012.

Adams South, April 26, 2012.

Adams East, May 24, 2012.

Adams North, August 29, 2012.

A worm rides my hat.

I have met you but forgotten.
Or never met you.
Or will some day.
Or won't.
Life is like that.
Going ahead without us.

Take another breath.
Just look.
It is enough.
You have lived.
One more day.

Adams North

Capping the loop.

Me hammock on a nameless ridge. (pano → click to embiggen)

Yeah, well, this was a while ago.

I've done the hike around Mt Adams twice, and wanted to go back the last couple of years. Two years ago we had rain all summer. Last year I was selling off my camera gear. This year I'm packing to leave the country and have no car, so poop on it.

I usually forget to photograph it. (pano → click to embiggen)

These photos are from the first trip.

The off-trail stage is only about three and a half miles (5.6 km), but takes forever.

First, because it is extremely dangerous. If you are traveling alone.

It isn't that hard, but one misstep can break a leg or a shoulder, or a skull, and then that's about it. Take it easy, be cautious, be conservative, and you'll probably get through OK.

But that takes time, so the first time through I had to camp on a ridge around a mile short of my destination. Which was actually a good thing. Sunrise was great.

Gnarly morning. (pano → click to embiggen)

The second time I did this trip I pushed through and covered all the ground -- in eleven and a half hours -- but actually it was better the first time.

Keeping to some arbitrary schedule does not always make sense.

The nice thing about reaching the meadow is that there is water there, and although there is plenty of room for tents, it's not so good for hammocks. And the view is much better from the ridge.

Mountains always look good at sunrise. (pano → click to embiggen)

Coming around the mountain on the trail is easy. The trail is level and well-maintained. It's a piece of cake. You could hike it with your eyes closed.

Then, arcing around the south side of the mountain and heading back north again, you come to the end of it. The trail.

There is a drop, into Hellroaring Valley, and if you go there you are on your own.

This is the part I like.

After some terrain negotiation - midday-ish. (pano → click to embiggen)

Negotiating the route after that takes caution and some planning. Think of on-the-ground tactics applied to pre-hike strategy.

You encounter various kinds of scree and talus, both of stone of dried, flaked dirt.

There are thickets. Unstable boulders. Hidden streams. Thorns. Steep slopes.

Glaciers.

Well, one glacier. A small one. But a glacier nevertheless.

It could bite if it chose to. I guess.

In other words, there is freedom and you are welcome to use it to your advantage or detriment, as the case may be.

High, clear, calm, rocky, lonesome. Perfect. (pano → click to embiggen)

But we've been over that part.

Today we move beyond.

Trending first south, then east, and now back north and again to the west before leaving the mountain takes us through several different environments.

The trail travel is mellow, as noted.

The off-trail travel is interesting.

The northern side of the mountain is something else again.

It is open. It is free. There are no boundaries.

The landscape is softly rolling and grassy, and yet rocky underfoot.

Both times there I have lost the trail, despite wasting what seemed like hours searching for it. You lose it. You can't help it. It doesn't matter. Not really.

The trail is there, and might be easy to follow if going the other direction, but by traveling counter-clockwise, losing the trail is not only easy but inevitable.

Rainier standing alone. (pano → click to embiggen)

Eh.

Cross-country travel is easy to the north. All you have to do is head toward where the map says you need to be and sooner or later you will cross the trail, and then it will carry you from that point onward.

In between, you get to fly free across a sort of cobbly tundra. Grassy yet full of stubbornly-hidden stobbers waiting to catch up your feet and throw you down.

Evening closing in and miles to go yet. (pano → click to embiggen)

Eventually you will come to a stream. One of those volcanic-mountain streams full of grayness and silt, and you will have to cross it.

Crossing these is always uncomfortable. Late in the day, after high snows have warmed, these streams are full to the brink and vigorous with their strength. This is when you have to cross them, even if, early in the day, they may be only damp gullies.

So you cross the stream because you have to, and you get your legs and feet covered with grit, and have to wait to dry, and then you continue.

Final morning at the PCT junction. (pano → click to embiggen)

Not long after this crossing you enter the first outliers of forest.

For most of this day you will have been in the open, skimming the mountain's surface like a happy bee, carefree in the sunshine.

But now, toward evening, you begin to look for clear water, supper, and a campsite, and soon you find water, and then woods.

Rainier always dominates the horizon. (pano → click to embiggen)

For hammockers, the north part of Mt Adams is fine.

There are many places to slip off the trail and find a couple of trees to hang from, and another one to put your food in.

Hey. OK. I can't get enough. (pano → click to embiggen)

And in August, when the weather is fine, you are too.

The only trouble I had was on the first trip, when coyotes -- well, one coyote -- insisted on howling and barking late into the night.

I was awake yelling at it, hoping to scare it away, but I think it finally simply got tired of making noise and climbed into its own bed to finish rest up and leave me in peace.

Goodbye, Adams. I love you.

Anyway, the last (short) day is an easy hike back down the trail to the parking lot, where, if you've been clever with your parking, your car is waiting in the shade, nice and cool for the drive home.

More:

Adams West

Adams South

Adams East

Adams East

Disappearing quietly.

Trail to the edge. (pano → click to embiggen)

Getting up early to reach the edge of Hellroaring Valley, I enjoyed calm, cool air and warm sun. No day hikers were around. I could hop off the edge, drop a couple of feet, and head down slope.

Top of Hellroaring Valley from near the edge. (pano → click to embiggen)

The book "Trekking Washington" was my guide. It said though this part of the route was on Yakima land, there were no permits needed. Just to be safe I wanted to get over the edge and vanish before anyone was around. Ten minutes into Hellroaring Valley I would be invisible and, if not, then uncatchable. As well as being out of earshot.

Hellroaring Valley from atop south wall. (pano → click to embiggen)

The slope is mostly dirt, but you can call it scree if you want. You descend rapidly, and can soon vanish into scattered trees. After that you need to figure out where you are and where you need to go.

Too far right, down valley, and you come to a cliff. Too far left, and you are too high and are on bare rock and I don't know whatall.

Somewhere in the middle you pass among groves of trees, skirt shrubs, and work down in just the right way, and then, at the bottom, there's a drop. Unless you go a little more left, and slither down a seasonal channel.

Hellroaring Valley from the north, inside. (pano → click to embiggen)

This is fun. The route across the valley floor (there is NO trail here) skirts the edge of heavy rubble on the upslope side and willows on the downslope side.

I say rubble because it is. Boulders. Sharp basaltic boulders. Even so, there are many berry vines and dropoffs where hidden creeks cross the route. The going is slow unless you want to snap off a leg. Which you can do, but if you are there alone that will be the end of your story.

Waterfalls feeding Hellroaring Creek.

There is a nice spot on the north side of the valley where I've stopped twice for breakfast. But nice is relative. Nice for me is flat enough to sit down under a tree just barely large enough to provide shade. Nice because no one else can possibly be there. Ever. And because it is morning and clear, and it is good to eat.

Southeast, Hellroaring Valley, halfway up. (pano → click to embiggen)

And then you try to get out.

This is harder.

The north wall of the valley is mixed. Dead, scratchy brush down low. Hard dirt and some grass higher up. Steep. A few shallow ravines. Boggy ground guarded by impenetrable willow thickets. I've had to crawl. And it's really hard to tell where you are or where you need to go, because you're inside it, and can't see up. Things get steeper toward the top - more bare ground, more real trees.

Finally, a peek at the beast.

You are now atop the Ridge of Wonders. So called. East is Little Mt Adams. It is windy. There is still a longer than reasonable trudge up, toward the mountain, toward the edge. The wind increases. You come to the edge and wonder. You wonder if this is the day you are going to die. You wonder because. There is no way down. Except. Straight down.

Then you understand. Why. It is called the Ridge of Wonders.

Little Mt Adams as seen from the Ridge of Wonders.

You could call it talus but it that is not what you see. What you see is boulders. Rough tetrahedrons, all sharp. A near-vertical boulder field. They range in size from cantaloupe to beach ball. They are loose. They are waiting to bite you and knock you down and then kill you. But this is where you want to be.

Big Muddy Valley. (pano → click to embiggen)

If you go slowly you may live. You hope to because there is so much more to see. You descend, one step. And then another. It takes at least a half hour to descend. The vertical distance is 200 meters, or more. Possibly 300 meters. It doesn't matter.

What matters is getting to the bottom before you die. Given enough luck, and willing yourself not to make a singe misstep, you do that, and it is glorious. You are now fully in the embrace of the mountain. You see its secrets. You cannot go back. There is water.

The east face of Adams over Big Muddy Valley.

The first stream is clear, smooth, and barely deep enough to scoop from. It has no name. Across the valley is Big Muddy. You can hear it. You know its name. You know it is there.

It knows you are here. It owns this valley. If you come too near it will kill you. It will kill you dead if it can, and it can. It is brown. It is brown the way no water can be brown but it is. It foams. Standing near it but not too near it you realize that you cannot go on.

Looking cross-valley toward the glacier waiting for you.

You realize that you cannot go on because standing there, on the edge of Big Muddy, but not too near, you hear it grinding. It could be grinding its teeth but it has none, so while it dreams of teeth, and of grinding you with them, it rolls together boulders and cracks them in its cheeks. Thunk. Crack. Chunk. You cannot go on or it will break you.

And while you cannot go on, you cannot go back. This is also fun. This is desperate living.

Brush guarding the danger edge of Ridge of Wonders. (pano → click to embiggen)

So you go up, skirting Big Muddy Creek. Looking for a way across. Because. Because if you go high enough, surely. Surely there will be a spot to cross. But there is not. Big Muddy Creek is smarter than you, and millions of times stronger, and older than your species.

So you go up, continuing to skirt Big Muddy Creek, and the first year, you find a boulder. It is split, and Big Muddy Creek, all of it, roars through the split. If you are careful. And lucky. And careful. You can drop to all fours, and reach your front legs across and shift your weight, and push off, and bring your hind legs across. If you are careful. And lucky. And do it just right. Then you will cross and not die.

The place where secret glaciers nest. (pano → click to embiggen)

And the second year that boulder is no longer there. Such a big thing. Now so absent.

The creek has killed it and eaten it and from it has made mud.

So you go higher, continuing to skirt Big Muddy Creek. Until. You come to the glacier. And still there is too much water. Clear, but cold with the cold of freezing cold, and too deep. And too fast.

It too will kill you. It will grab you and pull you in and freeze you hard and snap you into splinters and that will be the end of your story forever.

So you go up onto the glacier. And walk over its top, over the ice tunnels roaring with freezing death water, and that is how you get across Big Muddy Creek the second time.

You are lucky, and alive. It feels good to be alive, and to be lucky, and to be caught with no way out but to go on. But most of all, to be alive.

Ridge of Wonders from Battlement Ridge. (pano → click to embiggen)

Given that, you go on. Time to climb out of the valley, which is easy, but hard. Finding the far side of the glacier, which is exceedingly small, for a glacier, it is safe but awkward to gain altitude trudging along its northern edge, where ice meets its moraine. Now, in these late times, the moraine is much higher than its glacier, and all dust. That is the way out.

Big Muddy Valley from Battlement Ridge, evening. (pano → click to embiggen)

And that is about it for today. Battlement Ridge has trees for hammocking, and a few flats good enough for a tent or two. From there, from the top where you are safe, you can look back at the land you came through, and look north too, toward tomorrow's Rusk Creek and its valley.

And while there is no water on the ridge, it is not hard to carry up a night's supply, and it is not hard to have bathed before getting there, and it is good to be there and be alive, so you sleep.

Previously:

Adams West

Adams South