Season's Change

Glacier Peak is an impressive sight from any angle; jagged ridges stand out in relief to the sky, interspersed with deeply crevassed glaciers.  All of this passed by in darkness as I drove toward the Sitcum Glacier route one morning, eventually reaching the parking lot and the trailhead with still over an hour to go until sunrise.  In particularly warm weather it is important to get an early start on the day.  It was expected to be a record breaker too, this, the last day of summer.  By that time the next day it would be fall – for these purposes I prefer to call it "autumn" - and I would be climbing toward the summit of Washington's fifth highest volcano in the cool pre dawn hours. 

The first five miles of trail is an up and down affair as you lose and gain hundreds of feet in elevation before reaching Kennedy Hot Springs, where the route turns more decidedly uphill.  The journey to the springs is a pleasant one, though, as you pass under a canopy of first growth oak, hemlock, cedar and pine.  A small animal occasionally ran across the path, busily preparing for the fast approaching winter as sunlight streamed lazily through a network of branches and leaves above and before me.  Much of the forest along the way to the hot springs is so fantastically pristine, that it reminds me of  J.R.R. Tolkien's book series "The Lord of the Rings."

This Hobbit's strength was holding up well by the time I reached the Shire, and so I plumped up onto the path.  The glacier's normal mantle of snow had long since melted away, revealing its dark bedrock of ice, surely blown there by some passing dragon.  After pausing there a few minutes to put on my crampons, I quickly gained my usual climbing rhythm: inhale, step, step, plant my ice ax, exhale; step, step, plant the ax, inhale; step, step, exhale.

Having gained a sum of 7,800 feet in elevation, and traveled twelve miles in as many hours of continuous hiking and climbing that day, my legs would go no further.  I was forced to stop and make a burrow right there in the hillside, unable to walk another step in any direction.  Absorbed in a moody alpenglow as the sun dropped gently over the horizon, I chipped away at the 45 degree slope of old compact snow and ice, digging out a ledge on which to rig a camp.  As summer gave way to autumn, the moonless sky was as dark as I had ever seen it; disturbed only by an occasional “shooting star.”  Lost in this planetary garden, absorbed in a grand theater experience, I slipped into a celestial dream time on Glacier Peak.

This was a special opportunity to live life to the fullest.  At midnight, settling for a one hour nap before heading for the summit, I tried to forget about life's meager problems and frailties for a while.   My little 1.5' x 4’ perch - looking down a sheer 1500’ drop of ice and snow into a jumble of crevasses - felt like home.  All I was lacking was the popcorn, and less than terrifying bathroom facilities.  I had a front row seat for this spectacular cosmic show – and only one ticket had been issued for the event.

Most of Washington State was still asleep the next morning as I emerged onto the true summit of the last wilderness volcano in the Continental United States.  The view from Glacier Peak is extraordinary; in some ways it is as stunning as that from the summit of Mount Baker.  Baker has a water view and rises directly from sea level in such a way that it commands respect.  Glacier Peak, on the other hand, is nestled among other tall peaks of the North Cascades; for this reason only, it is the least known of the State's major peaks. 

From there you can see portions of Puget Sound to the west, as well as a large swath of Eastern Washington with a mere turn of the head.  Everything in between, is splendid beyond these inadequate words.  Taking in the scenery over the next hour, I looked forward to camping there for a month or so at some time in the future - to really get to know the place.  Soon enough, it was time to head down. 

As I packed up my gear at camp and prepared for the remaining descent, I felt this deed was done.  I had succeeded.  I could relax now.  Minutes later this attitude nearly cost me my life.  Just as I was crossing a long section of black ice, a crampon popped off one boot.  My heart was in my throat as I started sliding down the glacier toward a group of crevasses below.  Over and over I went, picking up speed as the film I seemed to be watching slowed to one frame at a time.  I had experienced that gut wrenching feeling of free fall before . . . but this time, my older brother and sisters were not there to reach out and try to catch me, as Jeremiah, Sharon, and Becky were when I fell off a stairwell landing and broke my back at eight years of age. 

I threw my weight over the ice ax and came to a grinding halt 20 or 30 feet above the first drop off.  Cut up, bleeding and bruised, the first line of order was to pull half a dozen points of the crampon from my calf muscle.  Then, I lay there trying to figure out how to get my pack off so that I could re-attach the crampon, and stand upright without losing my belongings, or myself, inside one of the crevasses directly below. 

Eventually I got my act together and continued the descent.

Several hours later I dragged into Kennedy Hot Springs in much need of a dip in its sulfur smelling namesake.  Within minutes of my arrival at the springs I lay moaning and groaning away, in a crude, rather creepy stone “hot tub.”  Every move was painful and yet pleasurable: agonizing and yet deeply, heavily satisfying.  I had made the summit, and I had made it back down. 

Sitting alone there in a slimy, gurgling cauldron late on this moonless night, I was hoping nothing was going to grab me from beneath the murky waters and yank me in into the volcanic vent.  I laughed, figuring I had seen too many movies. 

Then I got out, quickly, just to be on the safe side.

Copyright @2000 Glenn Williams