Photo Credit: Copyright © 2000 Robert F. Bolton

By mid summer of 2000 forest fires had wiped out a million acres of the Western United States.  This so happened to be the year that I had landed a special-use permit from the U.S. Forest Service for an extended solo expedition atop Washington's fourth tallest, and arguably most pristine mountain. If Mount Rainier is the "King of the Cascades," then Glacier Peak must surely be its bride. As the week wound down toward Friday, August 4, the planned date of departure, I was less worried about perishing atop the volcano than of failing to achieve the purpose of trying. Illness on my part, for instance - or even a twisted ankle - could finish off the expedition before it began. Such is the nature of a home-spun, under financed, under equipped, and undermanned mountaineering expedition. And yet this uncertainty was a key ingredient that would make it all worthwhile. What sense of adventure or accomplishment may be gained when the outcome is all but guaranteed? 

The previous winter I had slipped on ice on the back porch of my home and nearly broke my left ankle. In fact it probably would have been less painful had it actually fractured. I remember lying there thinking of all the fine ascents I had made over the years without incident, including solo ascents of Mount Adams, Mount Baker, Glacier Peak, Mount Hood and Mount Rainier. It seemed ironic that my first big accident would come at 42 years of age while descending a six-inch step. Within a week my ankle had swelled to nearly twice its normal size. I had been without medical insurance since quitting my latest high tech job some time before, and resisted seeking a doctor's attention until it was almost too late. I am certainly no medical expert, but when my foot turned a disgusting shade of green one night it seemed like a bad sign. Even after my hoof was set and had been placed in a splint, it was four months before I could wear my double plastic climbing boots again. This was the kind of thing that always happened to someone else; now it had happened to me. I felt that much more vulnerable. 

August 4 dawned clear as a bell. The weather forecast called for good weather to hold all week long. God's will and bad weather were the greatest factors in determining events on Glacier Peak - at least things were looking good for us on the weather front. Once my truck was loaded with the last of a mountain of equipment I made one more double check of the house before closing the door. It's always so strange leaving the familiarity of home when you know your life will undergo a major transformation by the time of your return. That is, if you return home. When you are sailing untested waters, there is a heightened chance that you might not. 

By whatever means our team reached the trailhead to Glacier Peak without incident. I had met two of the participants only briefly on Mount Adams on separate occasions, and so I barely remembered what they look like. Of course, I acted otherwise when we met up again. "Hey, you haven't changed at all . . ." The other volunteers were veterans of my expeditions and knew what they were in for: a ton of misery mixed with a pound or two of enjoyment. The most amazing thing about this story is that these people keep showing up for more fantastic, wonderful, punishment. This was sure to be a strenuous excursion for us all into the heart of Henry M. Jackson Wilderness. 

The next morning I pulled a Coleman double burner stove out onto the tailgate of my little 2.0 liter truck. "With some good photos on this expedition and a piece of entrepreneurianism afterwards," I thought, while scrambling two dozen eggs and adding cheese and soy bits like some madman chef, "Steve and I will reap the harvest of nearly twenty years of work, investment, study, and personal and financial suffering." And so it was with utmost anticipation that I divided up the 240 pounds of expedition gear the next morning. It became painfully apparent that we were two or three cards short of a full deck of participants, when a two-foot tall pile of goods remained after our packs were loaded past the point of reason. As no one was paying particular attention, I loaded most of the food back into my rig. This would surely play into the big picture later on in my camping trip. 

With veins popping and eyes bulging we left the trailhead carrying 55 to 80 pounds each. Jeff Batt carried the heaviest load as usual, some 80-85 pounds. Before even reaching the edge of the parking lot we were all hunched over and feeling the effects of our loads. Only twelve miles to go - and most of it was uphill. Despite this we made extraordinarily good time on the five mile journey through old growth forest, reaching Kennedy Hot Springs in less than three hours. The hike to there was magical for us in a way: the beauty of this place is hard to put into words. Hemlock, cedar and pine line the path as do patches of quartz, copper and other metals laying right there at your feet. Fist sized pine cones were bursting colorfully, with a rainbow of scents. Sunlight streamed through heavy foliage over the trail, highlighting this magnificent, ancient, Hobbit-like forest. Birds were singing us a song as we set off on another fine adventure into the North Cascades of my home State. 

We rested at the springs for a short while before heading out toward Pacific Crest Trail and the mountain beyond. The four miles from Kennedy to Boulder Basin is steep and difficult in places; this is where bliss turned to misery. It didn't help that hoards of biting and stinging insects descended upon us as we left our happy lunch place - a great motivation to keep moving. The mountain itself seemed to take on a different personality as we trudged up the hot, dusty, bug-ridden trail above the pleasant hot springs. As we reached what I have dubbed 'Agony Hill', where you gain some 2,000 feet of elevation over a one mile stretch, I was fighting personal doubt: perhaps we all were. "Will I make it to the summit? Will any of us make it to the summit? Why did I volunteer for this anyway? Oh ya, this is my expedition! Why did the others volunteer for such a miserable climb?" I could just imagine my climbing companions saying to themselves and to each other: "That Glenn and his volcanoes. Never again!" 

At glacier's edge we made camp in a meadow interlaced with streams and raging waterfalls. There we settled down to a night of lousy food, uncomfortable conditions, and a level of camaraderie that is unbeknownst to most people. Our team began to unite into something 
more powerful than the sum of its parts: a teenaged college student (Adam Bly), a mechanical 
engineer (Patrick Boys Smith), a warehouse manager (Steve Peterson), a brew master (Jon 
Schlueter), an artist (Jeff Batt); and, a photographer. 


August 6, 2000/Day 1 
We left Boulder Basin under perfectly clear predawn skies and reached the summit by 2:00 p.m.: in a total of only sixteen hours of climbing from the trailhead in two days. As we gained the base of Sitcum Ridge I was barely moving. Every step we made was incredibly strenuous; we slid back one foot with every two we tried to gain. I looked up at one point to see Steve leading us all toward the summit pinnacles. Patrick led us from there up a final 80 degree pitch and on to the top. As I left a small landing and went to climb the final way to the summit (I was the last one to make it there), Adam 'The Kid' Bly put his hand on my shoulder and said something that was as true as it was undeniable: 

"These are very special moments, Glenn." 

Indeed they were. 

One year to the minute before I reached the South Summit of Mount Adams with Jeff and Jon. A great friendship was forged between us all here on Glacier Peak as we shared hardships of the ascent, especially as we watched sunset descend over the North Cascades, Puget Sound, and San Juan Islands earlier tonight. The view is almost too much to comprehend from here; claustrophobic in a way - not something you can entirely warm up to. 

August 7, 2000/Day 2 
Dawn passed unnoticed for us as it was quite cold, and we were all beat from the climb. We didn't have the energy to get up before 9:00 or so - it was even longer before any of us had a stove going with food or snow cooking in a pan. Later we posed for pictures and wandered the summit each in our own right, as morning wore on toward afternoon. Hours later and all too soon the time came for them to descend. I pulled Patrick aside at the last minute and asked him to take care of my friends - putting this very competent young climber in charge. 

Just like that they were on their way back down to the world. I'm all alone now with the latest love of my life. 

August 8, 2000/Day 3 
I awoke this morning feeling lousy. The contents of my urine bottle told the tale - it looked more like orange juice than apple juice. Thus I cooked up nearly two gallons of water and drank as much as possible. Feeling better this afternoon I went out to do a thorough reconnoiter of the summit for photographic purposes. The crest of Frostbite Glacier served the purpose well for sunset pics. This is a good place to watch your step as a misstep could result in big fall. Moreover, it has been relatively warm today. As soft as the snow is, I hoped the entire crest of the glacier wouldn't collapse under my weight. 

Ninety minutes before sundown I returned to the spot and did some more digging, just enough to get the tripod out over the edge without falling or dropping the camera. With all of the shoveling I became hot in my big down suit. Since no one was around for miles, I felt safe in taking it off completely. A friendly tune played through the CD Walkman as the sun slid west, and so I did a jig along the cliff's edge wearing nothing but my long underwear, boots, gaiters and crampons. What a sight that must have been! 

Light faded from distant corners as darkness rose to meet the impending night. Twilight held long in its gaze the summit snows of these wondrous peaks. The mood was set; serenity was complete. 

August 9, 2000/Day 4 
An onshore flow brought strong wind surges just before sunset. I left the tent at 7:30 and hiked to the south summit knoll and set up the tripod and camera. A cold breeze blew up from Chocolate Glacier and over the summit; low clouds raced back and forth in no particular direction as if they didn't know which way to go. Eventually I crossed back to the mountain's highest point and set up again. After taking a few uninteresting pics I packed everything up and returned to the tent, feeling somewhat defeated. 

Glacier Peak had no secrets to share with me tonight. 

August 10, 2000/Day 5 
This was the kind of day of which a mountaineer dreams: calm winds, warm temperatures, and a sea of jagged peaks laid out before you like a geographic carpet. I was all over the summit seeking out every nook and cranny that would support the tripod. 

By late afternoon I was feeling ill from too much exposure to the elements. As late as 7:15 p.m. I sat inside the tent debating whether or not to go out and do another shoot. The relative warmth of earlier had given way to a hostile northwesterly as a low pressure center continued to inundate Western Washington. My new Pentax 645 wanted to go out and play. I did not. In the end the camera won out. With a good photo session and upon my return to the tent I decided to fry up the one remaining can of Spam as a reward. To all of you dedicated photographers out there, may I say: Listen to your heart, and to your camera as well. Your Mamia knows best! 

Thousands of forest fires are burning at this moment across the West. Some 25,000 courageous fire fighters are now battling to save wide regions of Montana, Idaho, and Washington. They could use another 25,000 people. Smoke from these fires has blanketed the entire Pacific Northwest like it did last year from the top of Mount Adams, blotting out the other volcanoes and most of the Cascade Range. The net effect tonight was an unearthly sunset. 

Frozen summer, burning sky. Light glimmered on the edge of angel's wings. 

My Spam dinner was pretty good, too. 

August 12, 2000/Day 7 
Northern Lights shone brilliantly last night in a blaze of ethereal color, as if the paint brush was held by God's own hand. I lay in the doorway for over an hour watching this cosmic show as the wind was too strong to get any photos. Like the lunar eclipse atop Baker in 1989, this piece of candy was "just for lookin' through." I shoveled something resembling dog food from a can and into the frying pan: roast beef hash, left over from last night's dinner. I backed up the breakfast matter with a sturdy swig of Pepto Bismol, then put on my suit, boots, crampons, etc., launched the pack on my back and headed out across the glacier. 

Valleys gave up their shadows reluctantly it seemed, as countless peaks near and far awaited the first rays of dawn. A sea of mountains, cradled by deep gorges and dark green alpine meadows, scarred and scraped by the ravages of time, waited at the feet of my lovely volcanoes. Against this timeless backdrop, now and forever are one and the same.