Outdoor Research Verticulture » Jason Hummel http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com Get Stoked! Outdoor Research Verticulture Sat, 04 Feb 2012 05:31:57 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.2.1 Isolation Traverse http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/08/isolation-traverse/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/08/isolation-traverse/#comments Thu, 18 Aug 2011 20:24:53 +0000 Teresa Bruffey http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=7061

Tom, working the tele w/ a full pack. Photo by Jason

There are many reasons to venture out into the mountains; solitude and the clear mind that comes from being free of cell phones, computers, and scheduled commitments of any kind. Even eating takes on such planned simplicity that there is little decision making involved. In fact the only decisions that you must make as a ski mountaineer are those that will get you from point A to B safely and fulfilled. Our June traverse from Cascade Pass to Diablo had that simplicity: sleep, eat, ski, repeat.

Different things turn different people on about a traverse in the Cascades. For some it’s getting it done as quickly as possible, others are out there to stand on summits, for me it’s finding great snow on fun slopes whether off ridgelines, summits, or the couloirs along the route. On our Isolation Traverse we encountered everything from crust to corn and low angle glacier to steep salt and pepper.

For this crew, it’s the downhill that drives journeys into mountains. Adam Roberts, Jesse and Jason Hummel and I found everything from puckering jump turns to soul turns in corn on the glacier. It doesn’t have to be scary; turns are turns and the more the better.

Early on in the traverse we took a layover to explore the area around Eldorado. Moving across the Inspiration Glacier we came to where it met the McAllister. Looking across at Dorado Needle our eyes were drawn to a huge cornice hanging over a beautiful pitch. “Hey Adam, I’ll ro-sham-bo you for it…” but he was already on his way up the Inspiration. Beautiful turns were left on an aesthetic line as Adam ripped 7 perfect arcs down the slope. It was a line we would all ski again the next day as we continued on to Backbone Ridge.




The long gentle traverse under Backbone Ridge was the same mellow slope that the Skoogs had slowly climbed when they pioneered the route in the opposite direction so many years ago. That night, as we set up camp, the Cascades reminded us that we were in the Northwest as the clouds rolled in. Over the next few days we flew by wire using a handheld GPS past Wilcox Lakes and up and over Isolation Peak as we neared Snowfield Peak and the Neve Glacier.
On our fifth day we got to camp early and set up on the shoulder of Snowfield Peak. A blanket of low clouds left only the tallest peaks sticking out like islands. It was beautiful. We could see back over nearly our entire route from Eldorado to Dorado Needle to Backbone Ridge, Isolation Peak and the sloping snowfield that we climbed to camp. With so many hours of daylight remaining we headed up Snowfield Peak through sugary snow on scree. It was nice to gain the summit and the view it afforded us, reaching even further than our view from camp. The ski from the summit was rough with the last skiers having the hardest time picking their way between the rocks and trying to link what patches of sugar hadn’t sloughed off. We returned to camp, it was time for dinner – a simple task.

After dinner the sun was still well above the horizon. The late evening light on the slope we had climbed earlier in the day was too much to resist; corn snow on a perfect 30-degree pitch descending towards the clouds. Clouds were slowly rising and falling, pouring over the lower passes below camp giving the evening a moodiness that wasn’t quite angry, more mysterious than ominous.

So with nearly empty packs we hiked up above camp, out on to the snowfield, cheering each other on as, one at a time, we laid down turns in the late evening sun. There was nothing difficult about the skiing that evening. The snow was soft and shallow with a surfy quality that held the edge of our skis with softness you’d expect more from water in its liquid form than its crystal form. These were the quintessential soul turns that are the reason we strap boards to our feet in the first place. Even after a long day of travel it was the light that finally ended our little feel-good session. After each of us had taken 4 or 5 laps, the sun dipped below the horizon and we were left in the twilight to climb into our bags for a good night sleep before our return to civilization.

Our return to said civilization was swift. The glacier gave way to glades and ravines on the shoulder of Pyramid Peak and the snow slowly dissolved into the warmth of old cedar trees and then the trail to the road where we traded our boots, Gore-Tex, and water bottles for flip-flops, t-shirts, and IPA…Classic.

]]> http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/08/isolation-traverse/feed/ 0 The Raw Edges of The Olympic Coast http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/06/the-raw-edges-of-the-olympic-coast/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/06/the-raw-edges-of-the-olympic-coast/#comments Thu, 30 Jun 2011 22:15:01 +0000 Teresa Bruffey http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=6773

Between the rising tide and the falling rain

My heart thumps. It really shouldn’t beat so hard, but I am enamored with the same feelings I get when hanging off a peak in the North Cascade Mountains of my home state, Washington. But there is one stark difference – where I am now, there isn’t a mountain in sight. Instead, to the west, I see endless skies layered on top of never-ending ocean and to the east, green folds of forest roll away into fog and out of sight. Like two indomitable forces, this is where sea meets land, where black, murky depths toss great emerald-colored waves, where life is in the process of being eternally absorbed and exposed and where you can smell the reek of death and perfume of life. With the beach, you can fall in love with the raw, jagged edges of our planet and that, to me, injects fear into veins and boils blood.

Situated along the northwestern-most border of the United States, you’ll notice Olympic National Park.

First set aside as Mount Olympus National Monument in 1909, it has since gained many distinctions for its diverse wildlife, varied forests, snowbound peaks and untamed coastlines. In 1938 it became a national park and in 1988 ninety-five percent of it was set aside as wilderness, further protecting this incredible park’s million acres from human encroachment.

Back on the coast, my heart beats normally once more as I walk onto sand. This was the first day of a planned eight. Trailing me are my youngest brother (12 years old), my younger and much older brother along with his wife and two kids (ages 8 and 12) and my mom. Ahead are 35 miles of untamed coastlines. Already the kids leap ahead of me. They begin uncovering the first slime-encrusted rocks and waterlogged shells, ever in search of treasures or the ‘biggest crab’.

We plan one night at the Chilean Memorial and two at the Norwegian Memorial. These are reminders of where Sailors and their stalwart ships ran aground. All that remains now are these two stone markers. The sea gives and the sea takes.

Hiking beyond "Hole in the Wall"

On the first night, I stare out onto waters blushed in reds. At which point, the ocean begins snaking into my mind, infatuating my already entangled feelings with expressions of beauty I can’t possibly ignore. They are infectious. Encircling a warm fire beneath a bright moon, everyone gazes beyond waves crashing, toward thin clouds and bountiful stars.

Back at camp, alder and maple trees frame stars and a rising moon. Leaving my tent door open, I decide to take a night photograph. With everything set up and ready to go, I realize I need a filter. Back in my tent I sit down to search for the correct one. When, from the corner of my eye, I see a black animal with a white stripe down its back. Not outside, but in my tent! There is only one animal I can think of that has that particular pattern, a skunk. Leaping to my feet, all I can think of is spray filling my tent and covering me. Horrified, I sniff the air as he vanishes into the undergrowth. Even though I swear I smell something, there was nothing.

In the morning birds are sounding their calls as well as the kids. Earlier it was raining hard, but it has since stopped. Enough so that ribbons of blue hang over water. Pretty soon gear is in packs and we are chasing low tides around headlands.

Six miles along the coast we arrive at Norwegian Memorial and Kayostia Beach. Two nights here will be wonderful! Relaxing under a shade tree sitting on driftwood, munching chocolate, sipping lemonade and caressed by a cool breeze, ‘wonderful’ perfectly describes my situation.

As night rolls in, I head out to the surf for photographs. The darker it becomes, the more intent I am on the images I’m taking. Don’t shake the camera, watch the big waves threatening to splash my equipment, and get that shot – it’s amazing! All along a stinging has been migrating up my feet, bearable so I forget it. Another photo – damn this water is cold. And one more before I notice my feet are not just stinging, they are on fire! I literally ran out of the ocean and in the dark, down on my feet a black mass squirms over skin. The pain is amplified by fear. I brush them off, still unsure what they were, all about the size of a lady bug. Back at camp streams of blood were rolling down my feet. I am horrified.

Crossing the Ozette River

Another day and night pass and my story of flesh-eating bugs become myth and legend to the kids who search them out to exact revenge. I stay out of the water altogether. Instead I help the others set-up kites; a strong breeze sends them high into the air. My toes squish into the sand as I pull back on taut strings. Knuckles white, I daydream. Like the kite, I urgently hold them to the Earth.

Day four is gorgeous! On our way to South Sand Point, we stop at Yellow Banks to wait out the tide and cool off. Before long, we are in the fifty degree Pacific being pounded by waves. Set after set roll over us until we are so cold, even sun-soaked sand isn’t enough to warm us. It is only after drying and changing clothes that we stop shivering, even then, the short hike through a natural tunnel to camp helps. The loss of afternoon sun is still missed, but not for long. As dusk rotates into night, stars shake from the heavens and all that’s on our minds is the moment.

Since it is a short way to Cape Alava, 3.7 miles, my older brother and I surprise the kids. Near Lake Ozette a tiny store supplies a nearby campground. Once the day’s progression up the beach is behind, tents are pitched, we tell the kids we are going on a ‘hike’. Their tired faces brighten up like the previous night’s moon when they see a sign that reads, “Ice cream,” and I watch seven miles of effort melt away. They go to sleep with full stomachs to the sound of Steller sea lions bellowing and firewood crackling.

Going to Ozette River requires a low tide. Shaking the tents, everyone awakes and we head off at first light. Blue skies overhead are in stark contrast to previous the morning’s fog and clouds. Oystercatchers gather on the shore, strikingly pretty with their red bills. Sea anemones, sea stars, crabs, and hundreds of gulls abound. My eyes never tire of the view. Shadows curve and reddish light polishes everything in sight.

The day before my mom had slipped in a particularly nasty boulder field and cracked open her head. Today her face and eyes are swollen black and blue. It is a sight! Everyone has fallen more than once on the gooey seaweed that plasters many rocks. The best you can do is put your chin down and push ahead. That is why views of pristine, boulder-free beaches beyond Ozette River’s mouth, are so tantalizing.




Since arriving before noon, we spend what feels like an entire day relaxing and playing. The kids discover a beach full of so many shells that it becomes “Shell Beach.”

Near sunset my eyes paint colors where I expect them to be in mere moments. Like a movie, I watch nature’s sky-wide screen dance with pictures. Water ruffles from Ozette River into the pounding surf, where gulls gather their wings and fly all at once, before returning to the beach. This dance appears to be for no reason at all, other than to rise up and stretch their wings. As light and color melt over land and ocean, it shoots between the clouds. I can’t resist the urge to capture these sights with my camera. Somewhat like a note in a bottle tossed to sea in some faraway place tells a story to another who’s never been to that land – of love, death, and dreams yet unfulfilled. A picture can do that as well.

What a picture can also do is embody a moment in two-dimensional forms. It can be a reminder of your life, not someone else’s. As day seven begins, we rush over and around headlands to the most prominent of all that we’d visit, Point of Arches. Waist deep in water, a rising tide beats cliff walls as we rush kids around the headland. Once completely by, sights of Shi Shi Beach are thanked for even as our wet boots squeak on top of sun-crusted sands. That can’t diminish our happiness; beaches stretch on for miles.

As afternoon stretches into dusk, sunrays knife through ocean-worn keyholes in the rock, before night fully encompasses us. The sound of waves rolling up the beach lulls everyone to sleep. It is easy to forget this is our last night.

On the last morning, looking southward, I see the past eight days being compressed into my face like air in an accordion. Looking northward, the end is mere miles away, only a few hours now, but I cling to the past. Gazing at the kids faces, they appear oblivious of endings. To them the beach goes on forever. I smile when I realize there’s a lesson in that – out here – crashing waves, swirling pools of white foam, rattling rocks, croaking birds and peach-colored sand go on and on. Even as my heart melts over memories recalled, sea air fills my lungs and never-ending views disappear from sight, I don’t realize the truth that’s within reach. It is only as I turn away from the wide open beach and hike up the narrow forest path that realization comes.

Jason is a local Pacific Northwesterner known for taking on epic ski ascents in the Northwest and documenting them with some of the most incredible photography. Read more tales from his amazing adventures on Cascade Crusades and ooh and aahh over is incredible photography on Alpine State of Mind. Reposted with permission from Jason.

]]> http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2011/06/the-raw-edges-of-the-olympic-coast/feed/ 0 Mt. Buckner, North Face http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/05/mt-buckner-north-face/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/05/mt-buckner-north-face/#comments Wed, 05 May 2010 22:27:25 +0000 Jason Hummel http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=3199

Hidden dangers on the Boston Glacier. Jason, stemming the deep crevasse. Photo by Steph Abegg

Mountains have personality. We forget and all is forgiven, even when they are cantankerous, belligerent and vile. The pretty face and homely smile, seductive pull and salacious dress of rock and ice excite us climbers too much to turn away and never come back. But there, too, are so many mountains. Just a fraction of them you may visit in a lifetime! So when I do go, it isn’t with a heavy heart thinking that I may never return, but with great respect and honor that I go to meet these elders of stone and earth. They teach us lessons and reward us in ways that the confines of brick and mortar can’t.

Steph is ready when I pull up to her house in Seattle at 4 a.m. We quickly proceed to a nearby park-and-ride where Kyle is waiting. Everyone is excited. The weather appears promising. Stories and conversation carry us all the way to the end of Cascade River Road, where the final few miles are blocked by a gate. We can not see our objective, Mount Buckner. All that is visible among vine maple, willows and firs is Johannesburg’s vertical mile of rock and ice. Imposing as it is, such dominance steals an otherwise sunny morning. Those rays are for creaking joints and aching shoulders to earn. Such required efforts are why I love North Cascades National Park so much.

Along an old overgrown road, we push through deep and wet snow over ice. Steph and her snowshoes make headway while Kyle and I wallow behind, unable to skin without slipping. As we leave the trees, in no time at all we meet sunshine and the Quien Sabe Glacier. Steep climbing at its head, half a day later, brings us over Sharkfin Col where there’s an anchor set-up. What makes for an easy rappel leaves us swimming in waist deep snow below. “Hello there Mr. Schrund, you mind not eating me?”

Unconsolidated snow on a glacier, especially the Boston, the widest glacier in the lower 48, convinces us to rope up. Every dip and swale, shadow and curve hides a potential monster beneath snowy covers. Repeatedly I decide which way to go. Up, down, or straight? And now my brain fires off an answer, “Straight.” As I push through the snow, a tiny shadow I hadn’t seen glares at me. “Oh no!” I think. Between my feet everything begins to crumble. My skis catch the far wall as my back slides backwards. Blocks of snow disappear past a narrowing in the crevasse 50 feet below. After a moment to gather myself and yell behind me, “Kyle, anchor me…can you have Steph come forward?” Several minutes pass and I begin to feel comfortable, so I pull out my camera and take a few photos. Moments later with further tension on the rope from Steph, I am able to wiggle out. After brushing snow off, I’m soon back on my skis and in the lead once again. My decision this time when I ask myself “up, down, or straight?” “Left,” because down is a bad choice of words.




One lesson I relearned is the importance of always keeping the rope tight between you and the guy in front. I weigh 160 lbs and my pack and gear another 60. Imagine standing on a 10 story building with 220 lbs strapped to you. If the rope is tight and it falls a foot or two, you can hold it. Imagine then a guy standing on the buildings edge with that same 220 lbs with 10-ft of slack. Could you hold it when suddenly without warning (an hour, 3 hours, or even15 hours into your day) you look up and don’t see anything? Now that’s something to think about when you’re roped up on a glacier again!

On a nice overlook of Mount Buckner, we make camp. The sky is hazy and wind is beginning to drive snow into our camp where eating and melting water takes a few hours before we all drift off into a restless sleep. There’s nothing like waking up repeatedly to slapping layers of tent. It’s like trying to fall asleep next to a rocket engine! I awake to Steph photographing first rays on Buckner.

That morning, two feet of wind-deposited snow covered our tent and gear. After digging it all out, we start upward. Not until that moment do I realize my sunglasses are gone. It appears the crevasse didn’t come away empty handed! Staying low, I cross beneath the lower schrunds to the base of the North Face where we put on crampons and take out axes.

Since Steph is ready first, she takes off in the lead up wind-buffed powder. One thousand feet higher she passes a rocky constriction on the left and soon after, on the lee side of a cliff, she pulls up for a rest. After a drink she says, “Jason, you want to lead?” Since we are only a 100-ft shy of the summit I reply, “No, you should finish it off.” I know I feel excited when I lead an entire route. Once her pack is on that’s what she does, quickly disappearing over the slope and to the summit ridge beyond.

Ascending the final few feet to the summit of Buckner

On the maps Buckner’s NE and SE summits are shown as 9112’ and 9114’, respectively. Still, there’s a valid disagreement as to which is higher. From our perspective the NE summit did appear taller. All aside, though, as a skier I’m more interested in fall-line. So, for us, the SE summit is the only way to descend the north face. The same can’t be said for the North Face Couloir and when I come back to ski it, I’ll descend from the NE summit.

While my partners prepare for descending I continue to the SE summit to find a flat spot to transition to skis. Doing a balancing act, I teeter trying not to slip in either direction. Wind pushes me one way then the other, and neither direction would have a happy ending. I glide to Kyle who has built a huge platform to put his splitboard together in. Knowing she would be far behind, Steph, who is without skis or board, downclimbs out of sight while I stand in chilly gusts and wait for Kyle.

A satisfying first turn traverses me onto the face and Kyle follows. From the far ridge, which had blocked the wind all morning, fingers of snow and ice rip across, swirling and churning as watery rapids will. They whirl and stall in eddies before spinning out of control on top of our heads, which drip and freeze at the same time. Between this chaos, we drop a few turns at a time until we are in the middle of the route, at which point we wait as Steph climbs out of the way. Here the wind lessens and the turns improve all the way to the bottom. What a descent. What a route. After a decade of dreaming about it, I finally came and skied it – awesome!

After sorting camp, we decide to climb over Boston Peak’s 8500-ft col rather than Sharkfin col, the way we had come. It takes much longer to climb than I expect and the upper slopes are getting hit hard by wind. At a point where I am about to reverse course over concern about stability, the snowpack solidifies and we boot the remainder of the way to the notch. I love it when a fine line of safe decisions leads to success.

Heights of Buckner and our route up

After setting a picket, Steph descends out of sight and to the end of the rope. I belay her another 25 meters from there. Next up is Kyle. He decides he is going to keep his snowboard on. Just as he drops out of sight, I hear him say something like, “It looks good.” The wind is too strong to catch much more than that. A few moments later, the rope goes slack. He went without a belay. Figuring since he boarded it, I’d be fine with skis as well, I attach mine to my feet and drop into the couloir. As I get closer and see what Kyle had descended, I shake my head in wonder. Snowboards can side-slip some serious stuff! There was an inch of ice over a foot of granular snow with rock beneath. I hung from my knots at the end of the rope below a small cliff while I took my pack and skis off, pulled my axes and pons out, and put everything back on, a process that took over 15 minutes of cautious work. All the while I’m getting pelted by falling ice and buffeted by wind. Overall, a most unpleasant experience! Happily I descend far enough to coil the rope and put my skis on, so I could drop down to Kyle who is very glad to get going. There wasn’t much light left. Steph is already 45 minutes ahead of us.

As we stormed down the Quien Sabe Glacier with 5000-ft to go and 10-minutes of light left, I am already forgiving Buckner for her tormenting of me. In these mountains, there are those who find the rewards far outweigh the risks. For me, these adventures are the great eraser. There’s nothing but the moment to battle and all worries and concerns are rubbed out because they are of no consequence here. Even as night pulls up her covers and we pull out our headlamps, we understand the value of challenge in a world that continually seeks out ways to make life easier. The last few miles battling through brush to Cascade River Road and renewed sights of Johannesburg’s great walls fills me with joy all the way back to the car and civilization.

Find more of Jason’s photos from his Mt. Buckner trip at Alpine State of Mind and more stories of his adventures on Cascade Crusades. You can also read Steph’s take on the trip here.

]]> http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/05/mt-buckner-north-face/feed/ 0 Sacrifices to Ullr http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/03/sacrifices-to-ullr/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/03/sacrifices-to-ullr/#comments Fri, 12 Mar 2010 23:45:26 +0000 Jason Hummel http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=2347 Josh Hummel over a cornice at Hogsback.

Josh Hummel over a cornice at Hogsback.

This winter, I continually hear about the East Coast and how their snow is stacking up as fast as cars on their freeways. But here in Washington State, it has been thus far, “The winter that wasn’t”. There are a few of us who scoff at that statement, though – it has been a winter of premonition, the one we dream of, but can’t achieve without sacrifices. An old pair of gloves burnt on the flaming stake, a lock of hair stolen from your girlfriend’s head and used in ritual rites to the Snow God Ullr – anything at all to gain favoritism. It certainly hasn’t been a winter to forget! It has been a winter that dreams are made of.

Don’t get me wrong. Like all faithful brethren, I’m a fan of blower powder sweeping over my knees. I’d do anything for Ullr. But when he sends his love and attention to other regions of the planet, I make the best of what’s at my feet. In the Pacific Northwest, that’s ready access to high country and beautiful weather – two traits this frosty time of year generally lacks.

Take a late February trip I took into the Picket Range, long considered one of the most wild and remote sets of mountains anywhere in the lower 48. Who could have imagined when the season began that there’d be an entire week of clear weather without so much as a solitary cloud marring the sky! Not me. My knees still buckle whenever I recall memories of this fantastic journey.




Take another trip a week before the Pickets. There, chalky snow breaks over my knees and each wallowing step lead me higher up Mount Rainier’s Fuhrer Thumb. It was so cold that morning that I could barely stay warm. Every scrap of clothing I had was wrapped around my shivering core; even my sluggish thoughts of warmth eluded me. Then, hours later, I was knee deep in powder at 12,000-ft with no gloves and a tee shirt, shading my eyes from a glaring sun, stoked and dripping with sweat. Below me waited shaded fields of powder full of hoar frost that scattered at my every turn! According to Ullr, I was in heaven descending to Earth.

Looking at city lights from Three Fingers Mountain

Looking at city lights from Three Fingers Mountain

So great has February weather been, that even my summertime scouting trip of the Three Fingers area east of Everett, Washington proved unnecessary. This year in mid-winter the 17 miles of gravel road was dry to the trailhead! I was aghast. These secluded mountains are normally reserved for spring tours, not for those in the midst of winter. And, yet, as I chased my brother to the summit in the middle of the night, I couldn’t help but wonder if those city lights dancing below weren’t those of some massive spaceship about to lift off. As if to comfort me, fog and cloud soon sheltered them from view and the next day would be full of intermittent snow flurries.

Even though a few malcontents poke fun at the lackluster winter of 2010 here in Washington State, you now know that there are a few who celebrate it. We will look back at this past year with a twinkle in our eyes, so delighted that come next winter, we will pull out all the stops and double the sacrifices. We devotees of winter adhere to the wills and whims of a petulant god. You never know what will appease him. One thing’s for sure, come powder or sun next year – I’ll make fine use of either!

Jason’s adventures can be found on Cascade Crusades and check out his drool-worthy photos at Alpine State of Mind; just don’t forget the towel to sop up the pool around your keyboard.

]]> http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2010/03/sacrifices-to-ullr/feed/ 0 Going Full Circle http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2009/12/going-full-circle/ http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/2009/12/going-full-circle/#comments Mon, 21 Dec 2009 16:36:04 +0000 Jason Hummel http://outdoorresearchverticulture.com/?p=1206 var jsSlideshow = new Array(); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/643407539_vxqdx-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/642951811_qferf-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/642949679_ruxcy-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/642727510_datjh-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/642718638_hkdg7-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/642716823_qmzhh-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/638532227_y3s42-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/638529446_zw2n4-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/637740021_o72ry-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/637655178_a58aj-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/637616485_vcleu-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/636387996_hooiu-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/636295381_aqqee-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/635957329_n73oi-m.jpg"); jsSlideshow.push("http://www.outdoorresearchverticulture.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/635353112_umq55-m.jpg");


Blueberries on the way to Upper Anderson Tarn

Blueberries on the way to Upper Anderson Tarn


In 2006, I made a crossing of the Ptarmigan Traverse – over 100 miles of ridges, rivers, glaciers, and roads – with a self-propelled return. Since then, this type of adventure has appealed to me. It combines several of the sports I love, and when you are transported at more humanly paces – not by auto, train or plane – you get to ‘smell the roses’. It’s like eating cake and ice cream, too!

The North Cascade traverse from Mount Watson to Blum appeared perfect for this sort of outing. With my kayak, bike and hiking gear crammed into my car and my last few dollars into its gas tank, I headed into the mountains.

My little brother, Jessy, joined me and we let gear at the end of Baker Lake Road and Baker Lake before arriving at our final destination, the Watson Lake Trailhead. Josh and Christy joined us for the day. Except for the bike ride back up to Watson, Jessy would keep me company for the next 9 days.

Day One and Two: Watson Trailhead to Diobsud Lakes

Mt. Baker from our camp below Watson's summit.

Mt. Baker from our camp below Watson's summit.

A nice trail for the first 2 miles was the last we’d see for a week. We explored the area heading to Upper Anderson Lakes and the lower slopes of Mount Watson. The way forward captivated us. Since we couldn’t imagine leaving the high country for Diobsud Lakes, we soon found camp. That night we watched as bright stars tumbled out from behind dark mountains.

Morning sun and clouds rose long before we did. With curious glances ahead, our eyes met sloping heather fields nestled below cliffs and sights of Diobsud Lakes.

We dropped into a huge meadow of Fireweed, Daisy’s, Salmon Berries and Cow Parsnip’s. After a rest, we proceeded up the wrong side of a waterfall toward a ramp on the south side of Bacon Peak. For several hours we struggled through grizzled, arthritic hunks of trees more dead than alive and masqueraded ourselves as tree huggers between cliffs before submitting defeat. Scratched and bruised we arrived below the waterfall once more.

After camp was set, Jessy and I left split up to find a way up Bacon Peak. Just before dark Jessy burst out from the brush. He had found a way. Two smiles were shared before it began to rain. The tap, tap on the tent at bedtime left me ill-at-ease. As good luck eventually follows bad, I dreamt of blue skies.

Day Three and Four: Diobsud Lakes, Bacon and Green lakes to Nert Lake

Coming down Bacon Peak

Coming down Bacon Peak

My dreams weren’t ignored. Under blue skies, over huge logs and small cliffs, beyond steep, slick heather, up further we climbed to the top of Bacon. At the summit, views of the Pickets and all the mountains between hoisted our desire to see what was around the next corner. We wound our way through a few glaciers and ridges before finally descending hard ice to smooth rock slabs.

First sights of Bacon Laken set above Green Lake kept us moving fast. We ran down the last rock fields to the outlet falls of the lake. Fording the falls was easy enough, although more water would be challenging.

Camp was set as light eased into a peaceful slumber. Under the moon’s scope, the waterfall and lake were inebriated, moving in slow motion like the stars.

The next morning rain came again. The cerulean outlines of Green Lake pleaded with us to come explore and to our dismay, we packed camp and set off. We went along the lake shore thinking it would be easier than the ridge. Easy ground morphed into a waterfall, the climbing of which was fast becoming a forte of ours, and traversed mid-falls on a ledge to enter slide alder.

Green Lake with lumbering clouds overhead.

Green Lake with lumbering clouds overhead.

We climbed steep then gentle slopes to Nert Lake. Our progress was subverted by never ending fields of the biggest blueberries I’ve ever seen. Blue fingers and faces brought us to camp.

Day Five through Seven: Nert Lake, Berdeen and Blum Lakes to Baker River

The way to Berdeen Lake either goes high or low. We went low entering a beautiful valley just as a black bear crossed boulders in the midst of a waterfall.

From the meadow we climbed up a steep gully to Berdeen Lake. With our exploring done, we we struck camp with time to relax. For Jessy this meant a swim to an island and fishing. For me, a nap and photos.

In the morning, we regretted having to leave. We traversed rock and then glacier up to a narrow pass between Skitzo and Hagan Peaks. A quick jaunt to Hagan was much enjoyed. Nearly all that we had crossed in the days previous could be sighted.

A heck of a place to take a nap. Berdeen Lake

A heck of a place to take a nap. Berdeen Lake

Steep boulder fields were carefully crossed on our downward hike to Blum Lakes. We made camp in a grassy field and spent the remaining hours watching the fire and smoke from blazes to the Northeast.

I’ve been up and down from Mount Blum twice and the experience was less than enticing. Over 5000-ft of forest and bushes split by cliffs. The descent can reward excessive amounts of suck. It’s best to stay on the ridge. If you descend off of it, you become blocked by steep ravines full of slide alder and rocks. Jessy and I spent 7 hours descending less than 2 miles.

More steep forest led to vague boot paths. Bashing our way through the last remaining Devil’s Club, we arrived at Baker River. Feeling like warriors, we marched to the car, eyes sparkling in the late day’s sun with satisfaction over completing what we had set out to do.

Day Eight and Nine: Baker River, Baker Lake to Watson Road and Trailhead

Chilled waters high from the mountains all meet in Baker Lake. Once a natural lake, the river was dammed twice in 1925 and 1959 to create Lake Shannon and Baker. As promised, my twin brother Josh joined us. Cramming our gear into boats and dry packs was a challenge as we were sparing no comforts.

Though the river isn’t long, there were plenty of massive trees to slow us down. Over and under we went until we arrived at the lake. Far above Shuksan and Baker’s glaciers shined in the sun.

Jessy and Josh kayaking past a massive tarn. Mt. Baker in the distance.

Jessy and Josh kayaking past a massive tarn. Mt. Baker in the distance.

Halfway to camp we stopped for several seal launches. Jessy and Josh couldn’t get enough and found another spot a few more miles down the shore.

The last few hours to Maple Grove Camp were spent battling the wind of whose presence I’d earlier said, “At least we don’t have a headwind.” Now that we did, the brothers could only blame me. We were relieved to pull our boats onto the shore.

The last day was both sad and happy for me. With so much adventure this year, it was hard to see this one come to pass and be finished. What else was there? No more big trips were planned. This was it. Parting ways, Jessy and Josh jumped in their car and I was on my own now, at least no human companions. The mosquitoes were ruthless as I climbed into the bushes to retrieve my bike.

Around 3700-ft of vertical gain was ahead of me and 10 miles of road. Far below me the blue waters of Baker Lake appeared small.

At the car, heart pounding, I sat not wanting to leave. Could I do it again? Could I throw my pack on and put foot to trail, paddle to lake, and cleat to peddle? Would it be the same? You only live through these days once and they are gone. As my mind raced over every moment I knew I’d certainly smelled the roses along the way. I’d gone full circle and isn’t it the best of journey’s that bring you back to their beginning?

Read more stories by Jason on Cascade Crusades and check out more of his incredible photos at Alpine State of Mind.

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