Sharing Glacier

Like many city to country adventures, we drove through the sleepy drive-by towns (as they prefer) of the Cascades, along wide empty streets where you’re just as likely to find life as you would on the moon. Seattle’s adjoining countryside has lost much of its relevance to the city as the tech industry replaced the timber industry. For some time now, it can seem like the city’s only interaction with the country is through out-of-doors backwoods recreation. They leave the city to escape its entrapments, its crowded streets, the work thoughts, and the traffic—oh, the traffic. We are no different. We are heading into the Glacier Peak Wilderness because it is just that, an escape into the mountains, away from the traffic, work, sleep continuum. And like others, we don’t like feeling claustrophobic, and despite our best intentions, we don’t like sharing. So we try to go farther and higher, but still we are not alone.

I often have little trouble finding wilderness respite to calm my city weary mind, but the same can’t be expected for the Fourth of July weekend regardless of effort—and there is no problem with that. It is nice to have some time to be alone in my thoughts, but sharing the trail with a new friend or stranger is often just what’s needed.

We began in the small hours, trudging off trail by moonlight up and over some pass and down to the upper Glacier basin. It stayed dark until we made it to glaciated terrain. Pastel hues of blue, purple, and red colored the horizon. We slogged and slogged for several hot dawn hours until we made it to the last couple hundred feet to the summit where we ditched our climbing gear and some extra weight—the rest was off glacier and on easy dirt and boot-packed snow.

I took a summit nap, took an inventory of the peaks in view—Shuksan, Baker, Rainier, Stuart, Daniel, Sloan, Whitehorse, etc, and made conversation with several of the forty or so people sharing the summit. After a night at Glacier Gap, Sue made her way up the mountain cramponless and partnerless in the late morning sun—her husband wasn’t up for the climb this time around—I guess after 72 years things didn’t work like they did before. Sue’s axe seemed older than my partner and I combined and heavier than our lightweight packs. Sue was fit and ridiculously youthful for her age. She spoke fast and with her hands and talked about how us “real climbers” impressed her with our fitness. She talked like she hadn’t also just climbed a big mountain—she never lost her breath or exuberance. Us young “real climbers” looked at each other with a reluctance to believe we were or would ever be as hardcore as Sue. After talking, I was ready for another nap.

On our way out the day following our summit, we stopped for a brief rest and refill. Sue quickly passed us and was gone into the proud hemlock and cedar forest.

Before I made it to the car, I realized that I am only really annoyed at the idea of sharing the outdoors when I’m not there. Instead, I take home fond memories of the people I’ve met along the way. For me, it is often easier to remember a smile or a conversation than it is to remember the geography of a landscape.