Diablo

At one time, the Diablo dam was the tallest in the world. At 389 feet, it towers over the Skagit River far below, and the waters that it holds back form the lake of the same name, one of several in a chain of artificial lakes engineered for the sake of Seattle's appetite for electrical power. What's kind of cool (and hard to believe in these days of relentless national security concerns and that ol' debbil, al-qaeda), is that the way to the put-in goes right over the top of the dam. It's a single-lane road with the lake on one side and a precipitous dropoff on the other.

There were six of us paddling on this particular day, here at the end of another year. At 1200 feet, there was some snow on the ground but the temperature was relatively warm and the wind scoured the surface of the water as we left the shore near the parking area. A half-hour or so later, we were heading up the old river course toward the dam on Ross Lake, the next lake up the chain. The walls closed in and waterfalls and rivulets seemed to come from all sides. As the way narrowed, the wind became less of a factor and I lagged behind the others, listening to the sound of the falling water as it mixed with the thoughts inside my head.

I am a salt-water soul and although I do have a special place in my heart for rivers, I can't help but think of places like Diablo Lake as something other. Something other than a wild beach or a roaring river. Something other than legitimate wilderness somehow, maybe by dint of the fact that they are fundamentally man-made constructs, rather than natural in origin.

Don't get me wrong... it is a beautiful place. I enjoyed my time on the water there and I expect I'll even go back someday. (There is a canoeing/climbing trip I have always wanted to do from Ross Lake to Mount Challenger. It is on my list and I swear, I mean to get there at some point. To get to the south end of Ross Lake requires getting back onto Diablo again, so I will return. And that, when it happens, will be a whole new story.)

Another link

So much to write. And yet, so little real writing time. There's wood to split, a house to clean, dinner to get together... all those chores and chunks of reality that take up the hours.

I do have stories to tell: of the Skagit River and Diablo Lake. They are coming, rest assured. In the meantime, however, here's a piece I wrote for visitrainier.com that just got posted.

And it's got me in a climbing mood.

The national bird

"For my own part I wish the Bald Eagle had not been chosen the Representative of our Country. He is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly. You may have seen him perched on some dead Tree near the River, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the Labour of the Fishing Hawk; and when that diligent Bird has at length taken a Fish, and is bearing it to his Nest for the Support of his Mate and young Ones, the Bald Eagle pursues him and takes it from him.

"With all this Injustice, he is never in good Case but like those among Men who live by Sharping & Robbing he is generally poor and often very lousy. Besides he is a rank Coward: The little King Bird not bigger than a Sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the District. He is therefore by no means a proper Emblem for the brave and honest Cincinnati of America who have driven all the King birds from our Country . . .

"I am on this account not displeased that the Figure is not known as a Bald Eagle, but looks more like a Turkey. For the Truth the Turkey is in Comparison a much more respectable Bird, and withal a true original Native of America . . . He is besides, though a little vain & silly, a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a Grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his Farm Yard with a red Coat on."

Ben Franklin, from a letter to his daughter, written in 1784.

We're leaving for the Skagit tomorrow to go look at eagles. If there are any turkeys around, we'll look at them as well.

It's that day again...

No matter your culture or custom, wherever in the world you may be, we all have a way of wishing each other a Merry Christmas.

Feliz Navidad... Vesele Vanoce... Bon Nadal... Pace e salute... Joyeux Noel... Bo Nada... Frohliche Weinachten... Nollaig chridheil... Mele Kalikimaka... Gledileg Jol... Buone Feste Natalizie... Nollaig Shona Dhuit... Bon Pasco... Maligayang Pasko... Sawadee Pee Mai... Nadolig Llawen...

And, for the crankier souls among us, Happy 25th of December!

The weather outside is frightful

No telling where it goes from here. All this rain, and only more on the way. The 5-day forecast is all about falling water, which either means that the weatherman has taken the week off for the holidays or it really is going to be soggy throughout. The hillside behind the house is slowly (but noticeably), responding to the pull of gravity and there are some fat new slides on the other side of the Narrows. I haven't been to the Skokomish lately, but I'm pretty sure I can imagine what it looks like; Mary, Micah and I are supposed to be headed to the Skagit right after Christmas for a rafting/kayaking trip with fellow guide and water junkie, Marc Mahoney... not sure what to expect there. Hopefully there's a chill a'coming or that's going to be some fast-moving H2O.

It's not all gloomy though... at least it's not Minnesota, or London, or some other place where it's all snow, snow, snow. At least you don't have to shovel rain.

Unless you're in San Diego.

Walking in a winter wonderland

When I drive to Mount Rainier from Tacoma, I like to take the long way. Highway 7 winds through some slow and steep terrain at some points, through the "towns" of La Grande and Alder, and most motorists seem to use the Eatonville cut-off to bypass this part of the road, but I actually look forward to it. I've gone that way before and it does save time, but I'm not usually going to Rainier to save time. I'm going to spend it.

I stop in at Whittaker Mountaineering in Ashford to make my reservation for the Copper Creek Hut that night. The hut is part of the northern section of the Mount Tahoma Ski Trails system; I've never actually been there before, in any season, and I'm looking forward to changing that reality.

I drive the logging road approach to the snow-park, climbing from the Nisqually valley up into the snow. The trailhead is at about 3200 feet, and I park in the plowed shoulder near the gate. After exchanging street clothes for polypro and fleece, I'm on the way in, walking up the steep, unplowed approach. It's about 4 miles from the parking area to the hut and it's already after 2:00pm. There's another snow-park about 20 minutes higher, completely buried under several feet of new snow but not too much further on is the point where the trail grooming begins and the progress gets markedly easier.

There's about 1000 feet of elevation gain between the parking lot and the hut, and most of that seems to be in the first mile. Once on the groomed trail, which is actually a well-graded logging road, progress is relatively easy and the way is well signed. I arrive at the hut just as darkness falls, and in a matter of minutes, I'm settled in for the night.

Lest the word "hut" conjure up any images of stark hardship and privation, I feel I should clear those up right now. The Copper Creek Hut should be called a chalet, I think, a descriptor that would more accurately reflect its comparative luxury and comfort. Seriously, in the middle of a winter wilderness, where all around is covered in deep snow, where the outside temperatures are in the low 20's, I am sitting on a soft couch in front of a propane fire, popping pistachios and drinking a beer. This is no hut.

I fall asleep early, right there on the couch. On this most perfect of backcountry evenings, I am Copper Creek's only occupant.

I wake just before sunrise to clear skies and endless views. To the northeast is the mountain, frosted in white like some crazy massive wedding cake. The sunrise is taking shape in the eastern sky and the rising light is bouncing off the snow, giving shape to the trees and the individual features all around. Slowly the sky turns from black to indigo to blue, and as soon as the burning sun crests the mountains, the day begins in full color.

I make breakfast, toasted bagel and cream cheese, fresh, hot coffee. I go outside and take a few pictures, but retreat quickly to the warmth and luxury of the hut. I read through the logbook, chuckling at the comments left by those who have been here before me, looking for names that I recognize - and finding a couple.

I'm drinking more coffee, working my way through a jigsaw puzzle, when the snow-cat arrives. Brian, the driver, comes inside for a half-hour and passes the time, helps out with the puzzle, then goes again. It isn't long after that that the first skiers start to arrive. They come in pairs, leave their skis by the door and come inside noshing on snacks as they warm up by the fire. The hut is supposed to be full on this night, a dozen people or more, but I am not going to be one of them. It's starting to feel like it's time for me to get on my way.

The return to the car goes quickly. Mostly downhill, on freshly groomed corduroy, it's a fast track. Too fast, maybe. I try to stay in the moment, but I find that I'm already thinking about the next time.

Real estate news

Before Lt. Charles Wilkes came to the Puget Sound region in the early 1840's, he and his crew took a detour through the South Pacific. While in Fiji, Wilkes took custody of a tribal chief named Vendovi, who had allegedly participated in the murder of a New England whaling crew unfortunate enough to have washed up on his beach eight years earlier. Details are hazy and were obscured by time and language even then, but Vendovi also stood accused of organizing a feast following the slayings that featured Yankee a l'orange as the main course.

Many things are permitted in the Navy, but cannibalism is not among them. Vendovi was first brought on board in irons, but over the months and years of ocean travel that followed, he became more of an honorary crew member than a prisoner and the rest of the crew grew to accept him, more or less. He learned to dance a hornpipe and picked up the language, and when Lt. Wilkes went on his naming spree in the Pacific Northwest - a tactic intended to Americanize what was at the time disputed property, much of it claimed by the British - he stuck Vendovi's name on one of the eastern San Juan Islands.

The island eventually came to be held in private ownership and was offered at auction this past September, but the highest bid wasn't enough to induce the sellers to give it up. That all changed last week when the San Juan Preservation Trust, a non-profit land trust based in the San Juan Islands, put up $6.4 million for the 217-acre island, effectively ensuring that the island will remain protected from development.

There is a four-bedroom house on the island already, which some lucky caretaker will get to call home, and the Trust is beginning an inventory of plant and animal life, to see what's there, what needs to go and how best to manage the area. With almost three miles of shoreline and six perfect gravel/sand beaches, future plans will hopefully include some public access. Until the inventory is completed, however, the island is off-limits to visitors.

I've been there before, a quick stop on the way from Cypress Island to Lummi, just to stretch my legs. It's a pretty little island, a welcome contrast to the developed shoreline of nearby Sinclair Island. I'm already looking forward to my next visit.

Going to the mountains

With the departure of the Pineapple Express - it's still plenty rainy but the colder temperatures have returned - I feel like getting into the snow somewhere. I've spent altogether too much time inside of four walls lately and I'm feeling the need to stretch my legs, lungs and mind.

I have my eye on the Mount Tahoma Trails system of cross-country ski trails, just outside of Mount Rainier. First thoughts are that I'll head to the Copper Creek Hut tonight, see how that goes. I haven't been there before; I've been close, but not lately.

I am hoping that the mountain air will cleanse me and that the time spent north of the snow line will provide some clarity. It's that time of year when I need most to get apart from the holiday clamor, the relentless consumerism and retail exaltation that is at the heart of Christmas. (I don't aspire to Scrooginess, but I feel myself being pushed in that direction a little more every year. Those of you who know what I'm talking about will understand; to the rest, I ask only your forgiveness. In the spirit of the season, and all.)

I may be back tomorrow sometime.

Steller's curse

As I was walking down a forest trail just the other day, I heard the distinctive grack, grack, grack of the Steller's jay. After a moment or two of searching the underbrush, I saw the distinctive topknot, the blue and black feathers and the coal-black eyes of this singularly beautiful bird.

The Steller's jay is common around here, common enough anyway. During the summer months, they can often be seen at the higher elevations, along with their cousin, the ubiquitous gray jay. "Camp robbers," as they are known in the colloquial, famous for raiding food that's left unattended, or for landing on heads and shoulders as they aggressively look for a handout. Winter brings the Steller's jays down to the low country a bit more often, and I always enjoy it when I catch a glimpse of the blue flashes among the dark green hues of the woods.

They take their name from Georg Wilhelm Steller, the German-born naturalist who accompanied Captain Vitus Bering on his acclaimed voyage of discovery through Alaskan waters in 1741. The trip was a particularly arduous one, even by the grim standards of the day, and by the time Bering made it back to Russia - where the voyage had begun - more than a third of the crew had perished. Steller had, however, been able to record details on hundreds of species along the way and the fact that any of the men were able to return was a testament to his medical knowledge and treatment of their scurvy after their ship had been wrecked on a rocky island far out in the Aleutian chain.

He was born under a bad sign, it would seem, this Dr. Steller. Not only were many of his discoveries claimed by others but he ended up dying prematurely, at age 37, in remote Siberia, without receiving any credit for much of what he had done in those short years. If it stopped there, he could probably be considered cursed enough.

But consider this: of the six species of birds and mammals that were named for the star-crossed scientist, two are extinct (the Steller's sea cow and the Steller's spectacled cormorant), and three are endangered or in severe decline (Steller's sea lion, Steller's eider and Steller's sea eagle). The sea cow, in particular, a massive northern relative of the manatee, lasted barely 25 years after Steller discovered and named it, a victim of the rapacious otter-hunting Russian crews that followed in Bering's wake. To be named after this unfortunate man was to be doomed to a precarious existence at best, or perhaps a death sentence.

The exception, the only species that is still around in any numbers, is the instantly recognizable and mischievous Steller's jay. In his brief encounter with the bird - he had been allowed a mere 10 hours to go ashore and collect specimens when Bering's ship made initial landfall in Alaska - Steller was able to deduce that the jay was kin to the American bluejay, which convinced him that Alaska was indeed part of North America. In the years since, while the other species associated with him by name have become more scarce or have disappeared altogether, the Steller's jay is still around, still squawking in the brush and raiding the feeders.

The complete story has not yet been written, however. Although the Steller's jay has been able to adapt to the pressures of civilization, it is still susceptible to the threat of intense urbanization and, as woodlands and wild areas become more scarce, its numbers will inevitably be reduced. In addition, with the rise in human population, Steller's jays have been implicated in the decline of other species, most notably the marbled murrelet, as they raid the nests of these heavily endangered birds.

Everything, of course, is connected. Everything.

Precipitation report

The rain is falling. And not just like it's always falling - this weekend calls for 3"-10", depending on where in western Washington you're talking about. Enough that a flood watch has been issued for, according to the weather report on the radio, "the rivers and streams that are prone to flooding at times like these." Seriously, what kind of weather report is that?

I shouldn't be so hard on the weather guy; it can't be an easy job.

I'm hoping to get up to Mount Rainier this coming week for a day or two of cross-country skiing. Most years lately, the question has been whether there would be enough snow to make a ski day worthwhile. I'm starting to worry about whether there's going to be so much that I won't be able to get near the mountain at all.

More on this later.

Happy feet

A few years back, in the dead of winter, I attempted a paddle around Vancouver Island. There are those who called it a misguided venture - and they may have a point - but I made it from Bellingham up into Johnstone Strait before I called it off. I injured my left shoulder and after getting back home, I wasn't able to paddle a kayak for six months or so, and didn't paddle normally again for more than a year.

As it turns out though, the more durable injury I suffered from that trip was not shoulder-related at all. The frigid temperatures and the fact that my feet were always wet ended up giving me some kind of frostbite. (I'm not sure that what I got was technically frostbite, maybe frost-nip or some other variation on the theme, but I'm calling it frostbite anyway.) There were days when I would literally pour near-boiling water on my feet just to try to get some feeling back into my toes. The result of my foolishness is that my toes now are incredibly sensitive to cold and once they have chilled past a certain point, I am unable to get them warm again without some kind of warm water immersion. Hot tub, anyone?

I have found that if I can keep my tooties dry, I can keep them warm and I have a new way to keep them dry now that I'm pretty happy about: Kokatat's Launch Socks. They're made out of Kokatat's proprietary Tropos 3 layer fabric, which means that they are both waterproof and breathable, and the knee-high cut means I can get pretty far out from the shore while still maintaining an outstanding comfort level.

I figured, since I used them again this morning, I should at least mention them.

Nobody told me there'd be days like these

I remember where I was: me and my buddy Craig Johnson were on our way back from Mexico. We'd gone to Tijuana to buy a load of sweaters, blankets, ponchos and pottery as Christmas presents, having taken orders from friends and family for the items and then negotiating bulk deals in the market south of the border. We thought ourselves to be quite the businessmen, buying low and selling, if not high, at least higher. Not only were we going to make enough to pay for our gas from Santa Barbara and back, but we'd have enough for a hotel room and a pizza to boot.

It was 30 years ago today. We were in our room at the downtown Holiday Inn in San Diego, finishing our pizza and watching the end of Monday Night Football, when we got the news that John Lennon had been shot. I remember it being a sobering moment when Howard Cosell made the comment about some things being more important than a football game. I remember too, that it hit Craig harder than it did me - he was more astute musically than I was - and although I knew that something bad had just happened, I just didn't conceive of how truly horrible it was until later.

Now, with the benefit of knowing how the next three decades would turn out, I see that moment for what it was and I feel the loss as much now as I should have felt it then. I was 18, I figured I would live forever, and I didn't have the emotional maturity to realize that something so unique, someone so valuable, could be taken away so mindlessly. So easily.

It is so much easier to destroy than it is to create.

I have other things I'd like to write about. There's a story about Mount Rainier that has jumped out at me lately, about access and roads, flooding and money, the future of the mountain as it relates to visitors. This, however, isn't the time. I'm going to put on some John Lennon tunes, drink a beer and get dinner on the go.

Strange days indeed.

The end

It is good that it ended yesterday, finally, after what must have been an ungodly painful stretch of time. The whale was a Bryde's, and it washed up in Totten Inlet, where it had been swimming for the past week or so after sustaining the injury that would eventually prove fatal. Accidents happen, I suppose, but it seems unfair regardless.

I hope the boat, or ship, or whatever it was that did the deed, at least got a dent.

One more whale story

There's a mortally wounded whale in the south Sound, somewhere down near Olympia. Reports are that it's either a sei or a Bryde's whale, both of which are rare species in general, and particularly uncommon here in inland waters. Speculation is that it was struck by a fast moving boat with twin screws, putting deep lacerations in its back that have exposed not only blubber, but parts of its spine. It is a goner - the only questions that remain are where and when.

Yesterday's weather was especially welcoming and, even though I have a daunting list of essential tasks that are well past due, I took advantage of the sunny day. I put in at Boston Harbor on the SUP and paddled out to Hope Island and back, keeping an eye out for the unfortunate whale as I went.

I never did spot the poor guy but I had a good paddle anyway. Hope Island was beautiful and empty, and Squaxin Island sat clean and untouched to the north, looking much the same as it has since the last of the glaciers left the area thousands of years ago. The wind picked up on my return and I got from Hope Island back to the boat ramp in about 45 minutes, surfing the wind-swell the whole way.

What to do?

One of the local TV stations recently ran a special news report on the orca in the San Juans. I caught the tail end of it (the entire deal is online here), and I came away with a few observations. And, quite frankly, came away quite conflicted about the entire topic.

I won't go into all the specifics, but the point of the piece is that, when it comes to the southern resident pods, we seem to be "loving them to death," (in the breathless and dramatic idiom of the show.) Whale watching boats are singled out as the problem and the proposed solutions all share some sort of further restrictions on how commercial operators can conduct their business. Although the report didn't specifically address non-motorized whale watchers - kayaks, for example - the possible regulatory changes may not make any distinction between paddlers and commercial sightseeing craft. Which is, I believe, a load of fertilizer.

But I don't want to get wrapped up in the political side of the debate, even though I have my opinions. (Lord, do I have opinions!) What I will say, and what I know to be true, is that people only value what they know. Restricting access could result in less people understanding what the whales are, how they live and die, and what can be done to make their situation better. While I would agree that the commercial boats - the "pukers," as they're lovingly known in the business - are a disruption to the whales and are certainly one of the threats, there have to be ways to deal with the situation without completely cutting off access.

Which brings me to the point that is made several times in the story, that it's "just as good an experience," to watch from shore. Lime Kiln State Park, on the west side of San Juan Island, has actually been designated as a whale watching park and hundreds of observers line the rocky cliffs when the whales are about. That's cool, it is a neat experience and I would actually prefer that to riding along with a bunch of overweight tourists and their seasick children in one of the overpriced tour boats, but to say that it's just as good as being in the water with the orca is complete pap.

I have kayaked with the whales in Haro Strait and elsewhere, and there is nothing that compares to actually being in the same location as they are, in the same water at the same time. There is a connection that is immediate and powerful when you are presented with the reality of the orca from close range. I imagine it would be similar to the difference between somehow watching a Canadiens game from the center ice circle as opposed to seeing it from high up in section DD. It's better than not seeing them at all, but it's not the same thing. Far from it.

About 10 years back, Mary and I were kayaking in Johnstone Strait when we saw a whale watching helicopter - I had no idea there was such a thing - follow a family of orca, matching them move for move from the air. It was obvious that the whales, including at least one smaller juvenile, were trying to get away from the noise of the invasive whirlybird, and the feeling I got from observing the scene unfold was one of anger and hostility toward the watchers. I remember thinking that I hoped the helicopter would fall out of the sky and ditch close enough to the whales so that they could eat the occupants.

Not one of my finer moments.

I have a trip scheduled for next June to the places that were featured in the story. I'm supposed to be leading a group of kayakers through the area, with the specific purpose of having some close encounters with the same endangered whales the documentary focused on. I don't know if it will even be legal to do that by then and quite honestly, I'm personally split on the idea of whether I still want to do it at all. The show might be right about the impacts and it might turn out to be the best thing for the orca if they are just left alone, by everybody. I am in the process of making my decision now, and conscious of the fact that it may be made for me if some more restrictive laws are enacted between now and then.

This post is going nowhere. The more I ramble, the more it seems there aren't any good solutions.

With apologies, undoubtedly

A few weeks back, I posted an entry about Texas. About leaving Texas, actually, and how happy I was to be doing so. I didn't mean it to be a hit piece, but a Texan friend of mine called me out on what I'd written, saying that it was mean and that it sounded angry. When I went back and read what I'd written I saw that she was correct, that what I'd intended to be ironic or even humorous had come across as small and spiteful. Because of her input, I changed the post to make it more about my perceptions and less about the Lone Star State.

I bring this up now because I sense I'm about to be offensive again. Not toward Texas this time, but a little closer to home.

I'll start by saying that I am not a kayak racer. It's not that I can't paddle fast; I may not be a speedster - the Olympic squad isn't exactly burning down the phone lines - but I have been known to cover the miles with a sense of urgency. It's not that I lack competitive fire either. Quite the opposite. I'll turn anything into a challenge, and if there's a chance I can be successful, I tend to take it all very seriously.

Which sort of goes a long way in explaining why I don't race kayaks. I've never really wanted to mix kayaking with competition because I see kayaking as a labor of love more than anything else and I think that, for me, a combination of the two would dilute that experience.

On a different level, perhaps even closer to the bone, is a belief that most - probably all - "adventure racing" is a waste of time and almost completely unaligned with any real environmental sensibility. When nature is viewed as a backdrop to contrived human accomplishment rather than a place to be learned from, protected and savored, it is devalued and neutered. Competition necessitates focus above all, and the imposition of artificial parameters on a natural setting reduces the environment to an obstacle to be overcome and, to my way of thinking, completely misses the point of what wilderness is about.

Put simply, the idea of a race through the wild, whether in a canoe or on skis, using a kayak or climbing gear, is not much different than having a tournament in the Sistine Chapel to see who can be first to get through the stations of the cross. There is, I believe, enough meaningless competition in the world already and to use our few remaining natural areas to promote even more is lame. I know there are those who disagree (and I expect I'll hear from you soon), but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.