Can I get to this little snow covered pimple on the third try this season?
Goal: Park Butte Fire Lookout
Parked: Mt. Baker NRA Sno-Park
Total Distance: 22.5 miles
Total Time: 28 hours (10 hours moving)
Sun Horizon Collisions: 2 (sunset and sunrise)
Photos Taken: 408
Short summary: XC skiing, snowshoeing, sunset watching, and complaining about snowmobiles on the doorsteps of my favorite mountain.
You know that mini panic attack you have when you’re just a little unsure of what’s going to happen next. Like you know the end of your trip is probably fine and you’re probably going to get home without a hitch, but your flight has just been cancelled and one of your suitcases has disappeared into the baggage abyss and you have a meeting starting in 16 hours? Well, I also experienced that slight simmer of panic as I faced an almost vertical wall of snow on the slopes of Mount Baker and as the sun dipped way too quickly toward the horizon. I probably was going to make it to the fire lookout and I most likely was not going to turn into a human popsicle to be thawed in late June, but there was still that outside chance…
Summer ≠ winter
Anyway, it’s been a really gray winter in the PNW so far. Like there’s Seattle winter gray and there’s cubicle gray, and this was definitely verging towards the latter. Sure, it was beautiful in October and November, but there wasn’t a skiff of snow up in the mountains. Overcast December lingered for a while until January arrived and it’s either raining or snowing at 5,000 ft for some 50 days (Seattle failed to have a sunny day for 80 straight days). The ski areas recorded 300" of snow in January alone! So, regardless to say, when the storm train stopped for a couple days to restock, and the weather momentarily cleared, I was excited to go into the mountains and to try something I’d wanted to do for a number of years: sleep in a fire lookout.
There are some 93 (95? Numbers differ around the web) fire lookouts scattered throughout the state that were originally used as early detection sites for wildfires in WA’s national forests. Today some of them are still used as early wildfire warnings, but many are now just hiking destinations with history and views. Volunteer organizations have taken over some of the ones that aren’t still actively used, opening them to the public for first-come, first-served overnight stays. I’ve only visited a few of them in my hikes around WA, but I’ve long wanted to stay at the closest and easiest to access from home, Park Butte in the Mount Baker Wilderness area. While it may not have the absolute best views in the state (I’m looking at you Hidden Lake or maybe Three Fingers), it’s hard to complain about a 3.5 mile trail that provides full window panoramas of Baker (looming almost close enough to touch), the North Cascades, and the other Cascade volcanoes. During the summer you can run up to the lookout in about 50 minutes, but the winter is not the summer (shocking! I know) and the trek to the top becomes more arduous.
Mid February 2020:
The road slog!
It’s just over an hour drive from home to the trailhead and I was originally planning on leaving at around 8 in the morning, but I still have yet to master the ability of arriving early to hikes. Regardless to say, I found myself in the parking lot just before 11. As we’ve already established summer ≠ winter which is why this adventure becomes a bit spicier (you know your traditional toss a jalapeño in and don’t even think about "leaving out the seeds"). Park Butte Lookout is located on the edge of the Mount Baker National Recreation Area, which must unofficially be known as Snowmobile Heaven (more on that later). On the surface what this moniker means is everyone and their uncle comes up to this area on nice days to "tear it up," but for hiking purposes it means the road is closed at a much lower elevation than normal and you have to do a bit more work to reach the prize. To 3.5 miles of standard trail add 7 miles of road grinding and 2,000 feet of climbing. As is evident on the WTA website, while hundreds of people do this hike daily during the summer, the lookout is reached only a few times in the snow, if at all.
As my third attempt to reach the cabin this season, I was aware and prepared. The xc skis were coming on. I strapped on my overloaded 40 pound pack with snowshoes stuck to the back (the bag was so full—even without a tent—that I couldn’t fit my camera in it and had to leave it swinging into my chest like a mini battering ram as I puffed up the mountain) and started making slow progress up the road. One of the reasons this area is so popular with snowmobilers is that the snopark gets groomed a couple times a week. For snowmobilers this means they are less likely to plunge off the trail in a fiery crash (I guess?, if you’re a snowmobiler and don’t get turned off this post, please let me know what is so titillating about driving a vehicle over every single groove of groomed snow), but for skiers it makes it loads easier to power up the road. Even so, I don’t care how active you are. Good luck making a 7 mile climb on xc skis anything more than a (slightly) graceful slog up the mountain. I mean a few weeks earlier without my turtle backpack it had taken me 2 hours. With the pack it was closer to 3, but I kept chugging along, taking breaks to appreciate the scenery like this snow covered tree or that snow covered tree or the other few thousand snow covered trees. Honestly though, it’s a nice peaceful meditative state except…
A herd of wild snowsawers checking out the view
…for the snow chainsaws. I mean what else can I call them? That’s what they sound like. And snowsaw is way shorter to type than snowmobile. I honestly don’t have any problem with the snowsaws or their riders. I’m glad to see them taking advantage of the natural beauty of the area (it’s hard to imagine a more idyllic place to snowsaw with it’s wide open meadows and mountains of fresh snow) and all the snowsawers I talked to seemed like perfectly nice people, but that doesn’t mean I can’t complain about them.
I think there’s a saying that has to do with "the smell of diesel in the morning," and it certainly is quite a remarkable smell. One thing that I always want when I go into the backcountry is to smell the city. The snowsaws kindly provide. They were surprisingly sneaky on the road up. In more exposed areas you can hear them from 3-5 miles away, their rumbling sounds expanding outwards in every direction like hoarse whale calls, becoming more mournful when they become distressed and stuck in the thick snow. But in the silence of the forest, the dark trees muffle their sound until they come roaring down the trail like a grizzly on a mission. Frequently, they slow down and try to put as much space between themselves and what ever unlucky biped seems to be on the trail, but every so often you get one that charges straight at any human like a minor obstacle to blast through. Nothing like having to dive out of the way of a wild snowsaw in the wilderness.
A heckin’ bunch of snow
In my previous forays into this area, I realized how steep the second part of the trail gets, especially for someone trying to make the climb on XC skis, and thus decided that for this adventure I would stash my sticks until the following day and instead set-off on snow shoes. The mistake I had made last time was in not realizing that when it got too steep to go uphill on the skis, it was certainly too steep to come down comfortably without fixed heels. In January I thus spent an hour careening downhill for a mile, using my face and the soft snow to control my descent. This time, after snarfing my snack and stashing my skis under a tree, I waddled off with my snowshoes, committed to not making the same mistake.
Stop following all the tracks! You’re going too far to the right! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
After you reach the Park Butte trailhead, you’re still in the "flats" for roughly another mile before crossing the outflow underneath one of Baker’s many glaciers. In the winter, this valley of gravel and rock at 4,000 feet gets buried under ten to twenty feet of snow and thus provides a perfect access point for the snowsaws to sluice their way up the volcano’s slopes. The summer trail on the other hand, takes a more direct uphill route, switchbacking through the forest to reach the upper meadows and their August blueberry goodness. Both of these options were available to me, but the truth about the summer route is the trail was about as clear as the "flavor" in a La Croix. I mean, sure the map (can) said the trail (lemon flavor) was here and I had definitely been on the actual trail (tasted real lemon) before, but considering that mess of snow and trees (bubbles and water) a replacement for an actual trail (lemon) was a delusion at best and life threatening at worst (I take my lemon and my trails very seriously). I chose what presumably was the safer tact of following the snowsaw tracks for a while (and not sinking in) until it was safe to cut back towards the summer route.
So close yet so far to poppin’ into the hut
Was this the right decision? Hard to say—I didn’t take both paths—but I was definitely questioning it more as I went up, up, up the slopes of Mount Baker, without finding an easy way to cross over to my shelter. At 5,000 feet I was still ascending, going the wrong direction, but to the west there was still an impassible wall of snow. Sure, snowsaws had gotten to the top of this wall through some roundabout path and were then dropping some 50 or so feet with differing degrees of success (I mean they certainly all "dropped" obeying the laws of gravity, but sometimes they landed in varying states of togetherness), but I saw no easy way for me to make my way up the slope. Finally at 5,500 feet, 10 miles, and 5 hours in I spotted the least steep exit to the bowl which had already been used as an snowsaw escape route. Reaching the base I had only 20 feet to scramble. I desperately embraced the wall of soft snow to prevent my weighted pack from forcing me to do some undesirable gymnastic flips, and I inched my way up the semi-cornice until breaking free of its shadow and into glorious sunlight.
Do zigzags make it easier to climb up the slope? Unknown, but they make for prettier pictures.
It took a second to get my feet under me so I could stand up, squint, and identify the snow covered blob that was (hopefully) to be my home for the night. I had climbed so much elevation that I was actually above it, but between me and the lookout 2 miles remained, including another thousand feet of down climbing and up climbing. As I made my way over the rolling snow covered hills, the trees formed fantastical shapes and Mount Baker grew behind me. Here, as in the valley there was no shortage of snowsaw cuts in the powder which meant I could continue to float on top and make better time. I mean I was still more than an hour behind my desired schedule, but the sight of the snow covered pimple on the distant ridge motivated me forward and I soon found myself on the last snow covered slope before the lookout.
Finally I had reached a place where even the snowsawers had refused to tread. The slope was not particularly avalanche prone, but the enormous cornices under which the traditional summer trail was buried did not inspire confidence. Evaluating cornices is definitely an art form for which you do not want to color outside the lines and so my main goal was to stay as far away as possible. Without tracks to buoy me, I swam up the face, one kick at a time. Zigzagging probably only managed to prolong my suffering.
Step. Breathe. Step, step. Breathe. Step, step, step. Breathe.
Stay up sun! Don’t go away! It’s too soon! Too soon!
With this mentality I made it as the last rays of sunlight were bathing the lookout in golden-orange light. Now I had to get in. Based on the lack of trip reports, I figured I would be one of the first people up there this winter and I was not disappointed. To tell the truth I had hoped the lookout would be completely buried, but I guess I wouldn’t get to sleep in a completely buried house. Anyways, as much as I wanted to throw everything down and take pictures, I had to make sure I could actually enter the lookout. If it was unexpectedly locked, or the door was encased in a couple feet of ice, I needed to be prepared to make the mad dash to the car with all the twilight I could ration. 20 minutes with a shovel got me around to the entrance and another 10 of ice picking allowed me to free the four corner bolts and remove the heavy wooden storm door. The interior door was not sealed and a skiff of snow had infiltrated my home for the night, creating an ice door stopper that was only removed after the door and my shoulder became acquainted.
Wowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowow! (Glacier Peak)
But I was inside!!! No freezer aisle for me! And there was still a touch of sun on the tip of Baker! I rushed outside to get my camera to begin shooting the aftereffects of the sunset. Unsurprisingly these also included the cold. Note to future self: get to winter campsite an hour before sunset like you planned. Luckily, there’s a certain warmth that comes from the excitement of beauty and photography, one that usually keeps me nice and toasty at least for a while. This time it lasted about 15 minutes, but oh, what a spectacular 15 minutes those were!
Yeah, not much I can say about this view
With horizon to horizon blue skies, I honestly was not expecting much of a show, but boy was I happy to be mistaken! Like wowiee! I got the blues and the dark blues and eventually the blacks, but in-between were the oranges and the yellows and the reds and the magentas. I understand the appeal of the sunrise, but gosh, sunsets sure are pretty. And even better the snowwoodsmen had gone home to rest, the snowsaws had fallen silent, and there wasn’t a sound to prevent me from ogling the distant North Cascades. Mount Baker, Glacier Peak, the Twin Sisters, and even Mount Rainier, 100 miles distant were putting on their best show with me as one of the sole witnesses. Hanging over the Twin Sisters (definitely an adventure for this summer) was the orangest sky that ever tried to rhyme. Wowowowowowowowow!!! And then the 15 minutes were over and I was reneging on my promise to not popsicle so I retreated inside.
Christmas lights are always a necessity
Inside the lookout, with all the storm windows boarded up it was about as dark as you would expect (read really dark). But, luckily, as everyone who has ever backpacked with me knows, I only bring the absolute essentials which is why I had 100 battery powered Christmas lights to string up. Of course, these superfluous activities could only be supported if I could move freely and my movement gears seemed to be shutting down. I had to change into warmer clothes. This actually was the coldest moment of the whole endeavor. Wearing thin, sweaty clothes after dark in the mountains, even for fifteen minutes is a recipe that leaves a tang of regret that lingers for quite some time. I had plenty of warm clothes in my bag, but getting them on was another matter. Setting a foot on the ground without a shoe was sure to get a reaction, but it was the attempt to shimmy into tights with almost nothing else on that really elicited the mountain yelps.
Okay. Tights, check. Long johns check. Second long underwear check. Ski pants check. One shirt, two shirt, three shirt, four! And two coats for a little more! Of course with all this on movement is a struggle, but slowly I started to warm.
Almost a candlelit 3-course dinner
Dinner, as always in the 3 star Michelin backcountry was an elegant affair. This night's meal was couscous and cheese with a few sun-dried tomatoes and a side of the finest generic packaged hot chocolate. And boy was it tasty! Sophistication with a pocket-rocket. This, more than anything, finally brought warmth to all the extremities. A perfect time to go outside to take pictures…if darkness hasn’t already fallen. And while I love nighttime photography, having just finally got warm, I was not exactly excited to spend half an hour outside to maybe get some shots of the stars (next time of course). However, I had brought a book, and since it was only 8 pm I was excited to read some of it as I curled up in my sleeping bag and closed my eyelids.
7 hours later I woke up. Which means it was the glorious time of three in the morning. As short as the nights are in the PNW during the summer, they are long during the winter. I tried unsuccessfully to get back to sleep for half an hour before bringing out the headlamp to read. I was not going to miss sunrise...except for when I almost did. It seemed so simple to just close my eyes for a second at 5:30. I blinked and somehow dawn was already starting to creep in through the one unobscured window. Now, at this time I have to give a shoutout to some of my friends that normally are underappreciated: floors. Because my god, they are so welcoming to have in the morning. Sure, they’re just as cold as the tent bottom, but they’re dry and stable which means shoes are so much easier put on. Within 5 minutes camera and tripod were outside to welcome the day.
Why, Hello crescent moon!
Although first I had to get slapped in the face by the 10F air. As my eyes blinked away the ice crystals a blue world came into view. The crescent moon had risen about an hour beforehand and was ascending above the horizon fire sky. It was as if the mountains were slowly emerging from the great flood, as if the water was retreating and bringing color back to what had been a blue lit world. Near the eastern horizon dark blue was eaten away by the light white of day and their battleground formed an indigo which framed the snow glistening peaks. The first light touched the butte (hahaha) and I instantly began to feel warmth flow over me. After a long night, day had finally arrived. But, the sunset was still better.
I see you Twin Sisters and hopefully I’ll get to know you this summer
The sun has returned! Warmth is back and all is right with the world!
After I had absorbed my fill of sun, I made the backcountry breakfast of champions—oatmeal—and took one of the chairs from the lookout outside to soak up the view. And in case I was feeling too lonely or if it was too peaceful, not long afterwards I heard the classic wild snowsaw revving up their engines. In fact, before I had finished my breakfast not only had they began to spread across the mountain, but they had spotted my tracks up to the lookout and being the naturally curious creatures they are, had cut their way to within a dozen meters. It must have been very hard work riding their snowsaws all the way up the mountain because they looked overheated. And so it came to be I had a lovely breakfast with just me, the mountains, and a couple of shirtless, sweaty snowsawers. Truly a unique experience.
Look Ma! Mount Baker!
As more zoomed up to join their friends I decided it could be time to take my leave. I was warm, happy, and rejuvenated. You know that if that happens on a backpacking trip it’s probably time to make yourself uncomfortable again. It would be sad leaving my little home, but I was sure I would be back. Maybe I’d be up here again before any adventurer actually made the trip up to this lovely little corner of paradise. Bag packed, place cleaned, interior door pseudo closed (I mean I tried as best as I could, but it had swelled during the winter, it’s not my fault!!!), exterior door hammered for another half an hour back into place. Everything was set and my poles and snowshoes were ready to carry me down the mountain.
Do breakfast views get any better than this?
So, hiking down the mountain? Never as fast as you think it will be. Snowshoeing down the mountain? Much faster than you think it will be if you let go. I just zoomed down the powder covered slopes. There was no real fear of falling because I would just POOF! and sink a bit. Honestly this is the moment I regretted not having touring skis (next year!), but vertically running down the summer trail I had avoided yesterday was plenty exciting. This was much easier on the return because I basically got to ignore the trail all together and just float (like an uncoordinated giant) through the trees. Of course I also had to continuously dodge tree bombs as the temperature warmed up. When I cleared the forest I had enough melting snow dripping down my back to equal a lifetime of sibling rivalry, but you win some and you lose some. My skis which also had felt the impact of the snow air raid were completely buried, but I had marked them well and before I knew it I was cruising back down the road. A road that’s almost perfectly graded by the way. Never too steep to get out of control, almost never so flat that you have to push. And just like that I was back at the trailhead in the midst of dozens of snowsaw lifts waiting mournfully for their owners to return.
All in all was thrilled to have this chance at adventure (especially since as I write this at the end of March the whole world has collapsed and the national forests are pseudo-closed). In my opinion, individual winter adventures are always a little riskier as they carry with them the increased danger of avalanches, but that doesn’t mean you should be afraid to do them. I certainly would have appreciated friends in the cabin with me, however the physical freedom solitude gave me to really push my limits cannot be understated (as well as not getting tossed into the darkness when I started reading at 3 in the morning). Other than that no big breakthroughs except reaffirming the fact that every sunset not spent in the wilderness is a missed opportunity.
April 1, 2020
Can you spot the snowmobiles way up on the glacier? A hint is to follow the rule of thirds.