The sunrises over the frozen basin of Hidden Lake with Cascade Pass in the distance

March 16-17, 2021

Plan: A night in the Hidden Lake Lookout
Parked: Just after the second switchback on Sibley Creek Road (FS 1540)
Elevation Gain: ~6,000 ft
Total Time: ~28 hours (7 hours moving)
Sun Horizon Colisions: 2 (Although there was also a moonset in there)
Summary: I actually get a relatively early start, encounter no difficulties, and discover that the hype of sun warmed mountain ski chalets is real (even if you fail to do any skiing).

Extreme rime ice spikes have formed from the freezing fog

The Chosen Lookout

For someone who sneers at the European development of the Alps with its huts and quaint mountain towns and extensive accessible network of trails, I certainly tend to search out the most comfortable way to spend the nights. Over the last couple years I’ve managed to avoid snow "camping" as much as possible, while still getting out for those glorious winter mountain sunsets. I’ll make the excuse that I’m still looking for people to travel with as I slowly (ever so slowly) figure out my life, but I won’t deny that comfort has something to do with it. Perhaps it’s the lack of a dedicated winter tent (not that I really want to carry that around anyways) or the fact that there are few activities less pleasant than dealing with frozen boots and wet clothes in the backcountry at night, but recently I haven’t managed to motivate myself to experience enough shiver filled nights as I should. Luckily, in the North Cascades, I’ve discovered the secret wonder of week-night fire lookout stays and on this adventure I’m once again trying to take full advantage of it.

In my second winter following the daily progress of the Cascade snowpack and avalanche risk, I guess I’ve finally learned that our mountains get too much snow to be stable. Of course so far this winter has been historically bad for avalanches (as of mid march 33 avalanche deaths have been reported in the US, the most in more than a decade), but during normal snow years it appears that there are very few days where the snowpack is not either building from a blizzard or settling/sloughing off under the hot sun. What this means is that once again we've reached mid March and there’ve been only a handful of safe days with views. Now a weather window has arrived and I’m moving and grooving.

It’s Tuesday and it’s the middle of a cool, extended sunny period in the mountains. Last week the beautiful weather solidified the snowpack and on Sunday a storm brought a couple inches of cold, fresh powder. It’s a spring where winter doesn’t want to let go. After an above average January, February brought a few days of snow to the lowlands and now we’ve settled into a patter of unseasonable cool troughs padding the snowpack and bringing some of the best alpine skiing of the season. This also means the accumulating snow level has dropped from about 3,500 feet in the middle of January to around 2,000 feet today which is about as far as my car makes it driving up the Cascade River Road off-shoot. Someone has driven further up the road, but I don’t want to be a new someone stuck in the snow in the National Forest on a Tuesday.

Hidden Lake Lookout, where I’m headed, is an incredible place for backcountry skiing, but as a self-declared masochist I’ll be heading up the steep slopes on what some mountain adventurers call "misery sticks." I’m not sure they deserve that strong of a moniker (I mean does that make post-holing a literal "hell on earth?"), but they’re certainly not a walk in the park. Sidenote, I would Google "snowshoe racing" if you want to be entertained. Anyways, I scooch my car as far off to the side of the snow covered road as possible and set off with my backpack, my heinous amount of camera gear, and my snowshoes in my hand. It is 10:45 in the morning which is earlier than any adventure I’ve done recently. I mean, heck, it’s even still morning.

Climbing the Snow Ladder

After about 15 minutes and at 2,200 feet the snow starts and I suit up to get "miserable." The road walk is a 3 mile, hour-long study of monotony as the trees blur on the sides and I mull the morality of walking in the weakly established skin-track. Considering the drunken post-holes all over the old, icy ski marks, I probably won’t be dammed if I step on it for extra stability. The summer trailhead starts at about 3,400 ft and 4 miles from where I’ve parked my car, but in March I’ll be taking the winter route straight up the northwest ridge leading to Hidden Lake Peak. Just after 3,000 ft my GPS and a few old tracks tell me to go straight up into the forest so up we go.

Who needs a ladder when you can go up a ridge? In the first half mile I gain more than a thousand feet and after that it only mellows out to the steepest trail you’ve ever been on. Never have I been so happy for a covering of old crusty snow and tree spit. Snowshoe conditions don’t get much better than this. The climb is not easy (I slow to almost 50 minutes a mile), but I’m making significant process and I can smell beautiful views nearing. With every step I ascend into the the clouds. A stubborn foggy band hovers between 4 and 5,000 feet which means the magical forest is coated in enchanting strands of rime ice. Every surface wears a jagged crown of ice, especially the long strands of moss which hang from the firs, hemlocks, and spruces. A weak sun refracts off the hanging water droplets in the air and establishes a beautiful contrast between shadows and sunlight.

As I climb the snow deepens, the trees sparsen, and the slope moderates a bit. Instead of floundering in the soft fresh snow I attempt to stay on the crust beneath clumps of trees. A gap opens to the east and I get my first glimpse of the alpine. Light showers of soft rime ice float down as the almost 9,000 foot peak of El Dorado passes in and out of the mist. The climb continues flanked by the old skin and boot tracks of parties past and near 6,000 feet I finally break out of the forest.

A Sea of Snow Covered Peaks

Here the snow is softer, lighter, fluffier, but as opposed to some of my other recent trips it’s hard enough that my snowshoes allow me to skim the surface. As I reach the intersection with the summer trail, currently buried under at least ten feet of snow I come across a snow pit dug the previous day to check avalanche conditions. A bit of instability remains today, but with moderate slopes and cold temperatures avalanches should be rare.

Of all the fire lookouts I’ve visited, Hidden Lake Lookout is one of the most precarious (okay, it’s no Three Fingers, but nothing rivals that insanity). The old structure is situated on the thumb of a minor outcropping west of Hidden Lakes Peak and perched 6,000 feet above the Cascade River. As I make my way up to col separating the lookout from the peak, the snow covered rock face looms overhead. Behind me the views have opened up so that I can see north all the way to the Canadian border. Mount Baker and Shuksan rise across the Skagit River Valley and Snowking makes an appearance to the west. Much of the valleys are still filled in with wisps of clouds that flow among the rugged terrain.

The one somewhat sketchy section of the ascent. See the lookout to the left.

At 6,700 feet I reach the saddle between the lookout and the peak as I get my first views to the South. The lake is a solid mass of white, buried under so much snow it probably won’t melt out until July if not later. Forbidden, Johannesburg, and Formidable dominate the southeastern skyline. It’s truly amazing how much closer Cascade pass feels from up here than the 15 miles of additional driving it would have taken to make it to the trailhead. I stop for one of the first times since locking the car and breathe in the view.

Now for the simple crux of the route. How do I climb a couple hundred feet up to the lookout? The summer trail is a scramble even when snow is absent. Its path ascends the southeast face of the lookout’s thumb and then picks its way up the boulder field to reach the summit. Reading in the summit log later I’ll discover that someone actually took this route in the dark to the top, but to me it’s pretty sketchy. The biggest cornices of the year hang over the climb and not even considering the overhead danger you’d have to figure out how to ascend the vertical walls of snow. No, for me the route is pretty clear. I’ll contour downward across the southeastern face until reaching the southern ridge. I’ll have to drop a couple hundred feet, but from there it looks like a simple ridge walk to the hut. A few wind scoured ski tracks suggest that this is indeed the best way.

I feel vaguely uncomfortable beneath the cornices, but I maximize my distance until I reach the ridge. The next 500 feet is uneventful and I push the pace a bit just to finish the climb. the snow texture here varies, but mostly it’s perfect for gripping and ascending with not too much slipping or sinking. And then I’m at the top and the door is dug out and the snowshoes are off and it’s time to see what’s inside.

The many faces of Glacier. This is a blend of 9 different shots of the mountain. Sunrise to sunset occurs from left to right.

Settling in for Sunset

A beautiful halo and some sun dogs put on a show in the afternoon.

I was last up here on an unsettled august day in 2017. Multiple parties had already claimed the lookout for the night which was immersed in a sea of broken clouds with only occasional views. Despite growing up in the North Cascades, it was one of my first hikes above the alpine on the west side and I think it may have been what got me hooked on this range. Now I'm back and have the lookout all to myself as I chop up the ice surrounding the door and open it.

I'm hit with a blast of warm air that is completely unexpected. The thermometer inside reads 70F! Surprisingly the south facing windows are unshuttered which lets in a flood of light and allows the wooden hut to practically cook despite the upper 20s outside. Everything inside is undisturbed. The summit register sits on the bed while Cascade guides and poetry anthologies line the shelves. Through the window Glacier Peak heads the South Fork of the Cascade Valley and even the top of Rainier is just barely visible in the distance. It’s 2:30 and it’s only taken me four hours to reach the lookout. Never have I been this prepared. Normally I’m racing the sunset and I just barely win, but this time I have 5 hours to do nothing until the light and warmth disappear. And I somehow have better service here than back at home. So much for escaping technology in the wilderness.

A sightseeing flight from Snowking Aviation buzzed me at sunset.

So what do I do? It’s honestly hard to say where the time goes. With a camera and eyes brimming with beauty the hours pass quickly. I spend some time inside waiting for the sun to sink and provide better light, but most of the time I’m romping around outside shooting everything I can. Zooming, widening, peak naming, snow frolicking—it’s all necessary in this sort of situation. As the sun sinks the valley clouds gradually evaporate and the scene becomes stiller. The ridiculously warm lookout begins to lose its heat and the color of the light becomes more golden. Ice crystals high in the atmosphere produce both a halo and a rainbow hued "sun dog" following the sun in its journey toward Pacific.

And then a soft growling rises out of the deafening silence. At first I fail to find it’s source, but it quickly grows louder and I spot a small Cessna coming straight for me from Glacier Peak. It’s amazing how quickly planes travel when you're up at their level. From first sighting I have thirty second before the plane is passing a thousand feet away. I send my greetings attempting to walk the line between being seen and appearing in desperate need of assistance. Another thirty seconds later the visitor has disappeared from view so it appears I haven’t made them too worried (I’ll discover later that this was a sight-seeing trip for Kyle Loria who snapped some outstanding photos on his trip around the 'Cades).

Now it’s sunset and the temperature is plummeting as the wind picks up. I’ve already donned all my warmest clothes so that frozen digits won’t send me in to the cabin too quickly. A hazy band of high clouds covers the eastern skies so colors leave a little to be desired, but it’s hard to be disappointed with any showing of alpenglow. Above the snowline the hues of blue hour are all-consuming. As far as you can see snowy peaks merge with the darkening skies and join the indigo club. Which is my queue to return to the hut for pasta and hot chocolate.

Hard to have a better view for dinner theater.

Darkness and a New Morn

After dinner darkness has fallen completely so I make another trip outside to shoot the stars. There’s a bit of moon hanging in the northwestern sky and the Milky Way is still hiding below the horizon, but it’s nice to bundle up one last time and take a few before-bed shots as a last nighttime activity. Satisfied, I return to my protected hut and snuggle into bed to wait for a sunrise that would be late enough to get a long sleep.

The sun is already warming the east when I return to the channels in the snow I had made the previous evening. Directly to my east Hidden Lake Peak calls to me and I resolve to summit it, if only to catch a better view of the face of El Dorado. Soon Earth shadow hits the horizon and the golden sun appears painting the very distant peak of Rainier pink. The lake basin fills with sunlight like water running down from ring of rocks above and before I know it I’m headed back down into it to finish up my trek.

The first blush in the sky hits the face of the cabin

From the col, Hidden Lake Peak is only about 500 ft of ridge walking which is a breeze after I drop my overstuffed backpack. I’m practically flying up the snow ramps although a healthy fear of taking a cornice ride all the way down to the lake below prevents me from getting too close to the edge. From the top it's nice to have a slightly different perspective on the scene I had been shooting for the previous twelve hours. Immersed in warm sunlight and surrounded by wide open slopes I yearned to crisscross the slopes if only I had the gear.

Onto the Next Adventure

Returning to my bag I begin the snowshoe plunge-stepping that will take me down the steep forest slopes and back to the car. Once again the snow is an ideal consistency. Just soft enough I cruise almost 20 minute miles avoiding obstacles that I thought would send me into a dangerous slide the day before. Before I know it I'm back on the road and 3 hours from the lookout the familiar CR-V greats me again.

This was one of those low effort/high reward sorts of adventures. I’m not sure I ever really got cold and was one of the most relaxing trips I’ve had. It certainly helped to have firmer snow for the trip up and not having to race the sun now that we’re in March. In the next few years this place will continues to increase in use on the weekends, but if you come up on a sunny weekday you can still find solitude and warmth in the château Cascades.