last night on earth.

For whatever reason, trying before going to bed to nail the idea of a song from two years ago and figured out from my head it's in the key of C# minor (I think – either that or I just wrote something else which could totally be the case .... ) and jotting down quick lyrics ~

silence again brings us closer all the same

close your eyes feel the weight of my hands sustain

turn back the time if only we could stand again and stay

here in my head you in my arms unrestrained

the climbers.

For next month's book project, Julian chose the 'Poetry' category and Shel Silverstein's A Light In The Attic. For his project, he'll have to pick two or three poems out and read them to his class. My favourite has always been a poem called 'This Bridge,' but he was reading the book tonight in the living room while I cooked dinner in the kitchen and I overheard another poem, which I thought was perfect ~

A mountain climbing exploration

Took us to these distant peaks

Where no one's ever been before.

Was it my imagination?

Did I feel this mountain move?

Did I hear it snore?

the empress.

I listened to this song over + over + over all last night and will continue for some time strange and solemn so much I can't even go to sleep cos I want to keep hearing it despite it's late and I'm tired but nonetheless.

these granite walls that are my dreams.

17 september 2008. Finished up at work exactly on time time today at one o'clock. Must be a good sign for things to come. Think I tied up all loose ends. Feeling good. A friend drove me to the airport. Checking a bag on Frontier apparently is still free! Security was a breeze after no line at the baggage counter. Had to check a bag full of backpacking gear, leaving my pack free to tote the Hasselblad. Got to the gate with fifteen minutes to spare before they're starting to board. Just enough time to listen to Brett Anderson's P Marius a few times. I will see you once again he sings. 'Cello and piano. And the voice. The voice. It ends with him closing the piano lid and walking out of the studio. It's sunny and warm in Seattle and I'm hoping for sun in the Winds. I want to listen to this song under cloudless, star-filled skies deep in the mountains surrounded by endless granite peaks and boulders and alpine lakes too cold at this time of year to swim in. I'm envisioning a majestic place beyond description like few others I have seen. I'm hoping for good light. For a chance to get a photograph on film that captures the essence of the trip. It has been awhile since I've hoped for that but something feels different with a Hasselblad in my hands. An old one dented and scratched and worn and used. Like wondering what notes an old model A Bechstein from 1875 now sitting in a corner of my living room has played by what hands, I too wonder now what photographs this old Hasselblad has taken? Will I measure up? As I listen to this song The Empress by Anderson I am reminded of late summer evenings at home one small light on in the corner of my living room a window cracked open to the sounds of the late summer night maybe some incense burning and a slightly sad but comfortable feeling basking in the glow. I'm tuning out the cacophony that is the airport middle of the afternoon. Aeroplanes in and out. People scuffling this way and that and I don't pay any mind absorbed instead in the voice of Brett Anderson and thoughts of a lonely, quiet living room that brings a smile and with it warm regards for a house I call my home. Will be off soon now.

19 september 2008. Awoke around 8 o'clock in the Big Sandy campground next to the river and slow to get moving. By a little after nine we were on the trail, six miles towards Big Sandy Lake and wildnernesses I still could only imagine. We were more remote than I had ever been, sixty miles by the crow's flight from the nearest outpost of civilization. Ninety in the direction we'd be going on our way back to Denver. Now I'm in tent under a warm flame and glow of my trusty Primus lantern after having spent a few minutes trying to get a photograph of my little home perched in meadows under granite walls two thousand feet high surrounding us on three sides but seemingly every direction all while the light faded. But before getting to this point, we hiked those six miles to the lake in just under two hours. From there we could see south towards Haystack Mountain and east towards the Continental Divide and Big Sandy Mountain before perching ourselves on warm granite under sun and perfect white cumulus clouds and ate a bit of lunch. The smooth granite face of Haystack beckoned as did the perfect sky. Into that cirque could also be seen Steeple Peak, the north face of Temple Peak decorated with fresh snows, Lost Temple Spire, East Temple Peak and Shiestler Peak. The lake had a small island perched out in the middle. We finished up lunch and headed up towards the Divide via a rocky approach known as Jackass Pass as we watched thunderstorms roll in like clockwork to the south over the Temple peaks. We made it maybe an hour clambering over granite boulders the size of cars before the snow and hail began to fall in earnest. Seeking shelter under an enormous boulder, we huddled along with a young couple down from the ranch they worked up in Jackson for a dayhike up to the pass. We played cards. Chatted a bit. By the time the storm mostly blew over, their attempt was thwarted and so they retreated back to their car and we made our way north towards the Divide. Up past North Lake and Arrowhead Lake far below to a crest just short of a rise that was the Divide. As I led and came over this rise, the jagged, ice-sculpted masses of the peaks crowning what is known as the Cirque of the Towers came into view and my breath was taken away. I tossed my pack on the ground beside me and for whatever reason I don't quite know fought back tears standing there in that moment thinking here was this corner of the world that had occupied my dreams now stretched out before me in all its isolation and barrenness and beauty. Surreal. It was a harsh place, snow still falling lightly in wisps around me and a brisk wind whipping over the Divide as sun spotlighted Pingora (Shoshone for 'high, rocky and inaccessible peak') in all its incredible majesty. A granite tower. There was Warrior 1 and Warbonnet Peak to the west, sheer granite fins so impressive as to make me shudder. And farther south the crooked spire of Sundance Pinnacle. Granite as far as I could see. I was surrounded. I took the opportunity to set up my tripod and mount the Hasselblad, fluid in my fingers despite this being the first time I was using it. I fired off nearly a roll of film, my first since being in Yosemite two autumns ago. It felt good and I could hardly contain my excitement, but why hide it? Here were my dreams. Sometimes I worry there is little that makes me truly happy (mostly simple things but some – like this – spectacular), but being in places like where I now find myself does in a way I cannot describe. I read on the flight to Denver that 'we go to experience wilderness and want the mountains to remain wild.' Standing on the Continental Divide looking around me I was overwhelmed. For the moment I was sustained. I was happy. I could not imagine a more wild, incredible way to cross this notion of a continental divide, inspiring in its concept. We passed under Mitchell Peak as we formally crossed the Divide and found ourselves surrounded on three sides by two thousand foot sheer granite walls. Scoured and polished by ice ten thousand years ago. We quickly found a place to set up our small camp and lost our packs to the rocks, glad to be free of them after a long day on trails and over talus. After polishing off two rolls of film (mostly directed at the impressive Pingora while clouds and shadows dashed in and out of the frame) I rediscovered the joy of looking at a composition mediocre or not laid out on the ground glass of an old camera solid and worn in my hands. Incredible. We wandered down to Lonesome Lake under the constant shadow of Pingora, Wolf's Head, Warrior 1 and Warrior 2, taking pictures here and there. I found a rock in the sun and took off my wonderful Montbell down sweater from around my waist to use as a pillow and spread out to survey all that cast its shadow, only to quickly find myself engulfed by them as the sun fell behind the enormous walls to the west. Meandering back up through the Cirque, we made our way cross-country over to just under Pylon Peak and the Warrior peaks to try to find the waters of Hidden Lake, well hidden under the sheer towers of Warrior 1 and 2 before making our way back to camp as the day quickly closed in on itself and us. And after the shot of our tent glowing amongst granite boulders and fantastic peaks (there is nothing more welcoming than the sight of a tent awash in lantern light or the sound of my trusty MSR stove as it boils water I know will be used for warm food or drink) – I am now wrapped in down writing this. I am warm and comfortable as darkness wraps itself around us and I will soon go to sleep, excited for the sunrise and how it will light up this wall of peaks along the Divide.

20 september 2008. Awoke to alarm and sound of rain smattering off the walls of our rainfly. I glanced out to survey the scene and found skirmishes of clouds and sun. The clouds ended up winning so back into my warm down bag I retreated, sleeping in until almost ten o'clock. We got up and moving back up and over to cross the Divide around 11, this time taking the low path that circled the west, terribly rocky shore of Arrowhead Lake (this lake totally looked like an arrowhead from above). We hooked back up with the main trail from Jackass Pass far lower on the west side of the Divide. Rain turned to snow and bit into us with a terrific wind as we clambered down from the Divide and I stopped under the shelter of a huge boulder to quickly don windproof hat and gloves, but fifteen minutes later storms gave way to sun and the wind fell silent. I thought how one of the many things I love about the mountains is their brutality and at times their fickleness. How much of a different world it can be from where I would stand and where I could see far below. I shed the hat and gloves. Slick granite cold to the touch greeted us as we made our way, a challenge I enjoyed. It seemed then to be a quick descent back to Big Sandy Lake where we quickly found a perfect campsite tucked among whitebark pine and a bit off the trail. After setting up the tent, I crashed on top of my down bag for a quick nap, then lunch and we were off towards Circle and Deep Lakes and the immense alpine basin to the south from where – at our campsite – we could glimpse into and sense its awe. It was as much of an ascent as it was to the pass, though much less rocky. In forty-five minutes, we gained the crest of the basin that held Circle Lake under the enormous, mile-long polished granite face of Haystack Mountain. I gazed up at the smooth face, utterly enormous, careening to find routes to the top. As we made our way around and past Circle Lake, we began the climb up to Deep Lake over bare granite bedrock slabs beckoned onwards above treeline by East Temple Peak and the north face of Temple Peak. Over our shoulder, views were afforded us back over the Divide through Jackass Pass between Warbonnet and Mitchell Peaks and into the Cirque of the Towers. Pingora almost seemed lost in the foreshortened view but I could still make it out, calling to me impressive and wild. Solemn. As we crested the plateau of bedrock and found ourselves along the north shore of Deep Lake, we were completely surrounded on every side by three hundred and sixty degrees of enormous granite as far as we could see. Tundra and granite. It was as dramatic a landscape as I have ever witnessed. Monochromatic. Desolate and barren and beautiful in all of its immenseness. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance as we took in the scene of the Temple Peaks to the south, myself wondering what view lay beyond. I wanted to climb. We noticed the clouds rolling in quickly in every direction. In minutes, the lightning was crackling all around us – exposed high above treeline – and a driving rain and hail poured as we literally sprinted down the slick bedrock slabs, desperate to find shelter among even the squatty krumholz trees below and farther down the lodgepole forests. After a heart-pounding race down that seemed of ages, I found a grove of conifers and huddled underneath for shelter as the thunder exploded and crashed all above us. But as soon as it had been upon us it was gone and I sighed a bit of relief, the thunder fading to nothingness. It was a dramatic testament to the power of the alpine world barren tundra and solid granite but beautiful all the same. Here in the Winds in early autumn, I concluded storms are quick to release their winds and rains and snows and furies, but the sun is always just behind to cast a rainbow and shed a light on distant walls otherwise dark in shadow. Here again, I was overwhelmed. The Temple peaks were incredible and forbidding, and I would have liked to have been able to wander up the rest of the Little Sandy Trail to the unnamed lake that lies directly beneath the immense north face of Temple Peak, now plastered with fresh snow that no doubt fell as rain even just five hundred feet lower. The jagged aura of the mountains among the Wind Rivers is sheer and awe-inspiring. I wasn't able to photograph on film up underneath the Temple peaks despite carrying all of the gear up there with me, but quickly realized it was being here in the moment as clouds rushed in and lightning flashed and shadows swept across the ground and up and over granite faces too big to be captured on film. The moment was what counted, and I wanted to cry and shout for all I was worth to shatter the still silence only found in the middle of wilderness and wild mountains that this was my cathedral! No sense of anything that we humans would label as 'god' or such but a revere for places like this that cannot be explained nor assumed. Just a sense. A sense of destiny maybe and dreams where I find myself alone and lost in a wilderness of granite where the silence is deafening and rejoiceful and I wander from one lake basin to the next smiling and reading the weather and the light listening to the granite so formidable and strong but at the same time so fragile as to break over ice and the crush of water using my experiences in wild places to float among the boulders and over high passes to experience all of it and safely return. I am humbled and as strong and as weak as these granite walls that are my dreams.

clowns.

Take a look at us hate where there was lust
The trip like honey but lust don’t mean a thing when all we do is shout and scream
It’s almost funny we’re like clowns tumbled into town now
Love is on its way down now it’s such a lonely sound
Mouths that once exchanged kisses in the rain
Are full of pain now it all seems so absurd
When every sentence and every word is so painful
Clowns tumbled into town now
Love is on its way down now such a lonely sound
Clowns faces with painted frowns now sat on a merry-go-round now
Such a lonely sound such a lonely sound such a lonely sound such a lonely sound such a lonely sound such a lonely sound such a lonely sound

~ Brett Anderson

As Brett sings and harps on guitar and 'cello fills the background I listen over + over + over and shouldn't but I can't seem to help it.

granite dreams.

Back in my office after four days in the Wind River range (the "Winds") of Wyoming with my older brother, Jeff. Surrounded now by grey walls and dim lights. Dreaming of being surrounded again with imposing grey granite walls. Running from lightning flashes and thunder crashes across bedrock high above treeline. Getting soaked from rains and hail and ducking under granite boulders the size of trucks for desperate respite. Lying under the sun on warm granite rocks at the shores of lakes named Lonesome. Sigh.

More to come ....

fremont.

Today, Julian and I headed up to try again for the summit of Mt. Fremont on the northeast flanks of Mt. Rainier. Last year, on our way back from southeastern Washington and northeastern Oregon, we headed up through Yakima over Chinook Pass and stopped at Sunrise for a hike after missing the mountains for a few days. Rainier was completed enshrouded, as we, too, found ourselves on the way up to Mt. Fremont – completely socked in, getting rained on and not being able to see more than twenty feet from the summit. The lookout tower was completely boarded up because they were remodeling, so we didn't stay long before heading back down in the pouring rain. We still had a blast all the same.

But I wanted to see the view from the place unobstructed, and the weather was supposed to be amazing so off again we went to Sunrise and up the Sourdough Ridge trail to Frozen Lake (which wasn't frozen and we joked we wanted our money back) where it splits five ways – off to the Borroughs Mountain summits, the Wonderland Trail, PCT, Fremont and (I think) Seattle Park and other areas in the northeast corner of the park. We headed up to Fremont, which is an amazing hike on the rocky terrain of the mountain, with incredible views to Mt. Rainier with Burroughs Mountain in the foreground.

I planned on getting a late start cos I wanted to be up there for sunset, and I think we got to the top around 6:00PM or maybe a little earlier. Nevertheless, when we crested the ridge with the lookout tower a couple hundred feet off my heart jumped as the Stuart range came into view! Without a doubt, the view from this little summit easily makes the Top Five views in Washington state. Of the places I've been, this is how I'd rank them ~

1. Sahale glacier camp – North Cascades National Park
2. Mt. Fremont summit – Mt. Rainier National Park
3. Washington Pass overlook – North Cascades National Park (I'd perhaps bet on the summit of South Early Winter Spire, but the day I climbed it we couldn't see squat – it's one of the impressive granite spires that you see from the overlook at the pass)
4. Mt. Daniel summit – Alpine Lakes Wilderness
5. Eldorado Peak summit – North Cascades National Park

The criteria being something in the order of a place where I could just spend forever.

From the summit, I could see a distant Mt. Baker and Glacier Peak, Cathedral Peak and others in the Alpine Lakes wilderness, the entire Stuart Range (Mt. Stuart, Sherpa Peak, Argonaut, Colchuck, Dragontail, Little Annapurna and McClellan – on which the other side I knew lie the Enchantments) and of course Mt. Rainier, whose northeast face and Emmons Glacier seem close enough to reach out and touch.

The lookout was complete, too – and idyllic. There were two beds, a pair of desks, a lantern, a large map and supplies and of course windows on all four sides. I stood outside the locked doors imagining myself with this view every evening, even those when there were no views and wind and rain pelted the glass surrounding me. I'd boil some water for hot chocolate, or under clear skies maybe toss some lemonade mix in my mug and just soak it up. Seriously, the thought of being in that place for longer than the hour and a half we were there made me crazy. It would be amazing. This place was totally incredible.

Finding myself on a rock, I pulled out my thin fleece as the wind whipped up and just sat there.

Julian, meanwhile, scampered off to climb to the true summit maybe a quarter mile away and I eventually got up and fussed with a Hasselblad 500cm I was testing. Someone coming up a little later shouted up to me was that my kid climbing off in the distance? I said he was. He asked was he OK? I said he was fine. Then lucky me, the Hasselblad locked up after the first frame (and I do mean that somewhat seriously – better to do that testing than in the middle of a four-day backpacking trip in the Winds). But the other issues included being retarded and not bringing a second battery for my G2 so it kept dying – I'd leave it rest for a few minutes, then get off one more frame. But eventually that, too, ceased to work and I couldn't take any more photographs despite the incredible sense of WOW I felt looking all around as the shadows lengthened and the nearly-full moon rose to the east. Oh, and my Soligor spot meter wasn't working either, even though I had gotten a new battery for it and the red LED was turning on when I depressed the button – just the needle didn't move (I since figured out what was wrong with the Hasselblad and took apart the spot meter and fixed it, too – although I'm not sure it's correctly calibrated .... )

But despite photo issues, the summit was incredible. Totally, completely incredible. And I had mobile service so I phoned my sister Kathy (my habit is to always try from a summit just in case I have service and call her). She was in her dining room under Ike's deluge while J and I climbed and soaked up endless views under cloudless skies across endless mountains. She was kind of jealous, and it would have been cool if she could have been there.

We finally left after 7:00, knowing it would take about forty-five minutes to make the 2.75-mile hike back to Oliver waiting patiently in the parking lot. The light turned from blue to orange to pink to lavender and the mountains all around us soaked it up. The moon rose and brightened to the east, giving us enough light for shadows and to leave our headlamps tucked away in my pack. I couldn't stop staring at Rainier and just watching the colour on the horizon deepen and fade and darken to dusk.

The day ended driving back home in the dark listening to Boards of Canada and stopping at the Pizza Hut in Enumclaw for supper. I told Julian this would be our tradition since this was the second year we've done this – a late-afternoon hike from Sunrise and stopping at Pizza Hut before getting home and crashing (I blame growing up in the Midwest and looking forward to family nights out at Pizza Hut for why I still find myself going there).

In any case, I think I needed this little day. It was pretty amazing.

brett anderson.

After downloading the new iTunes 8.0 tonight and checking out the Genius feature, I pointed for some reason just to test I think to Brett Anderson's last album (which was more or less a complete drag) and up popped in the Genius sidebar a bunch of new songs. Apparently, he just released a new album called Wilderness at the end of July. It's very mellow, seemingly only some piano, guitar and cello. And of course his voice. Not as drugged as it was in the 90s, but still his voice.

I've been listening to Funeral Mantra for quite some time. And now Back To You. And now Clowns. And now The Empress.

starving.

Lyrics from an old journal full of random lists of songs that I compiled for mix tapes (oh, sorry, playlists – but back then they were still mix tapes) from days when I was pretty heavily ensconced in Suede and songs like Trash and Saturday Night and Beautiful Ones and the like and even though this doesn't really fit now I still like the idea because it's very Brit pop ~

through the glitter and the glam

we imitate the obscene in boardrooms and ballrooms

standbys spreading to be seen

in our Ken Coles and Calvins we walk through the scene

strutting and swerving like machines transfixed and glued to the screens

and one night far beyond our control we break down

break down to the sound of the strobes

and we will be starving and we will be pretty and we will be lonely

but all things considered

nothing too sickly cos we will be out there

through the fuzz and the noise

our designs can be read fearless and loathesome we tread

fanning out flames stick to what's said

in six-inch stilettos and surburbia drawl we fire off

fire off and shake down to the sound of the strobes

and we will be starving and we will be pretty and we will be lonely

but all things considered

nothing too sickly cos we will be out there

out and about there

we see pretty boys and lonely girls dancing a tragic scheme

in between

something obscene

blue and green

lighting up

lighting up and breaking down to the tragic sounds

and we will be starving and we will be pretty and we will be lonely

but all things considered

nothing too sickly cos we will be out there

we will be starving

idea #1.

Found this on page 59 of the Updating Classic America Bungalows book (which, coincidentally, I discovered tonight that I already in fact owned, and it was perched on top of my mantle next to another Bungalow idea book and I had already dog-eared this page) ~

I already had planned on basically this same idea for my final kitchen remodel when I rip out a wall and move a bathroom and the laundry area against the north wall. In the sketches I did last year, I've put the laundry appliances in a closet (just like this, which is also in the kitchen – keeping the homeowners from having to troop down to the basement or some other less pleasant area of the house to do the laundry), so the real find from this photo are the three, 5-panel doors (which are similar, but not totally, like the ones I bought for my entire house earlier this year) on the track and also the trim.

This will be almost identical to what I'll be doing now, except I'll paint the trim and doors white. Though this is still a few years down the road – much to do before gutting the back of my house, cooking on a backpacking stove and washing dishes in a bathroom or darkroom sink.

pierrot the clown.

This song followed me around on a walk in Indian summer evenings the light fading around me and I really like the way Brian Molko changes the vocal melody around on this live version.

merci.

powells.

So a business trip to Portland required the requisite side-trip to Powells, the largest bookstore on the planet.

I didn't have a ton of time, so quickly made the rounds to my required sections – home repair/remodeling, architecture, climbing/hiking, photography and music. My choices this time included ~

• On The Ridge Between Life And Death by David Roberts; Roberts was Krakauer's mentor, and here writes about what compels mountain climbers to take the risks they do. He recounts the exhilarating highs and desperate lows of his climbing career, judging himself that climbing is worth the risk in order to feel more alive.
• Smart Homes : a guide to structured wiring (i.e. creating a central hub for all network/cable/audio/communication wiring within a house, which will require re-routing my phone/cable/DSL drops from their various, disconjointed locations down to the basement, configure a central box with all necessary pieces and then begin routing wires – cable, ethernet, audio, and phone – throughout my entire house), which is my next house project that I must begin before I can hang the rest of the drywall in my bedroom
• Hiking Map & Guide: Southern Wind River Range + Hiking Map & Guide: Northern Wind River Range : cos I haven't yet figured out where we'll be hiking, but I'm mostly convinced we'll be backpacking and climbing into the Cirque of the Towers in the southern part of the range cos the approach is shorter than the approaches into the more rugged and remote northern range
• Updating Classic America Bungalows : simple – for inspiration; I saw a few cool ideas in this book

decay.

For some reason knowing I must backtrack and pick up pieces where I've left them be, find time to write from notes a year or two old because before the metaphors of space and Andromeda and Voyagers and galaxies I know there was something else that I've wanted to write and so in the dark at the piano this rhythm just seems to work perfectly and surprisingly I find it easy to jot down notes to go with this in C major where I hear an enormous grand piano and a guitar with a very strange delayed effect not at all unlike the sound of a Leslie speaker  that reverbs and cycles and reverbs and cycles in harmony with the piano and maybe underneath it all a low sample (or electric bass indistinguishable) and then the piano ends and the low sample fades but the guitar reverbs and cycles and reverbs and cycles and I walk away all the while this voice in my head only partly saying ~

I have tried to find a way

to start to say that I have tried to know the pain

to know the scene that you portray

the smile the lines designed to say

how I have felt for all this time the same

and I'm surprised that here I find it says again

that time has passed away and lost in space I cannot say

why it too cannot pass away

no matter your gaze your pose your stand

I've felt this way I've crushed the sand

and know it has to be this way

impossible to decay

Maybe some day I'll have a chance to go through old pictures and scan and crop and convert and post something here that fits the idea but for the time being it's just this everything in my head and now this old, crumpled notebook scribbled to death (and too I guess this blog).

vesper.

Matthew and I headed out to the Monte Cristo peaks in the North Cascades this weekend to climb Vesper Peak since neither of us have ever spent much time out there. Apparently, they're notorious for bad weather – which we found out firsthand. But from the beginning, or just a beginning ....

I finished up at work early on Friday and bailed to pick him up at the Fauntleroy ferry terminal and we headed north to Everett before turning east on Highway 2 towards the town of Granite Falls, where we wound up at Omega pizza for some beer and pizza before our climb. The waiter had to return my beer cos the keg was bad and the pizza wasn't anything worthy of mentioning, so I won't go on. We then headed east on the Mountain Loop Highway that connects the towns of Granite Falls and Darrington in search of a campsite for the night.

After confessing my obsession with camping next to rivers, we decided to look for a spot along the south fork of the Stillaguamish (I used to make fun of the name, but after seeing it up close I'm not sure I've ever seen a river with as crystal clear water as this). We pulled Oliver (um, my car) over and climbed down to the river to find a good spot out in the middle of a rocky bar. Satisfied it would do nicely, we scampered back up to the car, loaded up a bunch of gear (me in my big cotton Marmot sleeping bag sack and Matthew in his pack) and climbed back down to our little spot out in the middle of the river. I built a little fortress in a pool of the river to toss our Simply Orange and my water bottle in to keep them cold for the night, assuring us of cold OJ the next morning.

The night was wonderful – perfectly comfortable and I slept well, lulled no doubt by the sound of the river. The stars weren't out except far to the west, an ominous sign of things to come the next day.

After waking up, enjoying our refreshing juice and breaking camp – we headed back up to the car. After eyeing me with my big cotton bag crammed full of stuff and wearing all black, Matthew made the remark I looked like I had just robbed someone's house. I cracked I just needed a stick to play the part of a vagabond trying to hop boxcars. And Oliver was glad to see us and get moving on up to the trailhead.

The turnoff wasn't signed heading east, but I noticed a sign on the other side of the highway and zipped around to realize we had just passed it, so on up we went. After getting to the trailhead, we quickly changed, sorted our gear (Matthew took the rope, I took the rack) and headed off into the forest under fairly miserable, gloomy skies (it was 7:28 in the morning). It was a decent trail for a bit, then turned into an overgrown mess with a couple of stream crossings before getting quite steep. The going was great though, despite the completely limited visibility, and we made good time as we headed up and up towards Headlee Pass which was supposedly 2.0 miles from the trailhead. Taking into account the 2800' of elevation gain, we made it up all the switchbacks and to the pass in an hour and a half – just as I estimated. The view was crap, or should I say non-existent.

We traversed across the talus field under the east face of Sperry Peak and on up to the outlet of Elan Lake, crossed over the creek and began the steep ascent up Vesper's east ridge towards a notch where we would intend to drop down onto the Vesper Glacier and head over for a 5.6-ish climb up the granite walls and smooth slabs that make up Vesper's north face. When we reached 5500' – the elevation of the notch – we debated whether or not to give the north face a go. We were literally in a rather dark cloud that limited our visibility to under 50' and covering us in a light mist that off-an-on would kick it up a notch to what we termed a light rain.

The granite was slick. We decided to pass on the face route, and instead scrambled up slippery rocks along the edge of the north face towards the summit, which we then reached at 10:45. We couldn't see anything. Literally. It's as if we were blind to no doubt all the beauty that surrounded us, or so we'd read. One description mentioned lying down in the heather fields along the way past Elan Lake that we had climbed through, now sopping wet and drenched with mist, for wonderful views to all the peaks of the Monte Cristo range. Or playing Name That Peak from the summit, gazing across the North Cascades at the sea of summits. But nothing for us.

I scrambled down a bit from the summit on the west to go find the top of the north face, where I sat down with my legs dangling over the edge of the smooth granite, waiting for just one opening in the clouds so I could get a sense of where we were. After about fifteen minutes, I was miraculously obliged and the clouds parted enough that I could see all the way down the face to the Vesper Glacier and Copper Lake far below. It was a great sight, then the clouds closed back up, leaving us without a view again. Despite not being able to see, the temperature on the summit was quite comfortable and I could have just lied down on a wet granite rock to take a nap in an effort to wait out the clouds and hope for a view. But after about an hour, we decided to head back down.

It was a pretty uneventful descent. We passed by far more people than we would have ever expected given the lousy weather and the brutality of the approach up to Headlee Pass. We were a bit peeved at having brought the rack and the rope all the way up to just below the summit where we cached it after foregoing the north face, which brought up the topic of one of the hiking rules I'd come across ~

When returning from a trip, go through your pack and anything you didn't use, don't pack again.

I then threw out there we should take that literally, regardless of any outstanding circumstances (for example, last time on Daniel we took my 30-meter 8-mil glacier rope but we never used it, so – despite the fact we were intending on a rock climb up the north face – we shouldn't have taken a rope). We then surmised that, after X number of trips, we wouldn't be taking anything at all. So, by this new rule, on the next trip I won't be taking ~

• sunglasses
• sunscreen
• down sweater
• map
• compass
• rope
• harness
• helmet
• climbing pro

I actually hadn't packed much, but this will make my next trip interesting. And quite lightweight.

In addition to that little bit of fun, we also discussed at great length the exploits of John Muir (we've both read his first book, The Mountains of California) and we shared how we both found it somewhat entertaining how Muir writes so poetically about what would – beyond his prose – seem to be rather dire circumstances, and how he can fashion a bed in the wilderness out of a few boulders and pine needles. Matthew picked up a stick on the way down, having left his trekking pole at home, and this sparked more Muir discussion about how – on our next climb (which, regardless of the mountain or the route, we apparently won't be bringing a rope or any pro) we plan on bringing only a large wool blanket which will serve many uses (including – when wet – a rather heavy, useless lump of fabric).

We made it back to the car by 3:30 after a rather un-characteristic leisurely stroll (we had been hoping to see some views as the day went on before we returned to the car but alas – no real luck). After changing into cotton and flip-flops, the sun proceeded to come out in all its glory and we admired the view back up. The irony wasn't lost on either of us.

But regardless, we made the decision to stop at the Big Four Mountain picnic area a few miles down the highway from Vesper to get an unobstructed view of this immense peak (the north face rises a paltry, nearly-vertical 4,500' from the Stillaguamish to the summit – on par with the infamous north face of Switzerland's Eiger) and Matthew and I stared a while at the only view we were really afforded all day. It really is an amazing peak, and quite intimidating. I couldn't imagine a route, other than a direct ascent up the same path a waterfall was coming down for what was nearly 4,000' – melted snow from the glacier hanging below the summit. Wow.

In the end, we enjoyed the climb a great deal, as well as a burger at Red Mill, and as always had a fantastic time in the mountains despite the fact we bailed on the north face and couldn't see anything until we were back at the car. Another adventure awaits - with very little gear and a wool blanket.

bechstein.

With the one possible exception of the Voyager and Voyager 2 spacecraft (they're actually identical), this is the crowning achievement of all humanity (and, like the Voyager spacecraft, a culmination of science and beauty) ~

Enormous power. Cannot be described.

And well, coupled with L.v. Beethoven's F-minor sonata as performed by Wilhelm Backhaus (on a Bechstein, and no – that's no coincidence).

We humans truly are capable of astounding things.

pale.

The Apollo pictures of the whole Earth conveyed to multitudes something well known to astronomers: on the scale of worlds – to say nothing of stars or galaxies – humans are inconsequential, a thin film of life on an obscure and solitary lump of rock and metal.

It struck Carl Sagan that if a new image were taken, one from a hundred thousand times farther away, this might help in the continuing process of revealing to ourselves our true circumstance and condition. And so – finally, after waiting eight years – the time came to turn the cameras on Voyager around after it passed beyond the orbits of Neptune and Uranus back to photograph six of our solar system's planets, including Earth.

Apparently, due to the reflection of sunlight off the spacecraft, the Earth appears to be hovering in a beam of light. What was just a matter of timing perhaps gave the notion of some special significance to this small and distant world, rather than the accident of geometry and physics for which it was. But really, from this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest – a slightly brighter star in a vast, cosmic sea of stars.

Nothing has struck me as more profound. Ever.

He then goes on to write about a time perhaps when we have reached beyond the pale blue dot and colonized other worlds and – looking back through the heavens and the stars – says of us ~

"They will gaze up and strain to find the blue dot in their skies. They will love it no less for its obscurity and fragility. They will marvel at how vulnerable the repository of all our potential once was, how perilous our infancy, how humble our beginnings, how many rivers we had to cross before we found our way."

And one sunny afternoon back in February after reading this I stumbled over to the Bechstein, sat down and out of nowhere came up with what I've since thought is what I've been meaning to write all these years just this sunny day happened to use metaphors of a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam in the key of G# minor ~

I awake with pale blue eyes in pale blue skies

I'm surprised

to find my way to stand and strain

to the skies that seem to say I am wise

I am frail but I have tried

to find my way to see through time

and glimpse through veils that hide my Fate

but of stars that fade away fragile and torn

in distant galaxies I am born

four billion miles away I can say

I am alone

all these light years away

alone all these light years away

It is an enormous song. Perhaps more so than any I have ever written or will ever write. The orchestra and the piano lines impossible. The vocal line soaring. And the end–to the crash of cymbals and fortissimo chords the singer strains to reach the crescendo of the lyrics rising over it all. And then four successive downbeats one after another crashing and crashing to the end then silence as the cymbals and piano and orchestra fades out.

climbing term #1.

simul-climbing: (n.) soloing while attached to someone else stupid enough to solo while attached to someone else.

Matthew and I may do a bit of this on Vesper this weekend.

matters of the utmost importance #1.

Despite initial reservations, vegetable oil can apparently be substituted with olive oil in Betty Crocker Hershey's Ultimate Fudge brownies without consequence.

escape velocity.

I know there are months – years – when writing is impossible so this I guess is why I'm seized by the need to work work work. I am still pouring over formulas and calculations of the square of the gravitational constant multiplied by the mass of the body trying to escape divided by the radius of the distance between the escaping body and the center of the gravitational force acting upon it and the idea that this all relies on the conservation of energy with respect to a gravitational potential energy at any given position and to somehow put this into words this idea of trying to defy Fate and somehow find a way to escape knowing full well it is unlikely if not impossible but regardless the idea of being able to overcome anything against any odds even gravity itself each of our own enormous potential the key this time seeming to be the relationship between the chord of E-flat minor and B major (in the key of E-flat minor, oddly enough it's the sixth so I haven't been able to figure out why the sequence is so powerful but through inversion the only note that needs to change is from B-flat to B so that could be part of it) here just pounding away on this old grand piano (as David Helfgott's professor would shout as he pounded Rachmaninov 'don't you just love those big fat chords David!?') slightly out of tune (I need to get on that) in the corner of my living room one tiny light on the lid open the neighbors no doubt rolling their eyes wondering what's gotten into that guy pounding away it all exploding anyway.

I hear it beginning with a muffled sample of a voice heard over the radiowaves from a command center to a spacecraft and more and more samples begin to layer on each other and then out of nowhere the enormous sounds of the piano playing fortissimo chords on the low register the key of E-flat minor and eventually finding its way to this heartbeaking melody on the two chords mentioned above until an enormous crescendo again and a cycling sample of that muffled voice decades past talking to a spacecraft having freed itself from Earth's gravity fades away.

All I've been able to come up with is for the end where I'm banging those two chords and thinking to myself ~

gravity fails and I'm surprised to find myself floating away

through infinite space on a constant force floating away

floating away

away

away

away

shoulder season.

Totally my favourite time to hike. So I'm compiling a list here of what I want to accomplish in the next 5-6 weeks before winter starts to set in up in the mountains ~

• Climb Vesper Peak with Matthew in the Monte Cristo area of the North Cascades
• Go back and climb Sahale Peak John Muir style (or so I'm calling it, which to me means with very little proper equipment and rather just making a go of it)
• Four days of backpacking with my older brother in the granite-peak-infested Wind River range of Wyoming
• Backpack to The Enchantments during larch season
• Thru-hike from Cutthroat Lake to Harts Pass in the Pasayten Wilderness Area of the North Cascades during larch season

I plan on cashing in all of my year's remaining vacation time to accomplish this, and I hope work accommodates with a schedule that isn't too terribly busy. And since I've vowed never again to backpack with the ungodly Mamiya setup, I may have to dust off my trusty Ciroflex and pull some rolls of FP4+ out of the fridge.

Here's to autumn ....

new heights.

As I had promised him earlier this summer, I took Julian out to Mt. Rainier National Park so that he could climb his first real mountain and stand on a real summit. I thought Pinnacle Peak was a perfect climb for just that - pretty quick, plenty of elevation, a good bit of 3rd and (some) 4th class scrambling, lots of air and a great view. We made it to the Pinnacle–Plumber saddle in short order, then took to the roughly-tread climbers' path that leads under the south face of Pinnacle before I started picking our way up, trying to remember the route from a vague recollection of my first solo climb years past. I recalled on the way up the exhilaration I found at the top from finding my own way up, then of standing on top with the place to myself. I think at that point I had only climbed two other peaks - Adams and Baker.

But this was J's day, and for good right. We made short work of the south face scramble and at one point were able to peer down the sheer, overhanging west face to the switchbacking saddle trail far below. We stopped just before the crux to let a guy on his way down pass (for what seemed to be for his relief since he seemed a bit hesitant and nervous, but also for ours to keep from getting hit by any rocks he might accidentally kick down). Once he was passed and we had bid him a safe journey, Julian led the 'crux' pitch which was about a 50' class 4 scramble that had a bit of air and excitement to it.

It didn't faze him - nor had the peering over the sheer dropoffs. This kid has no fear of heights. Past the crux, it's a quick peel to the summit where we relaxed after I congratulated him with hugs and kisses for having gotten his first summit. I couldn't have been more proud - here was my kid totally comfortable on the craggy summit of a peak with 1700' of air beneath us and he just seemed in his element.

From an early climb on Mt. Constance where I was with two other guys, one of which was having a bit of a freakout negotiating the downclimb of a gully from the Cat's Ears to our high camp and I stood in the moment there completely relaxed and feeling almost more at home than I do literally being at home, I realized the mountains are where I belong. Where I feel completely relaxed. There is no other place that brings me more peace. And it was just f'in cool to see my own kid feeling and acting the same way I know I do when I'm surrounded by peaks in every direction with a view to everywhere and among boulders and ice and a harshness and brutality but beauty that cannot be found anywhere else.

This was a good day. Sad to see summer go, but he'll have two memories that I wanted him to have and now to hold with him indefinitely ~

• Backpacking 26 miles in 4 days, up to an elevation of 11, 823' up and over Kearsarge Pass in the middle of granite peaks as far as our eyes could see in Kings Canyon
• Climbing his first real summit – not just a walk-up, something he had to work a little for and really get the satisfaction of having done it

No matter if he doesn't, though. I will.

dice.

The new song I've found to bring to a close these final summer days is a song by Finley Quaye called Dice, of which I couldn't find a decent video on youtube so if you're really interested in knowing how it goes, it's on the first volume of the O.C. mix or all over youtube in various montage-esque videos people have thrown together.

I've had it on repeat all weekend. I can't believe today was the last day of August and (technically) now it's September.