i am haunted by mountains.

11 august 2009. So I am sitting here on my couch next to windows looking out to grey skies trying to sum up a climb into the North Cascades that a few hours ago would have seemed easy and I was wholly intending to get to but now has taken on a whole different meaning. I am listening to some song by Bruce Springsteen called The Nothing Man on repeat not sure why. Not sure why. We were trying for the north face of Mount Buckner in the Cascade Pass region of North Cascades National Park. Second only to the Enchantments a little south and east. Or equal, just different. The Enchantments, particularly when I visit them in early Autumn when the larches have turned golden and despite even weather that can turn inhospitable in an instant (as I experienced on my first trip) seems still warm and inviting compared to maybe this heavily-glaciated and impressive and at times imposing place such as we found this trip.

We quickly made it up the thirty-six switchbacks to Cascade Pass in an hour-fifteen under cloudy skies and on top of that from there and above we fought against a wind that would continue to knock me over. Visibility was maybe fifty feet at best but we were promised sun just below the high camp at seventy-six hundred feet. We made it up the four thousand feet and nearly seven miles from the car in three hours to the promised sun and beautiful skies all the while clouds clung to the myriad of valleys below us. The Stehekin. The north and middle forks of the Cascade River. Johannesburg peaked out above then swallowed whole. A quick stop and then continued up the glacier on our way to our intended camp on the Sahale-Boston Col. It was easy-going but I knew I was getting blisters. Whatever. Half an hour later we dumped our packs at the edge of the ridge that dropped off to the Davenport glacier with an impressive view to Ripsaw Ridge and Buckner and headed up to tag the summit of Sahale while checking out the route to the Col and beyond around and past Boston. The clouds threatened to engulf Sahale. Our view was limited to a few peaks thrusting out to the west but mostly of clouds below rising quickly and the light fading so we did not linger on the summit before heading back down to our packs having easily decided not to make a go over the ridge to the Col or the Boston Glacier that evening as clouds raked over Ripsaw Ridge and poured themselves onto the Davenport. There were perfect bivy spots carved into the ridge under the summit so that is where we set up our small camp to await the morning though it was already clear in the obscured and vanishing views we had gotten of Buckner that there was very little snow on the north face and we were already fairly convinced a snow-and-ice face climb was not going to happen this year. Weeks of unseasonably hot weather coupled with record non-existent summer precipitation had left the mountains mostly bare. The wind picked up and a chill came across us as the sun set me staring out across a sea of clouds set to a fading pale light as I zipped myself into my bivy, happy that I chose to at least carry my forty-degree down bag as opposed to the other option I had considered in the name of weight of just a bag liner.

It was a perfectly clear night and then the moon rose washing out our chance for stars and meteors and the Milky Way and I fell asleep as the wind died down and a peace only found high above ridges and clouds and trees and perceived safety among mountains piled on top of mountains on top of mountains settled in.

I woke early with the light even before the sun a pale glow washing over Horseshoe Basin far below, the Sahale Glacier and west to the Hidden Lake peaks where I was exactly a week before. Eventually the sun rose. Six-thirty came and went I had no idea. We had stayed above the clouds at over eight thousand feet. Slowly we rose, easing out of our warm bags to greet the sun and sit on rocks slowly warming shielding our eyes to peer east towards Buckner and a south face that seemed just as steep as the north face and then out and across Horseshoe Basin to try and pick out how we would get back to Sahale Arm in the event we would attempt our climb. Which we more or less knew we were not doing this time but for maybe next year. Earlier.

Matthew headed down to the glacier camp. I took my time. Strapped on crampons. Hell, I had dragged them all this way. Gained Sahale's west ridge to peer down to the Quien Sabe and over to Torment, Forbidden and Eldorado above the clouds. I could see into Boston Basin. Still had no idea. It seemed so peaceful me standing in the sun peering over a ridge to mountains and glaciers some that I have climbed some that I wish to climb. I took a few photos, then joined Matthew below at the high camp where we stayed awhile watching the clouds pour over Cascade Pass a couple thousand feet below. Maybe an hour. Maybe more we sat up there chatting. We talked about being in the mountains. We tossed out climbing up Mixup Arm to Cache Col just for fun to peer over into the middle fork of the Cascade River valley and peaks like Formidable and Spider and Dome and Snowking. More and more glaciers. Everywhere.

I taped my heels and eventually we headed down onto Sahale Arm the views impressive over to Torment and Forbidden mostly lost in the clouds. Eldorado completely hidden. Then quietly at first but able to pick out the speck set against rock and ice a helicopter circling over the Taboo Glacier below Torment. Not good we said watching it circle. It must have landed and we continued on down the Arm stopping every so often to look back and not long after first spotting it we saw it again coming towards us but still below up and over Cascade Pass. I was taking photographs cos the mood the clouds were giving where we were was incredible. And then we were immersed in them all the way back to Cascade Pass where the sun broke out as we dumped our packs and headed up Mixup Arm for a quick peek to Cache Col.

It is a steep and crazy trail up Mixup and in thirty minutes we wound up on the glacier leading up to the Col. Matthew took off as the wind whipped up and we were surrounded on three sides by imposing rock walls and clouds spilling over the ridge to the west onto the glacier above. With nothing but an ice ax and not even my trusty three-ounce windbreaker I opted to head back to a bivy spot seemingly carved out directly under Mixup to wait for Matthew to do the same.

We sat there in the sun awhile just enjoying the moment in the mountains. No reason to hurry, at least not yet. But eventually it was time to go. Head back to the Pass. Head back down the thirty-six switchbacks. Head back west for some food. Head back home. Warm sunny skies. Evening light and long shadows. A beer over pizza and a burger and conversations. Slightly sunburned. Tired. Fucking tired but in a good way. Sore feet for sure. Some photographs. Of course memories of another trip to the mountains. And eventually I made my way home to crash in my bed. To write this. To still be here.

Two days later. In passing as he was leaving–a coworker to me 'did you hear about the climber who died in the Cascades this past weekend?' Shit, no. 'Where?' I said, knowing where cos we were there and knew something had gone wrong. We just knew it. My heart sank. I read Mt. Torment. I read twenty-five years of experience. I read a wife and a five-year-old daughter. I read falling into the bergschrund. I knew getting over the bergschrund on Buckner's north face–the crack between the steep ice above and the expanse of the Boston Glacier–was at times the most difficult part of the climb and something could have happened. I showed him a picture I took where we had seen the helicopter Torment and Forbidden obscured by now-seemingly menacing clouds the glacier and ice and rock forbidding and downright terrifying. We were warming ourselves on a rock a couple of thousand feet higher but only a mile or so away while a guy fell into a crack in ice ten thousand years old. Pulled out by his climbing partner. SAR called but too late. Too fucking late. He died before they could take him away.

Could have been me. Could have been Matthew. I could have been scrambling back up rocks to go for help. Under the north face of Buckner. Along Ripsaw Ridge. The glacier would not have cared. Nor would the mountain. My son probably would. Maybe a few others I don't know. All of a sudden the photograph I snapped of Torment and Forbidden there obscured by clouds. The one of Matthew contemplating something while clouds ravaged below and imposing and dark rock outlined the horizon. They both fit. Fit perfectly for maybe how I felt about the mountains and the time we spent in them at least that day. These mountains–the North Cascades–are supposed to be benign because they are my backyard and where I consider myself home when I find myself surrounded by them. They are not supposed to act this way. But of course they do. I know this fully and appreciate it as best I can. Doesn't help sometimes I guess.

I love the mountains. I could not live without them. I will return of course. I will be careful of course. I will use my intuition and ten years of experience to guide me hopefully safely through and back home again. My thoughts go out to that climber's family. My thoughts are messed up at the moment. It's still cloudy. Thankfully. It fits. Going to make something to eat. Going to lay down. Listen to music. Going to think.

I am haunted by mountains.