Exploring the Mt. Adams Wilderness
Mt. Adams is the largest (by volume) and second highest volcano in the Cascade Range of Washington. Often overshadowed by its neighbors, Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Hood, we’ve taken a liking to Adams in part because its trails tend to be relatively deserted and in part because we have a fantastic view of the mountain’s east face from our neighborhood in the Yakima Valley. Recently we had the chance to complete a short backpacking trip on the north flank of the mountain which allowed us vantage points that far surpass anything we’ve seen on previous day hikes.
Our hike began and ended at a trailhead (Killen Creek) that is, as the crow flies, just 57 miles from our front door, but takes more than three hours to reach by car, giving some sense as to the relative remoteness of this area. Most of our ~20 mile loop was within the Mt. Adams Wilderness, a 48,000 acre wilderness area designated in 1964 with the original passage of the Wilderness Act.
On our first night, we camped at just under 7,000 feet on the north flank of the mountain in one of the most spectacular alpine meadows I’ve seen. No matter which way I turned, the views were extraordinary. To our south, the crumbling volcanic edifice of Mt. Adams loomed large, with the Adams Glacier descending in a stunning icefall from the summit plateau. To the north, broad expanses of dense evergreen forest stretched off into the distance, leading the eye to the massive Mt. Rainier and the rugged skyline of the Goat Rocks on the horizon. To the west, the truncated cone of Mt. St. Helens was backlit by the setting sun. Several lingering snowfields surrounded our campsite, providing a nice source of clear, cold water. A variety of diminutive alpine wildflowers were in full bloom, and the low rumble of rock and ice fall high on the mountain occasionally punctuated the silence, with clouds of dust the only clue as to their location. While this location is reachable by a long day hike, spending the night and being able to explore and photograph in the late afternoon and evening light is one of my favorite things about backpacking!
On Day 2, we descended to the Pacific Crest Trail before working our way around to the northeast side of Mt. Adams, passing through a series of wildflower-filled meadows and crossing several inviting streams cascading down from melting snowfields and glaciers higher on the mountain. These meadows also hosted a robust population of mosquitos and other biting insects….not unexpected for the Cascades in July, but an annoyance nonetheless, especially for an Arizona-born desert rat like me!
We had shared the trail with quite a few other hikers and backpackers on Day 1, but saw only a few other people from this point forward. Camp on night two was in a small clump of trees on the edge of a relatively recent lava flow. In contrast to the verdant alpine meadows of night one, this landscape was much more rugged, barren, and stark. After setting up our tent, we proceeded up the trail (with much lighter packs!) to find a spot for dinner. We quickly arrived at a stream crossing that we didn’t feel comfortable fording, so we left the trail behind and proceeded to pick our way up the rubbly bank until we arrived at a small knob with a spectacular view of the glaciers on Mt. Adams’ northeast face (Lava, Lyman, and Wilson). Here we enjoyed a delicious meal of instant mashed potatoes mixed with green chiles and an entire bag of bacon bits while listening to the roar of the creek.
Our best wildlife sighting of the trip actually occurred on the drive to the trailhead, when we happened upon a young barred owl sitting in the road. As we approached it flew into a nearby tree where it watched us warily for a few minutes before fleeing deeper into the forest:
Aside from this, we saw surprisingly little wildlife on this trip (unless you count mosquitos): only a few birds, chipmunks, squirrels, and a single marmot and mountain goat in the far distance from our first camp.
From our second camp, we were in a great position to catch sunrise on the final morning of our trip. There aren’t many things I’ll get up at 5:15 am for, but a Mt. Adams sunrise is definitely one of them!
After packing up, we hiked the eight downhill miles back to our car and drove back into the 100 degree blast furnace that is the Yakima Valley in late-July. We are thankful to have beautiful places like Mt. Adams so close to escape the heat this time of year!
Alaska (Part Three)
Morning clouds partially obscure the Exit Glacier, Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska
The last destination on our Alaskan journey was the Kenai Peninsula and the town of Seward. After a few days respite from the wildfire smoke in Wrangell-St. Elias, it returned with a vengeance as we headed back to Anchorage and down to the the coast:
Wildfire smoke obscures the Chugach Mountains en route to Anchorage
After baking in the heat of the Alaskan interior for the last week, the marine climate of Seward was a welcome change. We even had a bit of rain for one of the few times in our entire trip.
While temperatures in Seward we’re somewhat more mild, the coastal location meant the humidity was not. On our first day in Seward, we partook in a brutal hike up to the Harding Icefield in Kenai Fjords National Park. The hike itself was not abnormally difficult, but we were definitely not used to the combination of heat and humidity, leaving me feeling physically ill at several points during the slog up the mountain. The day had started off overcast, but as we climbed, the clouds evaporated leaving us with stellar views of the rapidly retreating Exit Glacier and the Harding Icefield from which it originates. An icefield is essentially a large mass of interconnecting glaciers. The Harding Icefield is the largest — and one of only four — remaining icefields in the United States. The Exit Glacier itself has retreated more than a mile in the last 200 years, leaving trees and other vegetation to begin re-occupying it’s former valley.
Looking down the valley partially occupied by the Exit Glacier just a few hundred years ago.
The white and blue ice of the glacier made for a stellar contrast with the lush green vegetation of the alpine zone:
Exit Glacier, Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska
Looking out over the Harding Icefield, Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska
Crevasses in the Exit Glacier, Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska
The wet climate of coastal Alaska results in extremely heavy snowfalls, making this one of only a handful of places in the world where glaciers flow all the way down to sea level to meet the ocean. Known as tidewater glaciers, these glaciers exhibit complex patterns of advance and retreat that, unlike standard alpine glaciers, are not purely the result of variations in climate. While warmer temperatures or prolonged drought can certainly reduce their mass, the movement of tidewater glaciers is also subject to complex interactions between the ice, the geomtery of the ocean floor, and the depth of the water into which they flow.
On our second day in Seward, we took a water taxi into the heart of Kenai Fjords National Park and then kayaked to within about a quarter mile of the terminus of Holgate Glacier. Tidewater glaciers have a tendency to “calve”, in which large chunks of ice break off the glacier and fall into the ocean, necessitating a safe distance. Glacier “social distancing” if you will. It is not hard to find videos on YouTube of people getting too close to calving tidewater glaciers, with quite predictable results. From our safe distance, we observed and heard several calving events in the few hours we were kayaking around the bay, but unfortunately I was not adept enough at kayaking into position quickly enough to actually capture one on camera.
Kayaking toward the terminus of the Holgate Glacier, Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska
Tiny iceberg, Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska
Our boat ride back to Seward through Resurrection Bay also resulted in sightings of sea lions, seals, puffins, and even two pods of orcas: an exciting end to the trip!
Orca, Resurrection Bay, Alaska
Orcas, Resurrection Bay, Alaska
Horned Puffin (from the Alaska Sealife Center in Seward, because the photo was better than the wild ones…)
From the San Juans to the San Juans
They are separated by more than 1600 kilometers. One barely rises above sea level while the other boasts six peaks exceeding 14,000 feet in elevation. One is most easily accessed by kayak or porpoise, while in the other it is difficult to escape the incessant drone of Jeeps, dirt bikes, and ATVs that trawl the vast network of old mining roads. One is beset by a deluge of by rain eight months out of the year, whereas the other is inaccessible except by ski, snowshoe, or helicopter for six. To the untrained eye, the San Juan Islands of NW Washington and the San Juan Mountains of SW Colorado couldn’t be more different. My current job situation has me living about an hour away from the mountains for 3 months out of the year, and an hour or less away from the islands for the other 9 months. And viewed through the lens of a camera, I have discovered that there are more similarities that you might expect. The first of which will probably be rather obvious:
They both posses stunning scenery:
View from Deception Pass State Park on Fidalgo Island looking southwest across the water towards the Olympic Peninsula.
Rosy Paintbrush in an alpine meadow near Red Mountain #1 (yes, nearby can be found Red Mountain’s #2 and #3. The old miners were a creative bunch.) in the San Juan Mountains.
Both offer opportunities for “extreme” sports:
A paraglider enjoys a serene aerial view of the San Juan Islands and several tankers headed for the oil refineries in Anacortes, WA.
Descending a scree-filled colouir after summiting 14.150′ Mt. Sneffels in the San Juan Mountains. While most of the climb is straightforward and requires only a hefty amount of scrambling, there is one tricky section near the summit during which a fall would likely mean the end of one’s mountain climbing days…or any other days for that matter.
Both were shaped and sculpted by vast quantities of ice:
Glacial striations in slate high above the Uncompahgre Gorge in the San Juan Mountains. The parallel grooves in the rock were carved by rocky debris trapped along the base of a long-gone glacier that was partially responsible for scouring out the gorge.
A Washington State Ferry passes a cliff of glacially scoured rock in the San Juan Islands. Glacial striations identical to those in the previous photo are ubiquitous throughout the San Juan Islands, evidence that the area was buried beneath more than a mile of ice during the peak of the last glaciation, about 15,000 years ago.
And finally, both are home to curious wildlife:
An American Pika investigates a bush at 11,000 feet in the San Juan Mountains.
A Blood Star investigates a California mussel below sea level in the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
In case you didn’t know, that’s what starfish look like when they are curious.
Zach Schierl Photography 