Finally, Beginning: Cabinet Mountain Wilderness Trip Report

Day 1

I was loathe to leave the dappled light of the cedars that greeted me at the Granite Lake trailhead. It was spellbinding: narrow gaps in the dense canopy, ferns aglow. The creek danced in muted splashes over polished granite stones, giving sound to its name.

I was glad for the quick attunement to the landscape. It aided me in finding the appropriate pace for the challenges that lie ahead. Three days of difficult hiking lay ahead to find out if a composition would work that featured the Cabinet Mountains Wilderness with a 90+ mile view to the next Wilderness Area. The cedars, the ferns and the creek kept me present. I breathed deeply and walked slowly, not wanting to miss any of it. The outcome, I reminded myself, would take care of itself.

The Wilderness boundary marked the beginning of the jungle gym. A once-in-a-generation (hundred years!?) windstorm in December had laid flat entire swaths of the forest. Uprooted, snapped in half, old growth, young trees, utterly thrashed. Over, under, around, balance beam, the tree gymnastics began. I spooked - we spooked each other, really - a cow and a calf moose as I slowly stumbled along the "trail." They ran a bit, stopped, then looked. Our eyes locked and we relaxed.

I stopped for a quick break at Granite Falls, a lovely ten foot splasher of a falls. Up the trail, the cedars and dappled light continued. About two miles shy of Granite Lake, my destination for the night, I began to feel just how out of shape I was. A summer of PT and little hiking had not prepped me for this kind of tree hopping. I acknowledged the discomfort and pressed on.

The trail climbed out of the damp cedar forest and paralleled a series of glacially fed ponds. Avalanche chutes further opened up the views to lofty peaks enshrouded in clouds. A little more ducking, climbing and weaving over massive downed hemlocks, deposited me at the foot of Granite Lake. Wow! What a place! I dropped my pack at the main campsite, walked to the lake shore and drank in the view. At the head of the lake, Blackwell Waterfall cascaded ~1,600 feet down steep slabs. To its right, nearly 1,500 vertical feet of talus slopes teased the immense east face of A Peak, at the moment obscured by low clouds. I snapped a few photos of the clouds moving in and out of the A Peak's dramatic pinnacles before making dinner and promptly turning in for the night. I contentedly drifted off to the soft patter of rain on the fly mixed with reverberations of bugling elk.

A pillar on the east face of A Peak is briefly revealed between rain showers.

Day 2

The phone alarm broke the spell of wildness. What an intrusion! That plasticky piercing sound plucked me out of the mountains and deposited me at my computer, connected to the internet, all the world invited in. Vague angst rushed through my body. The sound did not belong. The feeling did not belong. I was in search of clarity, not confusion. My fault, of course. I committed to beating the alarm from going forward.

Low clouds clung to the mountains. I felt mildly relieved. I was tired and didn't have the mental acuity to make compositions right out of the sleeping bag. Instead, I sat on the lakeshore and sipped coffee while lazily snapping photos of clouded peaks. The pace was right: calm and curious.

The lower half of Blackwell Falls peeking out as the morning clouds cleared.

Thrashing in the distant woods brought me fully back to wildness. As whatever the animal was neared, phlegmy grunting and moaning accompanied it. I had my bear spray at the ready, but felt at ease. The phone alarm had frightened me more than the possibility of confronting an ornery bruin. Whereas the phone's nebulous associations to all the information in the world produced a miasma of fear in my ancient brain, the prospect of coming face-to-face with whatever megafauna was headed in my direction felt focused. My senses were sharpened, not overwhelmed.

Eventually, the moaning found me. A bull moose. We locked eyes at 30 yards. He grunted and stomped, overtaken by hormones. He was looking for a mate. I was looking for cover. I had nowhere to go, really, positioned on this treeless peninsula as I was. He continued in my direction. 20 yards. I yelled at him and took the safety off my bearspray. He moaned and charged. I yelled louder and aimed the bearspray. He put the brakes on at 10 yards, huffed, and wandered off a side trail to the creek. I felt the exhilaration of a racing heart and adrenaline coursing through my body. The threat had passed.

The bull moose continued to the other side of the lake where I could safely photograph him. What a treat it was to watch such a magnificient creature. I wished him well - "I hope you find what you're looking for"or something like that - as he disappeared into the brush and moaned his way downstream.

I returned to photographing the clouds as the now risen sun slowly evaporated them. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed, when the jagged summit of A Peak broke through draped in golden light.

A Peak through clearing clouds.

After the thrill of the morning, I packed up camp and began the off-trail ascent to Blackwell Glacier, my destination for the night. My plan was to camp as close to the glacier as possible to be set up for my primary trip objective: photographing the Cabinet Mountain Wilderness looking to the next Wilderness at sunrise the following morning.

The first mile was brutal. Downed trees over a trail is one thing, this was yet another. There were sections of forest where my feet didn't touch the ground for a hundred feet. I moved suspended between down trees and what remained of the canopy above. Ducking, crawling, balancing, weaving, I made my way through the maze. In spite of the less than ideal conditions, I found the appropriate pace and, for the most part, enjoyed myself. I had all day to cover the four miles and needn't rush.

Eventually, I cleared the trees and gained a long, shallow talus slope beneath the north face of Bockman Peak. The low clouds had burned off revealing a cloudless sky. The walking was downright pleasant. I knew from the map that this lovely open slope would take me to where I hoped to camp.

And so I strolled, up and up. First, past the top of 1,600-foot Blackwell Falls and then up a ramp through a cliff band to gain the first of a series of stone-scratched benches and lateral moraines that defined the last gasps of the Blackwell Glacier. Finally, weary and sore, I dropped my pack on a small patch of grass as close to the next morning's climb as possible. I was utterly spent. My left glute was screaming, "no more" and I complied.

A curious mountain goat dropped in. He or she - I couldn't tell - checked me out then wandered off. Scanning the 270 degree amphitheater, like sentinels on a castle wall, goat after goat appeared. How many guardians of this cirque? Ten, twelve, fifteen? I couldn't be sure as they browsed in and out of the folds of the mountain face.

My hope in camping close to the next morning's climb was that I would be able to scout the best route through the broken cliff band. It looked steep and complicated. Ideally, I would have rehearsed the route in the light so that I was prepared to navigate it in the dark. My glutes weren't up to it. Rest was the only activity I could muster after 24 hours of log hopping on untrained legs. Fortunately, just before sunset, a pair of goats began heading for the break in the cliff band. Aha! Scouts! I traced the ledges with my eyes as they gracefully moved through the layers of rock. There seemed to be a way.

I soaked my achy legs in a glacial bath before the sun sank behind the immense northeast face of Snowshoe Peak. I crawled into my sleeping bag at 6PM.

Bockman Peak and a glacial erratic reflected in a glacial pool.

Now seems as good of time as any to explain my logic for this trip. My primary objective was to capture an image that prominently featured the Cabinet Mountains Wilderness with the the Great Burn Recommended Wilderness visible ~90 miles distant on the horizon to the south-southeast. I chose this cirque because it contained Blackwell Glacier, the only named glacier in the range and, of course, because it seemed to afford a view to the Great Burn. I thought the remnants of Blackwell Glacier and the rugged northeast face of Snowshoe Peak, the highest mountain in the range, would serve as a compelling storytelling foreground element in this Wilderness to Wilderness image. I chose this moment in time because the weather window was setting up perfectly for 100-mile views. Several days of cool rain and favorable winds had cleansed the atmosphere of smoke and particulates. A high pressure system followed. I reasoned I had 24-48 hours before the building heat reanimated the particulates and sightlines deteriorated. The morning of Sept. 17th, day three of this trip, was setting up to be clearest morning of the late summer.

The crux of the trip was 75-feet from my tent. 350 vertical feet separated me from a shelf on A Peak that I had plotted as the spot to capture the image. The saddle that blocked my view south towards the Great Burn lies at 7,200 feet. It was critical that I gain at least 300 feet from my 7,000 foot campsite to open up the view to the south. Laying in my sleeping bag, I had serious concerns about whether or not I could do it safely. I am not a climber. A scrambler, yes, but not a climber. My safe limit is class 4 with mild exposure. Above that, I'm out. I created a 'plan b' if I couldn't make it through the cliff band. If 'plan a' didn't work, I would follow a lateral moraine to a long ascending shelf on the northest face of Snowshoe Peak which could get me to 7,400 feet before any serious scrambling. Although 'plan b' would get me well above the saddle, the east ridge of Snowshoe Peak would block my view south. It would force an east facing composition instead of a south-southeast one toward the Great Burn. It was possible that Glacier National Park and the Great Bear Wilderness would be visible 90-100 miles distant, but I wasn't sure. Content with my options, I fell asleep, variously waking to galaxies of pinpoint stars.

Too many stars to count.

Day 3

At 4AM I began to stir, preempting the godawful alarm. I was eager to try 'plan a.' I chugged some coffee, donned my headlamp and set my course for the break in the cliffs. The steep scree slope went quickly. I followed the route of the goats. The first fifty feet of scrambling went fine. After that, the route began to weave, changing the fall line from merely steep to over small cliffs: the difference between an unpleasant tumble and bone-breaking (or worse) fall. I began to feel the edge of my comfort zone. ~150 feet up the cliff band, I paused, assessed the risk, and called it. 'Plan b' it was.

I downclimbed to the scree slope and then contoured to the lateral moraine. Up and up I went in the darkness. I was glad to be walking freely without the exposure. At about 7,250 feet, a light in the vicinity of my campsite caught my eye. I stopped and turned off my headlamp. There was indeed a light shining in my direction. Strange, eerie, really. I looked to the sky. A star shown brightly on the same bearing. I looked back at the light. It wiggled. Aha! It was the star reflecting in a small glacial pool next to my camp. Magic. Up and up and I continued, smiling.

At ~7,500 feet the shelf pinched into the northeast face and a remnant of Blackwell Glacier. Bockman Peak now appeared as a black pyramid 1.3 miles and 600-feet higher to the east. On either side of Bockman, distant jagged peaks cut a sharp line between earth and sky. This was the spot. What a view! The eastern horizon was beginning to glow a faint orange. I clicked off my headlamp and began to search for a composition that featured the edge of the snowfield, Bockman Peak and the mountains beyond. When I felt I had sufficiently determined how those puzzle pieces would fit, I deployed my tripod, locked in the camera and breathed deeply. When the camera is on the tripod with the composition and settings dialed in, there is a release. The thinking is done. There's nothing left to do but delight in light while periodically pressing a button.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/6ffc6b_9dbc5a27a8f7433d9b171f7b283b7bb9/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

An iPhone video from my Wilderness to Wilderness composition setup.

And so I did. The sun rose into a cloudless sky in the saddle between Bockman Peak and Snowshoe Peak: a happy, unplanned, compositional element. Watch and click. Watch and click. Watch and click. I hollared with joy. A nanny and kid peeked over the moraine. I said, "good morning." They hooved along. The experience was exhilarating.

Golden light became white light, shadows shortened and the landscape began to lose its shape. I packed up and descended to camp. Leaning against a glacial erratic, I drank in the sunshine with closed eyes and a hot cup of coffee in hand. A mere decade ago, the boulder sat atop an active glacier. Now, the nearest memory of ice lay 100 yards back, downgraded to a permanent snowfield, hiding in the cool creases of Snowshoe Peak. What a place, what a time.

1st above: Series of Wilderness to Wilderness images through sunrise. 2nd above: 100% crop of first image above with Great Bear Wilderness 88 miles distant. Below: Full Wilderness to Wilderness image of Cabinet Mountain Wilderness to Great Bear Wilderness.

After breakfast, I decamped and began the descent to Granite Lake. I stopped at the top of Blackwell Falls to see the origin of that majestic cascade's 1,600-foot tumble down to the lake. Looking back at Snowshoe Peak, it felt like a dream that I had stood on its face four hours earlier, watching the Earth rotate the sun into being.

Snowshoe Peak with pieces of what was Blackwell Glacier clinging to its face above the first drop of 1,600 Blackwell Falls. The morning's photoshoot took place at the top of the snowfield on the right side of the face.

I made some serious routefinding errors as I descended into the forest. Ground and sky disappeared as I pushed my way through an alder thicket. The ground vanished again atop a hundred yard section of downed trees that from space, I imagined, resembled a game of pickup sticks. Battered, scraped and bruised, I emerged on the shore of Granite Lake, a few hundred feet from my desired campsite. My body relaxed. A few lackadaisical steps later I was airborne, then on the ground, moaning like a bull moose in rut. I had, in my weary state, inadvertently stepped on a wet log, slipped and smashed my right knee (and camera) on the log. I let myself cry out in pain for a moment, glad no one was around, before slowly rising and limping off, repeating to myself, "you are fine, you are safe, you are fine, you are safe, you are fine."

A few herky-jerky steps later, I pitched my tent in the same spot I had been the night before. I took ibuprofen for the knee, cleaned the camera/lens (which was otherwise fine). A cow and calf moose popped in for a late afternoon visit. We made peace with each other's presence. The cow took to the lake. I inflated my sleeping pad under azure skies and dozed off to soft splashes of the moose feeding on shallow weeds.

Day 4

I beat the alarm again and set up a composition on the shore of Granite Lake. Another windless clear day. My goal for the morning was to capture golden light striking the upper pinnacles of the dramatic east face of A Peak. I had forty-five minutes or so before sunrise and about ten minutes of work to do. Perfect. It didn't take long to frame up the shot, there weren't many options on that narrow west-facing shore of the lake. For the foreground, I found rocks that mirrored the general shape of A Peak. I fiddled a bit with tripod height, playing with how much reflection to include. Thirty minutes to sunrise. Deep breathe. I smiled at A Peak. I smiled at my circumstances. I felt a wave of gratitude roll through me. How fortunate I was to be here, liberated by the mountains. On day one I was a stranger to this place. Three days later, I was feral. I didn't want to leave. Engaged with ancient movement through prehistoric land, I had come in contact with something approximating my true nature. I felt it in my bones. Truly. For those final moments standing there, watching first light on A Peak, I was in perfect sync with a living planet.

First light graces the summit of A Peak. The mountain rises 4,000 feet from Granite Lake to the summit in 3/4 mile.

But I had to leave. My wife, my friends, my family, my community and cat needed me. They needed me like this: rooted in deeper truths. Rewilded. They needed me sturdy, fortified against the narrow winds of modern life. I packed up slowly between coffee sips and final mountain gawking. A pair of mule deer strolled through.

Following the previous two days of bushwhacking, I moved with relatively ease over the trail's downfall. A cow and spike elk spooked off the trail just beyond the Wilderness boundary. Nearing the trailhead, late-morning dappled light broke the canopy of the cedars variously spotlighting ferns along Granite Creek. I was loathe to leave this place. I walked slowly, hoping I hadn't missed anything.

Subalpine larch on the edge of Snowshoe Peak with Bockman Peak behind.

Closing thoughts

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better first Wilderness to Wilderness trip. There was lots to love about the route and pacing. Although I didn’t capture the Wilderness to Wilderness image I had hoped to, I am, in the end, grateful for the experience of watching sunrise over Glacier National Park and the Great Bear Wilderness from high on the northeast face of Snowshoe Peak. What’s more, the cedars, wildlife and craggy peaks made for rich and wonderfully wild days.

I’ve since learned, upon more closely scrutinizing a map against my real-world experience in the terrain, that the composition I had hoped for looking over the shoulder of Snowshoe Peak from A Peak with Blackwell Glacier in the foreground and the Great Burn on the horizon is probably not possible, even if I could have gotten up there. The east ridge of Snowshoe Peak impedes (just barely) such a view. The Wilderness to Wilderness image above - Cabinet to Great Bear - will serve as a placeholder for now. Unfortunately, heading next to the Great Bear Wilderness would throw off the aesthetic and flow of the project, essentially splitting the Wilderness Areas in half down the Western part of the state. I briefly considered scraping the Cabinet to Great Burn composition plan and following the unplanned Great Bear image above, but have instead decided to try out a couple of other locations in the Cabinet Mountain Wilderness for the south-southeast view of the Great Burn. If I can’t make it work, I’ve got this image to fall back on. Honestly though, I am not ready to move on from the Cabinets. There is much more to experience. I’ve mapped out my next potential south-southeast composition on the southern end of the Cabinet Mountain Wilderness. I’ll be heading there next week for 5-6 days.