5 years ago today.
Superbowl weekend. K and I had begun a tradition where we headed to the mountains on this weekend. Previously, mine had been to go shopping at Home Depot on Superbowl Sunday. The store was always deserted.
On this particular occasion, five years ago, the Seahawks were in the Superbowl. It was a really big deal, I guess. Actually, it was. I was taking K back to a lookout in the North Cascades (we had been there on the previous Superbowl weekend, in fact), and the local sportsting team being in the big event all but guaranteed we'd find the place to ourselves. It was sort of important that we did. In my pocket, on the climb up, I held onto the ring I would put on her finger that evening, in the bitter cold and pink alpenglow of the mountains.
The climb up was gorgeous. Cold. The mountains were hushed, silent.
There, north beyond the frozen, snow-covered lake across the Cascade River valley, was Sahale Peak. It's the seemingly-miniscule, pointy summit just right of center, above the Quien Sabe Glacier. It was the first mountain we ever climbed together. There was history between us in these mountains.
After a few hours, the fire lookout came into view, astride the summit of the west peak.
K led up, making the last few steps to the summit.
There were tracks ahead of her, but no cars at the trailhead, so we hoped we indeed would have the place to ourselves. The lookout is available to stay overnight on a first-come, first-serve basis, after all. Finding it boarded up, we sighed excitedly. It was empty.
The temperature was something like 6º that night. The dead of winter. We had each brought a Duraflame log, excited to warm up the little hut in the woodburning stove. You can imagine our disappointment when, upon entering, we discovered the stove had been removed. Too much of a fire hazard, apparently. So we lit the ol' trusty Whisperlite and made dinner. Tea.
The next morning, we woke to a whiteout beyond the moisture-laden window panes.
Over coffees, we took turns writing in the journal. The night before, we had similarly taken turns reading from the volumes of journals stashed under the bed.
Reluctantly, we grabbed our gear and got ready for the climb down, through the storm.
At one point, we realized we had been heading down the wrong ridge. Not being able to see more than maybe twenty feet in front of us, we crept to the edge. I took a deep breath and slid over the side. At the bottom of the slope, K followed and we regained our bearings. Headed in the direction of the saddle we knew separated the lake from the drainage we needed to descend. It was a little harrowing, but we made it.
On the other side of the saddle, after descending a bit, we got beneath the clouds. It was still snowing sideways, but at least we could see.
We stopped to take a photo of K's ring.
Then it was all downhill. In the storm, my camera got a little fuzzy because of the moisture. When we got home, I ended up bathing it in a bag of rice to revive it. Thankfully, it came back to life.
Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered. She said 'yes,' and we had the lookout all to ourselves for one really, really magical night.
On this particular occasion, five years ago, the Seahawks were in the Superbowl. It was a really big deal, I guess. Actually, it was. I was taking K back to a lookout in the North Cascades (we had been there on the previous Superbowl weekend, in fact), and the local sportsting team being in the big event all but guaranteed we'd find the place to ourselves. It was sort of important that we did. In my pocket, on the climb up, I held onto the ring I would put on her finger that evening, in the bitter cold and pink alpenglow of the mountains.
The climb up was gorgeous. Cold. The mountains were hushed, silent.
There, north beyond the frozen, snow-covered lake across the Cascade River valley, was Sahale Peak. It's the seemingly-miniscule, pointy summit just right of center, above the Quien Sabe Glacier. It was the first mountain we ever climbed together. There was history between us in these mountains.
After a few hours, the fire lookout came into view, astride the summit of the west peak.
K led up, making the last few steps to the summit.
There were tracks ahead of her, but no cars at the trailhead, so we hoped we indeed would have the place to ourselves. The lookout is available to stay overnight on a first-come, first-serve basis, after all. Finding it boarded up, we sighed excitedly. It was empty.
The temperature was something like 6º that night. The dead of winter. We had each brought a Duraflame log, excited to warm up the little hut in the woodburning stove. You can imagine our disappointment when, upon entering, we discovered the stove had been removed. Too much of a fire hazard, apparently. So we lit the ol' trusty Whisperlite and made dinner. Tea.
The next morning, we woke to a whiteout beyond the moisture-laden window panes.
Over coffees, we took turns writing in the journal. The night before, we had similarly taken turns reading from the volumes of journals stashed under the bed.
Reluctantly, we grabbed our gear and got ready for the climb down, through the storm.
At one point, we realized we had been heading down the wrong ridge. Not being able to see more than maybe twenty feet in front of us, we crept to the edge. I took a deep breath and slid over the side. At the bottom of the slope, K followed and we regained our bearings. Headed in the direction of the saddle we knew separated the lake from the drainage we needed to descend. It was a little harrowing, but we made it.
On the other side of the saddle, after descending a bit, we got beneath the clouds. It was still snowing sideways, but at least we could see.
We stopped to take a photo of K's ring.
Then it was all downhill. In the storm, my camera got a little fuzzy because of the moisture. When we got home, I ended up bathing it in a bag of rice to revive it. Thankfully, it came back to life.
Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered. She said 'yes,' and we had the lookout all to ourselves for one really, really magical night.
