The Cascade Range of Northern Washington

Hermann F. Ulrichs

THE general conception of the Cascade Range is that of a series of broken-down, snow-covered volcanic cones fairly distantly spaced and surrounded and linked together by a simple chain of uneventful, rolling, forested ranges of low elevation, with here and there a secondary, relatively low and unimportant peak to break the general monotony. While this is quite accurate on the whole for the range in California, Oregon and the southern half of Washington, it is a neither just, accurate nor sufficient description for that part lying roughly between Mt. Rainier and the International Boundary in the northern half of Washington. When this region is better developed and known, I believe that it will be recognized as the most beautiful, as well as the most truly alpine range in the United States, especially that section lying to the west, north and northeast of Lake Chelan. At present the greater part is in a stage of virgin wilderness, probably the wildest and least penetrated stronghold of uncivilized nature in the country. Several large areas have been recently set aside as primitive regions, so that future generations can see at first hand what the wilderness was like before man commenced his often very doubtful improvements. Before dealing with this almost completely unknown section (even in Washington), some general remarks on the Cascades as a whole should be pertinent.

The junction of the Sierra Nevada Range of California with the Cascades is indefinite. It is difficult to know where one ceases and the other begins, but it is probably a short distance to the south of Mt. Lassen (10,437 ft.). Between Mt. Lassen and Mt. Rainier the character of the range is quite uniform—a simple divide averaging 50-60 miles in width, composed of about a dozen outstanding volcanic cones and remnants from about 7700 ft. to twice that height, fairly equally spaced and connected by forested ridges maintaining a general level of 5000-6000 ft., with an occasional bold rock outcrop somewhat higher. In California, Mt. Shasta (14,380 ft.); in Oregon, Mt. Jefferson (10,523 ft.), Mt. Hood (11,225 ft.) and the Three Sisters group (10,352 ft.), considered to be the remnants of a much larger volcano known as Mt. Multonomah; and in Washington, Mt. St. Helens (9671 ft.), Adams (12,307 ft.) and Rainier (14,408 ft.) are perpetually snow-capped and support living glaciers. These phenomena become much more pronounced in the northern outposts of the group.

The most distinctively differentiating trait of the Cascades from other mountain ranges is this stately and nobly proportioned procession of snowy summits, serene and contemplative, which give a peculiarly personal and poetic charm to the landscape. Wherever the climber goes, he is sure to see in some direction one, if not several, of these lonely sentinels, often floating like a vision or a mirage above the lower mists, strangely unreal and ethereal and by their loftiness dwarfing the surrounding country. Though actually the youngest of our mountains, the impression given by their tranquil repose and ample flowing contours is that of tremendous antiquity. Other mountains seem young and turbulent by comparison.

North of Mt. Rainier to the International Boundary, the range undergoes a decided transformation and assumes a dual character. Here occurs the climax of interest, variety and scenic grandeur of the entire range. To the west of the main divide are still two more ice-clad volcanoes: Glacier Peak (10,436 ft.) and Mt. Baker (10,870 ft.). Both are extraordinarily beautiful in form and surrounded by some of the most superb forest in the world. In addition to this type of Cascade scenery is associated the more familiar alpine type of other ranges. The main divide, with its lateral divides and parallel secondary ranges, forms a very rugged and complex system of mountains, which attains a maximum width of 125-150 miles south of Mt. Baker and a general elevation of 8000-9000 ft. In the volcanoes and the southern part of the range, masses of pumice, scoria and andesitic types of rock predominate, highly unreliable for climbing purposes when the angle becomes at all steep ; while the rocks of the north are predominantly schists and granites with some slate and are consequently much more safe and reliable. The doubled width of the range, coupled with the entirely different climatic conditions on each side, tend to make the east slope a quite contrasting world to the west, so much so as to make it seem another range.

In Oregon the volcanoes are found on the divide; in Washington, with the exception of Mt. Adams, they group themselves to the west of the main divide and so are integral components of the western slope. The next most distinctive trait of this slope is probably the dense forest that clothes the valleys and lower slopes and ridges. To penetrate these vast and silent reaches is to enter a world steeped in a perpetual cathedral twilight of dim gold and green half-lights. Great pillar-like firs, 250-300 ft. high, abound, with spruce and cedar almost rivalling them in size. The undergrowth, particularly in the valley bottoms, is tropical in its luxuriance and impenetrability. Devil’s Club abounds; but the greatest obstacles are the huge fallen trees, which decay only slowly and often support several generations of young trees upon their prostrate sides. The fern and moss life is very abundant, but not the floral. Most of the flowers are white, with a few essays in pink or allied shades, but no showy varieties. The scarcity of bird life makes these forests seem extraordinarily silent. One bird seems quite common; I have not encountered anyone who knows what it is. It has a little song of one tone repeated at intervals over and over, rather like the sound that might be produced by the striking of a small steel bar, and has a cool sound which for some inexplicable reason I always associate with the drip of clear spring water. The pitch varies with each bird. This succession of delicate and light sounds, drifting tenuously down through the dense foliage almost seems to deepen the silence and in a magical way to epitomize the elusive spirit of the forest. Only occasionally does the forest part to give a momentary view up some deep, precipitous side valley, with perhaps the gleam of a waterfall or distant sharp snowy crest far above to carry the eyes upward. The rest of the time the traveller moves in a world from which all distance has been annihilated. In bad weather, these forests become dark and sombre ; the clouds shred themselves on the tree tops and the gloom makes the silence even more profound.

The valleys of the western slope are deep with steep walls, and are in the mature cycle, stream erosion having nearly perfected its work. They are characterized by low gradients : one-half per cent and even less, to within a few miles of the stream sources. From this, it follows that no one should be led to infer that the Cascade peaks are very small ones because their absolute elevation is not great. A 7000-ft. peak becomes a very respectable mountain in height when one commences to climb from the elevation of 500 ft. above sea level. In fact, the range in this section gives an impression of much greater height, relief and magnitude than do the peaks of the Sierra and the Rockies. The town of Glacier on the North Fork of the Nooksack River at the northwest base of Mt. Baker is 881 ft. above sea level. The summit of the mountain, hardly 10 miles distant by air line, rises 10,000 ft. above this in one unbroken sweep. Mt. Eldorado (8875 ft.) rises 7200 ft. in a little over two miles air line from the Cascade River at its south base; the west face may show an even greater differential elevation in still less distance. Similar statistics might be multiplied indefinitely; the generalization is that 6000 to 7000 ft. is a very common figure for the vertical relief of the peaks, many of which show magnificent cliff formations for thousands of feet.

The side valleys are very steep; the streams impetuous torrents, carving deep gorges in their precipitate descent to the main river. The forest covers the slopes and ridges to between 4000 and 5000 ft. elevation; the size of the trees gradually decreases and more alpine species replace those of the valleys, but the covering remains very dense. Near the heart of the range great masses of “boiler plate” glaciation are exposed on the side walls. Above 5000 ft., the subalpine zone begins and under favorable conditions extends 1000 ft. higher, chiefly in the form of steeply hanging meadows interspersed with benches containing the inevitable heather-bordered pools that are such an attractive feature of the Cascade scenery. The ridges become sharp and narrow, deeply serrated with extraordinary spire and pinnacle forms, very precipitously walled and for the most part anything but straightforward or easy routes for travel, as they force most of the climbing to be done by couloirs and faces. Above 6000 ft., perpetual snow begins to be plentiful and hanging glaciers are always to be found on peaks of 7000 ft. or more elevation.

The peaks range from 7000 to 9000 ft.; their most common form is that of a sharp, jagged wave-crest of rock, slender in profile and precipitous-walled. Lateral ridges are usually abortive. The rock is often glassy in character, not overly supplied with holds, and somewhat slippery for nailed boots, which are indispensable for the steep glaciers and snow fingers. The frequent torrential streams, difficult and dangerous to ford; the steep-walled valleys, highly serrated ridges and precipitous side gorges; the thickets of devil’s club and thorny berry bushes; the uncertain footing of the treacherous moss and rotting vegetation, above all the interminable fallen trees over which one has to haul oneself laboriously to peer into the uncertain depths of the black hole masked by undergrowth on the other side: these are the factors which make progress slow, arduous and discouraging. Anyone who has ever attempted to force his way backpacking through these valleys without trail, intent on reaching some of the less accessible peaks, will not easily forget that struggle. This will explain why large areas, as for example that lying between the Cascade and Suiattle Rivers, two important southerly tributaries of the Skagit River, are filled with peaks and lakes for the most part unnamed and unvisited.

To cross to the east slope is to experience a complete change of scenery and climate. The deep, moist, luxuriantly carpeted forests of the west change to much more dry and open forests in which pines predominate and which support an abundant floral and bird-life. In early summer, grass grows abundantly in the sweet-smelling open spaces between the trees, its silken sheen glinting in the sunlight as the wind stirs it into undulating ripples. The streams are numerous and very clear, so that camping is particularly pleasant, especially as the rainfall is far less than on the west slope. The same deep dissection is still apparent, though perhaps a little less, since the streams have had a higher base level to cut down to; namely, the Columbia River. From the abrupt terminus of the south ridge of Mt. Goode (9300 ft.) on the junction of Bridge Creek and the Stehekin River, it is a rise of 7200 ft. to the final summit pinnacle. The valleys are even more steeply V-shaped, more rock is exposed with consequently less forest covering. Great masses of rock cliff and wall make the problem of climbing out of these valleys difficult. As the main divide is approached, they become equally, if not even more impenetrable than their relatives on the west slope, but the character of the undergrowth is entirely different. Large avalanches are common on this side and in their track arises a dense thicket of alder, rubus and ceanothus. Only an occasional trapper has ever ventured into the heads of some of these valleys, and then only when deep winter snow lay on the ground.

The subalpine zone is much more developed on the eastern slope, taking possession of extensive sections on the main divide north of Rainy Pass, as well as the secondary divides further east. This country is a veritable Eden, supporting an extremely rich profusion of alpine flowers; the climber literally wades through a rainbow-hued carpet of them. The trees, grouped into striking designs, make a natural park of the landscape; countless clear little waterfalls and cascades, dashing from the upper snows, water this delightful terrain. The climber can saunter by the hour through this small enchanted country of intimate beauty, while always in the distance snowy ranges glow in the soft light. There is something different about the light in the Cascades from any other range of my experience; perhaps because it is so close to the ocean and has a relatively moist atmosphere. The hard, diamond-clear light of the inland ranges is replaced by a light equally clear, but so softened that the mountains have almost a dream-like quality.

Some of the secondary ranges of the east slope are higher than the main divide in this latitude ; as, for example, the mountains lying at the sources of the Pasayten, Similkameen Rivers and the northern tributaries of the Methow River. The aridity of the climate is in proportion to the distance from the main divide and those farther east show the typical characteristics of inland ranges. There is only one peak east of the divide on which there exists a living glacier: Mt. Silver Star (8903 ft.). To me, with the exception of the country, rugged and startling, surrounding this peak, which is quite close to the divide, these ranges seem desolate and uninteresting. They average between 8000 to 9000 ft. and are little known. In 1933 we made a backpacking expedition into the heart of what appeared on the map to be the most rugged section: the country at the head of Lost River. We made the first ascent of Mt. Carru (8600 ft.) but the general reaction was one of disappointment. The cool forests and snowy ranges of the divide, with their luxuriant flower gardens and innumerable rushing streams, spoil one for these semi-arid, comparatively barren ranges.

Another high secondary range (for the Cascades) exists at the head of the Chiwawa River, due east of Glacier Peak. Rumors of 9000-ft. peaks drew us there for exploration and several new first ascents were made: Mt. Fernow (9100 ft.), Mt. Maude (9110 ft.), and the prominent dentated tower between Mt. Maude and Seven Fingered Jack. The second ascent was made of the latter peak. Various pinnacles of Seven Fingered Jack should prove interesting climbing, although the highest is very easily reached and does not offer interesting climbing. Mt. Maude was climbed by a steep but straightforward 2000-ft. couloir on the west face. On the summit billowing clouds veiled all but the eastern range from us. We were congratulating ourselves on a good climb when the cloud obligingly moved and disclosed a painfully easy but less accessible route (reminding me of Mt. Hector) up the south ridge ; one apparently much in favor with goats. As the weather was becoming more threatening, we decided to make time by descending this way. We later regretted this: the quantity of loose rock and scree that cascaded down the couloir leading from the ridge to the basin at the foot of the west face was incredible and offered some nasty climbing. More than once we sighed for the firm clean rocks of the couloir of ascent.

The climb of Silver Star proved to be one of the most interesting I have made in the Cascades, as well as a first ascent. As in the previous case, we managed to find a difficult route of ascent and an easy one for descent, though the procedure varied here. A full day’s drive from Seattle and an overfull day of backpacking over a trail poorly marked and rough and undergrown brought us after dark into camp directly under the south face at the last timber. There was no shelter, but the night appeared fine and we turned into our sleeping bags with hopes of an early start in the morning. During the night the weather changed with the startling suddenness characteristic of the Cascades. A violent thunderstorm was followed by a fall of several inches of heavy wet snow. There is nothing better than this type of snow to demonstrate that sleeping bags are only partially waterproof. After a most uncomfortable night, spent in envying the warmth and dryness of the desert, we arose near dawn, when the storm gave signs of ceasing. The sun came out while we were still drying each article of clothing over a fire which possessed the only enthusiasm in the party. A few hours’ sleep, and we woke to find it a bright day, the snow almost melted in the meadow : stock in the climbing venture zoomed immediately.

From our limited, foreshortened view the east peak looked definitely the highest. The ridges leading to it from the west and east looked so serrated as to be hopeless in view of the limited time remaining. The best hope was to climb the southern face to a rib which descended about halfway directly from the peak, and follow this. For 2500 ft. this face is one clean, very steep thrust of firm granite, the lower sections of which are highly glaciated. By noon we were under way, but several hours later found us still trying to make lodgement on the peak. I have never seen the actual foot of a mountain so inhospitable. We tried crack after crack and a few very narrow chimneys, but constantly ran up against overhangs or slick, holdless slabs and had to descend again. The difficulty of some of these enforced descents was an effective criticism of the feasibility of attempting to force a line farther upward. We retired highly disgruntled and very much annoyed with the mountain. If we had been back in our romper stage, we might have kicked it.

The afternoon was wearing on. After the frigid night, the day was surprisingly warm. We more or less tacitly agreed that it was now too late to make another serious attempt and pretended to devote what was left of the day to photography. I thought it would be interesting to climb toward the southwest ridge and view this spectacular face in profile. After making several hundred feet elevation into the alcove of the junction of the south face with this ridge, I suddenly noticed a promising ledge commencing a diagonal across the face about 300 ft. above us. A new hope sprang up and we began climbing furiously to discover if this was accessible and, if so, whether it would lead in the desired direction. The little distance we could see before an abrupt jutting corner terminated the view looked promising. We set off with a will, but with an unspoken feeling that we ought to appear elaborately indifferent and thus fool the mountain. It worked. The face was more broken here than the slick flat planes of our first attempt. The ledge was not continuous, but by constantly using the ledges formed by the junction of the granite slabs and climbing upward from one likely one to the next, we managed to maintain a fairly steady upward diagonal towards the rib descending from the east summit. Sometimes the ledges were ample; at other times it was like edging along the narrow sill of a skyscraper. Ice and fresh snow on the holds did not add to the security and tended to freeze the fingers unconscionably.

The rib reached, we peered across its crest to the face on the other side and immediately thanked our lucky stars that an attempt had not been made to reach the rib on that side. The rib had appeared practically vertical to our uneasy minds as we approached, but in comparison to this dizzy precipice it looked almost reassuring. Some breathless, straight-up climbing brought us to the final slender spire; but, turning our eyes westward, we saw to our intense dismay another, slightly but unmistakably higher. Connecting it with one peak was a wild-looking knife edge, fragile and highly gashed. The sun was low in the western horizon and the chill of the September evening was setting in, but nothing could deter us now. That spire had to be reached. Without waiting to build a cairn, we set off.

Geoffrey Winthrop Young says in “Mountaincraft” that if a climber has not enough breath to whistle a complete musical phrase as he climbs, he is climbing too fast. We thought we had been climbing rapidly before, but now we seemed to be trying to fly. Neither of us could have wistled more than a few pitches at the most. Off went the rope—it made progress too slow. The slabs were wonderfully firm, but smooth, and friction had largely to be depended upon. A cheval, back and knee, scrambling with hands on top and feet frictioning against the vertical surface—anything to make time count. The apparent difficulties yielded in the most unaccountable manner and we went at it more and more exuberantly. By this time, we had agreed that this route was not to be used for a descent; at the worst, we would find a way down the north face to the glacier, descend that to the first timber and sit around a fire all night. The thought was a reassuring alternative.

A deep notch suddenly halted our progress and left us poised uncertainly on the overhanging pinnacle above it. Uncoil the rope and abseil? No, it would take too long. The south face of the ridge was impossible. The north face led off with a steep, smooth inclined slab of about 20 ft. which ended in a small ledge. From there it appeared possible to work down and into the base of the notch. Here the technique acquired in early years on banisters and the summer-house roof proved its worth. The simplest method of getting down the slab was to lie back and slide, catching the heels in the ledge below. There was no difficulty— only the glacier seemed a very great distance below the ledge in case the mark should be overshot. It went with a rush. I looked back with the half-formed thought, “In case we should have to return, just how ….?'' but we were in the notch before it was ever finished, certain that the mountain’s defenses were exhausted. Some more very exposed climbing—and suddenly we were building the cairn with numb fingers below the vertical knife-edge slab forming the final and indisputable summit of the peak. A wild red sunset was growing dusky in the west and the wind was bitter. This time the promise of an easier descent did not appear painful. The large notch between this and the lower mass that forms a western peak was reached by easy slabs on the north side of the ridge. From here the glacier could be reached; but we still had hopes of getting down the west end of the south face to our camp. In the gathering darkness we found ourselves in a straightforward couloir, which had to be negotiated carefully on account of the loose rock, but which offered no difficulty. Long after dark we stumbled into camp, tired but elated.

Mountain peaks are gregarious. They appear to prefer to group themselves. The Cascades run true to type; group formation is very apparent. North from Mt. Rainier on the main crest, the first group of any importance is found at the sources of the Snoqualmie and Cleelum Rivers. Mt. Daniel (7986 ft.) is the highest summit ; there are other rugged and precipitous peaks, as Chimney Rock (7727 ft.) and the probably unclimbed Bear’s Breast (7700 ft.) which offer difficult climbing. A few small glaciers exist.

The next group is seen 50 miles straight airline to the north. Between these two, the divide, more than twice that distance with its convolutions, averages 6000 ft. and is chiefly forested or covered with open meadows. Directly east of Glacier Peak, glaciers and rock spires reappear, and in the 50- to 60-mile stretch between Suiattle and Rainy Passes the climax of alpine ruggedness in the range is achieved. For half that distance the divide presents an unbroken and formidable barrier both to east and west, and consists of a complex mass of boldly sculptured peaks, 8000-9000 ft. high. The entire east side is covered with a practically continuous chain of steep, deeply crevassed hanging glaciers, probably larger than is yet realized. This section is quite unknown ; most likely none of the peaks as Mts. Sentinel, Spider, Spire, Dome, Lizard, Agnes, Blue, Magic, LeConte or Johannisberg have ever been ascended. From a distance they do not look easy; not one of the least difficulties is to get into position to make a start. For the 30 miles or so between Suiattle (6000 ft.) and Cascade Passes the range could only be crossed by difficult mountaineering. With the 14,000-ft. peaks of our better known ranges in mind, it is strange to realize that these peaks of a so much more spectacular and formidable appearance only reach such modest elevations.

Between Cascade Pass (5392 ft.) and Rainy Pass (4900 ft.) the highest peaks occur. In this more accessible section several tricky looking unclimbed summits still remain. On the west peak of Mt. Buckner (9080 ft.), we found a surprisingly intact but unprotected record on a piece of photographic wrapping dated August, 1901, left there by a lone climber of the U. S. G. S. Survey, probably on a busman’s holiday jaunt. We relieved our feelings by scrambling over to the unvisited and equally high east peak and building a cairn there. Cairns were also found on Black Peak (8990 ft.) and Frisco Peak (7802 ft.), but Mt. Corteo (8200 ft.) and Mt. Booker (8300 ft.) furnished the usual exercise again. On Mt. Goode (9300 ft.), after 7-8 hours’ climbing, the last 1000 ft. of which became increasingly difficult, we were beaten back by an impasse perhaps 100-150 ft. below the final summit. This peak has also baffled several other attempts by other climbers. The climb was made from the west in an attempt to reach the deeply serrated south ridge as close as possible to the slender, flame-like summit pinnacles. The east face is a very imposing precipice; the north ridge looks very repellant. The use of pitons seems advisable for the solution of this problem.

Cutthroat Peak (7602 ft.), east of Rainy Pass, proved equally unfriendly. After some hard and baffling climbing, we found ourselves on the west ridge about 100 ft. below the sharp summit spire, staring blankly at a slightly overhanging, quite holdless slab which obviously needed the use of vacuum cups for 40 ft. or more. The other sides of this precipitous pinnacle show no obvious route. The perpendicular spires of the unclimbed Mt. Liberty Bell across the valley look difficult.

The divide makes a short drop and then ascends for a group of peaks averaging 8500 ft. around the head of the west fork of the Methow River. Mt. Hardy (8200 ft.) and Mt. Azurite (8440 ft.) proved first ascents, but more interesting climbing was found on two prominent unnamed pinnacles directly south of Mebee Pass— especially on the traverse of the southern one. From here to the International Boundary the divide drops and for miles consists of open heather meadows. All the interesting peaks are to be found to the west. The most outstanding group is between Skagit, Baker, and Chilliwack Rivers. This section has been set aside as the Whatcom Primitive Area. The main range is called the Picket Range on account of the array of vertical spires and pinnacles. Only a few of the interesting peaks, Mts. Redoubt, Challenger, Bacon, Pinnacle, Fury, Terror, Despair, Triumph, Hagan and Luna have been climbed. Elevations are not given.

Enough has been said to show that these Northern Cascades are the least exploited mountains left in the United States. Why they have been so consistently ignored is something of a mystery. Perhaps the reason largely lies in the fact that the occasional traveller is forced to make his way continuously through very deep, low valleys with dense vegetation with consequently no outlook. Not until one climbs to the high ridges can anyone gain a real conception of the country. Even the passes are narrow defiles yielding only very limited views. My attention was first called to this country by the appearance on the 1932 Mt. Baker Forest Service Map of large areas that hitherto had been blank. There are still no topographic maps for the range east of Mt. Baker and north of Cascade Pass, an area of more than 2000 square miles. As I could gain no information on the country, the only solution was to make a personal exploration. This resulted in spending much time and effort in discovering that some areas look their best on the map, but it has all been good fun with the usual thrill that comes from penetrating into quite fresh and unspoiled wilderness. In the course of a series of backpacking expeditions since 1932, nineteen new cairns have had to be built in various parts of the range.

The only maps of the region are the Mt. Baker and Chelan National Forest maps and the Stehekin and Glacier Peak quadrangles. The most satisfactory way of approach to the finest country is from the east. The western slope has a very heavy precipitation, over 100 inches in some parts and is always dampish in the best weather. On the extreme edge of the east slope the precipitation is reduced to 8 inches, but near the divide a satisfactory averaging of these two extremes is found. The easiest route to the heart of the range is via Lake Chelan, the least publicized beauty spot in the nation. This narrow fjord of a lake is 56 miles long; its greatest width is only 2 miles. It forms a magnificent highway of approach; the four and one-half hours’ trip by boat—there are no roads—is one constant crescendo of impressive grandeur and is decidedly worth making for its own sake. The lake is over 1000 ft. deep with indescribably clear water; in some places the walls rise more than 7000 ft. from the water’s edge. At Lucerne on the west shore or at Stehekin at the head horses can be procured for trips up Bridge Creek, the Agnes and Stehekin. Arrangements could probably be made to come out down the west slope by way of the Cascade, Suiattle or Skagit Rivers. The trails are few and rather poor. The safest month is August. Deep snow, fallen trees, swollen streams and usual wreckage from the winter and spring avalanches make the existing trails almost impassable for animals until they are cleaned out by the maintenance crews. There is a store of very individual beauty and charm to these mountains, but anyone expecting to enjoy the best part of them will have to be prepared to work for the reward. They are not for tourists.