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The Mountains of the Night
Chapter Two
Faith maketh me lie in green pastures
-- but there are no green pastures in the Mountains of the Night. There are no colors, just blacks and grays and shades of gray, and in 1962, taking that first step into the Darkness, I heard the voice of the Mountains: "Your journey begins."
But the journey, exactly 36 years later in August 1998, is quite different, and certainly some of the greenest pastures I've ever seen were on the trail to Lake Ann, in the North Cascades. You hike down from the parking lot, 600 feet, down cool switchbacks in forest and before long you see the head of the valley with part of Mt. Shuksan dominating the skyline in its 9,127-foot gray rock and icy splendor. Before long, you are traveling through those green pastures and it is heaven. Heaven. Thirty-six years of traveling through the Mountains of the Night and I am here, how many boots later? How many backpacks have I gone through in 36 years? Instead of heavy boots, I got light-weight ones. An old Jansport external frame backpack with new straps and hip belt. Weighs a ton, but my heart is light and singing and I am with my long time friend Mike Munro and his son, Daniel. This wonderful trail. This blue sky and a crescent moon high above. And the meadow is lovely with flowers and blueberries and clear streams. You continue on. On through forest, then the trail starts climbing and you turn and there! The impossible and imposing mass of Mt. Baker fills the horizon to your right and above you, above the ridge ahead of you, the icy fortress of Mt. Shuksan looms, high, massive and grand.
"How goes?" Mike says.
"Good," I reply, "but I gotta stop."
"No Problema," he says. Daniel says nothing. We all sit. I bring out my glucometer and test my blood sugar. 90. I decide to eat lest my blood sugar drop too low and I risk going into insulin shock and unconsciousness. Thirty-six years of hiking, of exploring the Olympics, Cascades, Sierras, the Southern Alps of New Zealand, the Alps of Switzerland.
Diabetes has not stopped me. My health is superb. I feel wonderful. It is good to be alive. So wonderful to be here, this place, this time.
Thirty-six years. Thirty-six years of the journey through the Mountains of the Night. It's been all fun?
Hardly. But then, that is never the nature of the Mountains of the Night. The Cascades? Certainly. The Olympics? Absolutely. The Alps? Definitely. The Mountains of the Night? Never.
Ready?" asks Mike.
"Yup," I say. I stand, finish my bagel and peanut butter and pick some blueberries. We stand and continue on, ascending to the ice and towers of rock of Mt. Shuksan. And today, this moment, my heart sings.
The journey from age 14 to 51 has been a journey indeed. And I reflect back. Whenever I hike, I go into a zone of free-association: other places, other times, other trails and I remember...
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