Stories Behind the Photos

My favorite hikes are the ones where I don't see anyone else. Silver Star after the snow starts falling is exactly that. In summer and fall, it is a popular hike that winds upward through forests and meadows. The summit offers a stunning 360-degree view of many of the Cascade peaks. During the winter, it becomes a much more challenging hike, often requiring snowshoes and the ability to evaluate potential avalanche danger. Limited cell service along parts of the trail makes route-finding and emergency response more difficult as well. Last winter, I decided to camp overnight at the summit on New Year's Day and catch both sunset and sunrise (I have an actual job, so my hiking is mostly limited to weekends and days off. First world problems, I know.) My go-to website for summit weather, mountainforecast.com, predicted cold, dry weather with virtually no wind that night. Perfect. The hike was beautiful: snow-covered meadows and trees, sunny skies, and almost no one else on the trail. When I reached the summit, the crisp winter air was clear enough for me to see all the volcanoes for a hundred miles in any direction. As I'd hoped, I had the mountain to myself overnight. Given the mild weather forecast, I opted to camp directly on the summit, where there was a small flat space perfect for my single-person tent, rather than down below in the trees. I would soon come to second-guess that decision. I pitched my tent on the snow-covered ground, staking it in with snow stakes. Unfortunately, the wind was picking up, and I was one stake short. I used my camera tripod as a stake, burying it in the snow. Nightfall comes early in January, so after enjoying the sunset and then the view of Vancouver and Portland lights spread out in the valley below me, crawled into my tent. I hoped to get a good night's sleep before getting up for sunrise. Nature had other plans. The breeze soon turned into a howling wind that continually shook the walls of my tent. I'd brought a relatively thin down quilt (the ones made for really cold weather cost $$$$), but I donned a couple of clothing layers and made do. I managed to get a few hours' sleep despite the biting cold and the non-stop flapping of my tent walls. I woke up before dawn. I opened the tent flap, then stepped out into the coldest, most gorgeous pre-dawn I've ever experienced. The wind was fierce, and I was soon shivering uncontrollably. But the view was worth it: 360 degrees of winter wonderland, with wisps of clouds whirling through the valleys below me. I grabbed my tripod, only to discover its night shift as a tent stake had frozen it shut. Fortunately, it was getting light enough that I didn't need it. I alternated warming my hands in my pockets with taking photos, spinning slowly to get as many shots as possible of the surreal beauty that surrounded me. As the sun began to rise, it illuminated Mt. Adams and Mt. Saint Helens in the distance. The colors were unbelievably vibrant, contrasting with the white hills in the foreground. I could barely think straight because of the cold, but I kept snapping photos. Once the sun had fully risen and the dawn colors had faded, I hurriedly packed up my camera gear. Then, I boiled water on my miniature camp stove, poured it into an empty Nalgene container, and retreated into the tent. I huddled under my quilt, toes curled around the Nalgene, and thawed out for about 30 minutes. As the sun rose higher, I broke camp and started the long trek back to my car. The hike down was uneventful. I passed a couple of hikers who seemed impressed that I'd camped on the summit. That was good for my ego. As a bonus, I could feel my toes now, too. Life was good.