Just like Lions

"Go there," I was told. Years after this suggestion I dangled above Depot Falls. With my fate entrusted to a branch, I understood and quickly became mesmerized by the thunderous rumble of glacier melt that poured 300 meters to the forested valley floor, so distant and insignificant as to be a diorama. Her power reminded me of the lion and how his roar echoed across the Serengeti. It didn't beseech, but demanded each and every creature, big and small, to recognize who is king. Similarly, Depot Falls is the Chilliwack Mountains roar. She gave no permission; to come to her was a patent disregard for her dominance, much like a gazelle who grazed at the haunches of a pride whose appetites happened to be satiated at the moment, but could change in an instant.

Hours before we arrived at Depot Falls Tim, Ashton and I drove along a holdover from decades-old logging. The road was a vine-entombed gauntlet whose woody fingernails wailed across the paint. Half a day later, back on the falls 300 meters above the valley, I turned my camera to the top of this incredible wonder of nature. Above the falls, the terrain descended a hundred feet through thick trees. Just as I pushed the final branches aside, I arrived into a partially snow-covered swamp. Around me, the sky and peaks emerged, most notably the north face of Redoubt. We joked about skiing this line, juggling our balls and theoretical routes until they became too heavy to gain escape velocity.

Climbing over the col at the head of Silver Lake on day two, we traversed and ascended Spickard, booting the final few hundred feet to the summit. From there, the peaks preened in the brilliant blue skies. Off into the distance, layer upon layer of rock and ice eventually faded into an infinite white haze. Memories boiled to the surface and past adventures connected to this present time and place. Perfect snow and gravity quickly drew us to the shores of Silver Lake, whose white frozen surface was in stark contrast to the alien-blue summertime invokes. At the northeast end of the Silver Lake Devil's Tongue (2,453 meters) and Toothpick rose like monoliths. They weren't alone either.

To either side, more rock and snow leaned inward, and I imagined I was in a distorted universe like that found in a snow globe. The upper slopes of Mt. Rahm (2,584 meters) were reached via a narrow couloir. Yellow, red and green algae colored the cliffs within its confines. No less than half a dozen waterfalls to either side of us slipped between moats of snow and disappeared below our feet. It was tempting to follow this rush of water, but we were headed in the opposite direction. While there's no predicting when the emotional fulcrum of stoke will teeter and explode into vulgarity and variations of "Yeahhhhhh," it nonetheless felt compelled to do so there above Silver Lake. Beauty is fuel, and we were fired up! Atop Mt.

Rahm, the second summit of the day, we relaxed on rocks, and every eye played across the slew of peaks, the same as earlier but with a slightly new perspective. The Pickets, Stuart Range, Chilliwack's (and more) were each a pride of lions lounging in the noonday sun, just as we were. The only difference, they were predators. As I arrived and saw the Custer Glacier on our way to the third summit of the day, I raised my hands in a calming gesture and pleaded, "Whoa girl, let's not get carried away." She was a mess of broken ice and frozen debris. The destruction stretched 800 meters down her flank. We quickly merged with a safe snowfield that led to the summit ridge of Mt.

Custer and soon returned to camp after one of the most incredible days I've had in the mountains. On the third day's docket was Redoubt's (2,734 meters) south face with a side trip to the Depot Glacier. By midday we had rounded the massive cliffs of Redoubt, only to come face to face with the even more massive cliffs of Bear Mountain. Even further in the distance was the convoluted slopes of Mt. Challenger, Baker and Shuksan, all three venerable titans of the North Cascades. The southern route to the summit ridge of Redoubt is an about 40 degree face and couloir that stretched further than any of us expected. Tim and Ashton climbed to the summit ridge while I took photos of the surrounding mountains.

The descent was bliss, the kind of route that you can't chew off in one non-stop race to the bottom because you want to take in the place, the view, the everything that makes this route so incredible. Eventually, all good things end and after our descent, we rounded a nose of rock and back onto the Redoubt Glacier. When morning on the fourth day came, clouds were stacking on the horizon. That night a steady wind had blown. This all hinted at weather and with only a few more days of food, a day spent in the rain didn't seem worth the effort, so we gathered our gear and rushed back down Depot Creek, past the falls and through old growth forest. Hours later, on a wet road, we plodded through running water to our car.

From it we pulled out beers and in a creek after cleaning cobwebs from our faces, we partook in the "trailhead ceremony" of drinking said beers while resting tired shoulders on dirty packs. Far up the valley, I could still make out the roar of Depot Falls. It was undeniable and unwavering much like the mountains that birthed it, the rugged wilderness of the North Cascades. Whenever I go among these mountains, I am left remade, a different person than I was. Tighter friendships, closer ties to these wild mountains and more connected to the untamed land we hold in reserve not just for me, but for each and all. We need mountains, just like lions, even if to just know that they are there and nothing more.