Mountain Prophet

“What were you doing – waterskiing?” inquired an old man in a tee shirt and shorts. No water, hat, or even hair on his head, but he was on a quest. “I want to see the lake one last time, ” he offered. Three corners onward, I could no longer hold my mirth and laughed. “Waterskiing, of all things, ” I chuckled. Three days earlier, Reed Purvis and I hiked to Ross Lake, a 23– mile reservoir that reaches into Canada and opens into Washington State’s North Cascades National Park. Our plan was a multi–sport adventure to Mount Prophet. Along the trail, with packrafts, paddles, skis, and poles astride overnight packs, I relayed to Reed how Mount Prophet gained its name from the Irish prospector and religious fanatic Thomas Rowland.

“He believed,” I explained, “that he was the Prophet Elijah. So this peak was named for an actual, honest– to–God prophet!” Whether or not we were going to meet our maker, like Rowland, was yet to be determined. The wind slapped us squarely in the face and fought us as soon as we slid boats into the glacial waters of Ross Lake. Only near Big Beaver Creek would the wind slip quietly over the mountains and leave us calm. For the rest of the day we approached Thirtynine Mile Camp, routed through verdant forests along a well maintained trail. Each step revealed a parade of giants. One multi–trunk cedar must’ve had a thirty–foot girth! The next morning, we continued on dirt, but this time off trail.

After hours of effort I stood upon actual, honest–to–God snow. Unlike Rowland, my riches weren’t self–proclaimed. They were right there. Above, on a twisting spine of ridge, we skinned upward into the alpine, until all at once our easy travel hit a wall of sun–baked snow, which led to another cirque in similar condition. Only when we broke free of this dangerous slurry did we stand atop the Arctic Glacier. I had decided to make a side adventure of this glacier. No human had stood on it for nearly half a century – until Reed

and I slipped between its icy walls and descended powder across its heart. A few hours later, we returned to the pass and continued to the summit. I ridge–hopped past a slumbering cornice and up warm snow. As I pulled to the top, no prophet awaited me. Yet that wave of accomplishment that comes with any summit took my breath away. Out before me stretched a swath of sky and land spinning into a distant, white haze. It’s an understanding most modern humans have forgotten. When the sky blanketed us, rather than ceilings, we knew, “World big. Man small.” Minutes later, snow hummed under our skis, and thousands of vertical feet fell away in minutes. Legs screamed each time I pushed them beyond tolerance.

I was reminded of a rollercoaster ride – of how shifting horizon lines send signals to the sympathetic nervous system to “Giddy up!” A long walk, after the snow ended, pushed us into dark and through wisps of moonlight masquerading as sun. Under its dull glow, we stumbled from brambles back onto the trail without ever pulling lamps out. Minutes later, we were before a fire, watching shadows streak across tree branches like wraiths. The following morning awoke full of sun rays and bird calls.

We danced to their tune, marching back to Ross Lake and to our boats. Our ideal paddle trip across glassy water was again cut short. The wind fought us. Each foot won or lost. The battle was fierce, but in the end we won. Ashore, we held onto our boats and rolled them up. Afterward, we put our feet to trial for the last time. We arrived, sweaty and hot, back to the car less than an hour later. There, sequestered under the seats, were cold ciders. They were cracked before the dust settled. After the first sip, I told Reed another story, this time about the man who cried “waterskiers!?!”