5 days with the weather god

[B]

A trip report from a multi day trip to Ross Lake high in the northern Cascades, also known as the American Alps.

Cast of paddlers

Bill Walker (Owner Seattle Raft and Kayak)

Bob Burnett (Bill's Slave)

Rand Harrel (Friend of Bob and Bill)

Tom Dillard (Friend of Bob and Bill)

Others mentioned:

Mo - great WW creeker on our staff at SRK

Five days with the Weather God

Written by Bill Walker

Day One... meet at SRK at 9am with ALL our gear. Uh, right. Bill brings 3x too much fleece (c'mon, how much is too much fleece?), Bob brings -- where is Bob? -- oh yeah, Bob is on the road back to West Seattle to pick up his sleeping bag. Oh yeah. Rand and Tom are the only ones with their heads together. Leave SRK at 11, uh, well, OK, 12:30, call Ross Lake Resort to tell them we'll be at the base of Ross Dam for the truck shuttle at 4pm... "You'll NEVER make it by 4"... OK, what's Plan B? Meahwhile, for 3 hours of driving to Marblemount the rain drizzles, the rain pours, the weather reporter laughs at us on the radio.

Permit in hand and pleasant memories in mind leaving Marblemount Ranger Station, we call the Resort and admit we'll never make it to the dam in daylight, and tell them we'll see them in the morning. We push on to Colonial Creek put-in on Diablo Lake, still dodging showers. We open the doors of our trucks at Colonial, and no kidding, we never see another raindrop for five days. Boston Bob the Weather God, may we kiss your ring?

During the quick 3 miles across smoky-green Diablo to Buster Brown Camp, the pressure's on for me to prove to the fellas what amazing scenery they're in for... if the clouds ever rise above 3,000 feet. "Guys, I know you don't believe me but way up that canyon on the left is a huge, gorgeous... oh... wow..." to which Colonial Peak appears out of the clouds, 7,500 feet above our heads. Right on cue. Smiles on everyone's faces and a quick cruise to camp, 6pm landing, tents up, steaks on, tequila open, MacGregor visiting, fine company and Colonial still shining until dark.

Day Two... with a long day ahead of us we get going early... on the water at noon. This is a vacation after all.

Diablo Gorge gives us another look and taste of the grandeur to come. Cliffs hundreds of feet high on each side, and a channel maybe a hundred feet wide in places. Three miles long, and around each bend another breathtaking look at a new waterfall, rock formation, or eventually, 550-foot high Ross Dam. A rock-filled gully reaching nearly vertically to Highway 20 some 800 feet above us, where we could hear the waterfall running through the rocks but couldn't see it, prompted Rand to wonder aloud, "Do you think Monique would puke before running THAT one?"

Bob and I leave the fellas at the takeout to wait for the shuttle truck to take us over the dam, while we head for the phone to call the resort and make sure the truck is on the way. I love City Light. Power, water, and a big old dude who's just cooked ten pounds too many hot wings for lunch... "you boys want some?" Walking back to our companions with two huge plates piled with wings, Bob tells me "don't say anything, just keep eating". Tom's reaction is swift and can't be printed here. Needless to say we share the bounty.

A short, bumpy shuttle behind us, we put in on Ross Lake and drop a few things for safekeeping at Ross Lake Resort (www.rosslakeresort.com). We head out at 2:30pm with still 9 miles to paddle to Devils Junction, camp, and dinner. Absent the long-promised prevailing southerly tailwind we expected, suddenly we're doing all the work getting there. A little after 5 we duck into Devils Creek Gorge just short of our destination. We spend nearly an hour marveling at the scene above us in the cliffs, below us in the crystal clear water, and ahead of us when we reach Devils Creek itself, crashing into the lake a half-mile into this crack in the lakeshore. Again we wonder... "would Monique run this?" Naaa, don't think so.

We camp after a long and strenuous day of paddling with a perfect view north along the lake. Desolation, Spratt, Hozomeen, and a hundred unnamed peaks look down on us. The stars are as bright as we've ever seen them, and we get a quick glimpse of the Northern Lights just after dark. Really, that was before the tequila.

Day Three... Play day, an eight-mile loop to Lightning Creek, Skymo Falls, and back.

Stern draw, bow rudder, high brace, low brace, and that side-feather-draw thing we're all working on... Bob schools us as we travel closer to Desolation Peak and up another SWEET creek gorge. We admire fall colors on the mountains where the vine maple stands out in flaming dots among the avalanche chutes. It's easy to forget we're sitting at just 1600 feet elevation, when huge mountains surround us. Jack Mountain, with stark, crevassed Nohokomeen Glacier gripping its north flank, tops 9,000 feet and is just a couple of miles from the lake shore. Ruby Peak and Hozomeen are equally impressive, Ruby capping a long, glacier-covered ridge to the south, and Hozomeen -- Jack Kerouac's great black "Void" -- raising its forbidding spike just a mile from the Canadian border.

We cross the lake before heading for camp, to see what all the noise is about at Skymo Falls. Audible from 2 miles across the water even now in late summer, we ponder its Spring voice when draining a huge snowpack thousands of feet above. Again, we agree there's no way Mo would run this one. And that's before Bob convinces us to stick our noses into the pounding falls. Yeeha!

I've been on Ross Lake every summer for nearly 40 years, and have never seen it so peaceful and flat. Typical afternoon winds can be pretty rough, but we paddle back to Devils' Junction at 6pm after seeing barely a whisper of breeze all day. 70 degrees, and hundreds of little baby spiders, a la the last chapter of "Charlotte's Web", drift southward across the lake. Speaking of warm moving air, Ranger Jake stops by to remind us of regulations... for those of you who try this trip on your own, remember to keep your tent on the marked tent pads. Just because someone has obviously pitched a tent some other time in that prime spot next to the water, doesn't make it OK for you to do it.

Day Four... to avoid the afternoon headwind, in spite of never seeing that big southerly in the first three days, we break camp and get on the water early. Really early. Like, 10:30am. This group is blessed by fresh water and no tide charts to live by. And the tequila ran out the night before.

We make our way South, dipping into Devil's Creek again -- this time shafts of morning sunlight penetrate to the bottom of the gorge -- and stopping for lunch among the thieving chipmunks at Big Beaver campground. A summer beehive of activity for fishermen and families, Beaver in September reveals not a soul in camp, on the water, or on the trail. Amazing. Quiet, sunny and peaceful. A night camping here would be a treat. But we hit the boats, surf a wave at the outlet of Beaver Creek, and push on South to the Resort. In the last mile we brave ten minutes of "this is what your whole trip could have been" whitecaps in our faces, but they disappear mysteriously as we round the final bend and our bunkhouse comes in sight with its hot shower and steak dinner awaiting (along with a fresh bottle of Cuervo).

Tom and Will, proprietors of the Resort, greet us with the fresh chow and beverages we requested two days earlier, and after a dip in the lake and a shower, we fire up the BBQ, fill our glasses, and watch the glacier basin between Colonial and Pyramid Peaks glow pink with the fading sunset. Late into the night we sit on the floating deck, telling stories (another visit from our buddy MacGregor) and plan our next adventure.

Day Five... Bob is the last to slowly emerge from the comfort of his bed. First time I've ever seen him anything other than joyful. Hmmm, an empty bottle by the door might explain it. Will confirms this, happily sitting in the resort office at 9am chirping, "dude, I'm still buzzed!"

We pack our gear and take the short paddle across the lake to the truck shuttle. But before riding down the hill we can't resist a walk across the top of Ross Dam, looking 550 feet straight down the man-made wall into Diablo Lake below. Rand snaps picture after picture, asking a lone passerby for a couple of group shots, and we're on our way.

We practice all those rudder strokes Bob's been drilling into us as we cruise slowly back down Diablo Gorge, snugging inches from the rocks and emerging unscathed. The final mile up Thunder Arm to the takeout is a slow drift, checking out Colonial Peak straight above our heads one last time as it shines with the Weather God's sunlight.

[ccarlson]

Hey Bob... thanks for the trip report... sounds like a blast. Y'know, we do still miss you around here ;-)

[bob budd]

Came upon a former NSPNer at Morris Island. His memories were of a "Mr. Burnett" who would tip him over to see if he would roll up. Sorry, didn't get a name.