The scenic beauty of the Pacific Northwest enthralls me. This splendor is what brought me here to live. The colors and patterns of the landscapes give even the most casual photographer the opportunity to take memorable landscape photographs. Recently I have become enamored with a more classic view of the mountains – black and white images. Using modern digital technology, I have been enjoying converting my digital color images into monochrome, emulating the shimmering tones of Kodak’s wonderful black and white films of a bygone era . I hope you enjoy the nostalgia.

Dennis Walton is best known for his global travel photography.  For Dennis the challenge is to capture an instant in time with an image that shows the essence of a person, place or scene. His work is represented by Lonely Planet Images and Getty Images and has been featured in various international print venues as well as on the media with BBC Travel in the UK. When he’s not exploring the world with his camera, he makes his home beside Lake Whatcom. Visit his website at: www.denniswalton.zenfolio.com

I dropped my husband Bill off at eight o’clock so he could catch the bus to the starting line and made my way to the Riverside T Station to park the car. I’d be meeting David, our friend Lindsay’s father, at 9:30 so we could spend the day together watching the race. This was my third time cheering Bill on in the Boston Marathon so I knew exactly where we should stand to get a good view of the runners between miles 16 and 17.

The weather was perfect for everyone: not too cold if you were standing around all day as a fan and not too hot if you were running. David and I stationed ourselves pressed up against a metal barrier erected to keep spectators off the route, dug out our cameras, and settled in for several hours of shouting accolades.

There’s absolutely nothing like the Boston Marathon with its thousands of runners and hundreds of thousands of fans lining the roads the whole way! I’ve run 25 marathons myself, but since I tend to slog along at the back of the pack, I’ve never hoped to qualify for Boston. My husband, however, has qualified repeatedly, and this was to be his fourth time running the esteemed and celebratory event. I have to admit to a little jealousy as I’ve stood on the sidelines watching the faces of the Boston runners—from the elites to the charity racers—smiling with pride and accomplishment when they pass me. But mostly I’m content to be a fan and feel excitement on their behalf—happy to be one little soul among the throng.

Monday was no exception. I signed up to receive text messages to track five different friends, including Bill and Lindsay, as they passed the 10K, half marathon, 30K and finish points. This meant we could stand by watching for them with a decent estimate of when they would be coming through.

For a couple of hours we enjoyed cheering for those who came through early—the wheelchair racers and the elite women and men. Around 1pm, right on target, Lindsay passed us. David and I caught her attention and got a satisfied wave from her. Then came Bill a few minutes behind Lindsay. He knew where I would be standing, so he stayed to the right on the route where he could pause and kiss me as he passed. It was all happening as we’d planned, on schedule and without a glitch.

Shortly after they’d gone by, David and I hopped on the train to make our way to the finish. From experience, I knew we wouldn’t be able to get close enough to watch our runners cross the line, so when we got to Copley Square, I suggested we go find a cup of coffee a few blocks away and let Lindsay and Bill finish and make their way through the recovery zone before we went to meet them. Once I got the texts telling us they’d both crossed the line, we started back toward the family meeting area.

Twenty minutes later, coffee in hand, near where we’d all agreed to meet, we heard a loud BOOM. David commented that someone important must have just finished the race to warrant such a greeting. Wonder who it was? Then there was another BOOM. Briefly it crossed my mind to think, “Could it be a bomb?” but I dismissed the thought resolutely. There could be no reason to bomb a marathon. The blasts must be some sort of planned fireworks or maybe a transformer blew out its power source.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed. My friend Brandon tweeted from back home in Washington State, “Are you ok? What’s going on there?” Then I saw that I’d missed a call from Lindsay. When I dialed her back she was frantic to know where we were.

“Right here in the family area. We’ll stay put. Come find us.”

I left David waiting for Lindsay and went down the road to look for Bill by myself. People were crying in the family area, but I still didn’t know what was happening. Runners often cry after a marathon. It’s a tough haul running 26.2 miles, certainly cry-worthy!

I tweeted Brandon back and asked him what he’d heard.

“Explosion,” he wrote.

My phone buzzed again to notify me of another friend’s pace, but it indicated her time as of “40K” only, and I knew they must have stopped the race for some reason—my friend would never quit a marathon before the finish line. A marathon is 42 Kilometers. They weren’t letting runners finish. I tried not to listen when I heard passersby say words like “blood” and “bomb.”

My heart was pounding as I searched the crowd for Bill’s face. A mother passed by me, comforting her crying child. Then another family passed, tears streaking down their faces. Why were the children crying?

I tried to breathe, the way I do near the end of a race when, tired and ready to be done, I have to rally my resolve to keep going. I had to focus on my belly rising and falling not to give in to my rising alarm that Bill wasn’t yet at our designated meeting area. I reminded myself that he was typically slow in recovering, that he liked to linger over the food, that he needed to get his drop bag, and that he might decide to change his clothes before coming to the family area.

I called David and Lindsay and asked them to come to where I was standing so we could all be together. And then I called Bill’s phone. No answer, but that wasn’t unusual either. Much to my ongoing frustration, Bill rarely remembers to check his phone.

Suddenly, my phone was buzzing incessantly with text messages. Are you ok? What’s happening? Are you near the explosion? I couldn’t answer yet—not until we found Bill.

And then there he was, walking stiffly toward us—obviously confused by the growing chaos. Still, he was just a tired marathoner happy to see his number one fan, and I was relieved to find him.

There was no announcement to evacuate the area; we (and by “we” I mean the four of us, but also everyone else) just knew we should get away from Copley Square. We heard the first siren and knew for sure that someone must be hurt. But soon dozens of emergency vehicles rushed in from every direction; the sound was deafening. Still, the only information we had was coming from family and friends checking on us—incomplete at best—but we knew from the sheer number of emergency vehicles that something big must have happened, something more than an accident or a prank gone bad.

People, most unfamiliar with the city, were moving with a growing sense of crisis, disoriented on the street as they tried to get out of the square. Without the full story, no one knew how much to panic or what the continuing threat might be, but everyone seemed to comply with the unspoken understanding that we should get the hell out of the general area. Down in the subway where we learned that the line we needed was closed down, people seemed eerily disconnected from what was happening above the ground. Ignorance is bliss, they say.

We ended up in a bar in the Italian part of town—the only place we could easily get to on the subway—and waited out the chaos. It was only then, with access to a television that we learned what had happened: The Boston Marathon had, indeed, been bombed. Bill and Lindsay had been no more than 300 yards from where more than a hundred spectators were injured and three people were killed.

Normally,  I’m fond of extrapolating life lessons out of race experiences, but there isn’t anything I want to learn from this terrible tragedy which almost (but didn’t) change my life. I don’t want to learn to be a more vigilant runner or to stay away from big sporting events. I don’t want to decide the world is more dangerous than I thought it was on Sunday or even that I should hold those dear to me closer. I want to go about my business as usual, trusting the odds are on my side that I’ll be safe in this world, running happily in big races, and getting irritated with Bill when he doesn’t answer his cell phone. I don’t know if I can pull it off, but I don’t want a senseless act of violence to change my worldview—one I’ve crafted intentionally and thoughtfully over the years.

There is one thing that has changed for me, though: Next time I won’t be content on the sidelines. I want to go back to the Boston Marathon as a runner and show solidarity and support to a city that hosts one of the most extraordinary events in the world. Thank you Boston. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Cami Ostman is a regular contributor to Adventures NW and the author of Second Wind: Seven Marathons on Seven Continents (Seal Press). Her latest book, 26.2 Life Lessons: Helping You Keep Pace with the Marathon of Life (written with Carol Frazey) is available at http://www.7marathons7continents.com

“This is a great achievement,” said Tom Reeve, Lopez Island resident. “It is the result of determined work by Congressman Rick Larsen, Senator Maria Cantwell, Interior Secretary Ken Salazar, State Senator Kevin Ranker and the San Juan County Council responding to the goals of the community that cares so deeply about these lands.”

President Obama creates The San Juan Islands National Monument on March 25th.

“The communities in these islands look forward to working with the Bureau of Land Management to develop and carry out a management plan that protects these valuable natural and cultural sites,” said San Juan County Council Chair and Lopez Island resident Jamie Stephens.

The San Juan Islands National Monument will encompass approximately 75 Bureau of Land Management sites totaling about 1,000 acres in San Juan, Whatcom and Skagit counties. Designation as a National Monument removes these lands from possible sale or development by the Bureau and engages the local community in developing and carrying out a management plan for these lands.

Sucia Island.

Under permanent protection will be dozens of small islands in the San Juans, like Indian Island near the town of Eastsound, that provide breeding grounds for birds and safe refuges for everything from harbor seal pups to rare plants.

These lands include ancient fishing sites and camas gardens that are important to Native American culture, and historically important lighthouses on Patos Island and Turn Point.

Also to be protected are popular recreation destinations in the islands like Iceberg Point and Watmough Bay on Lopez Island, Patos Island and Cattle Point on San Juan Island.

Hundreds of community businesses, organizations, individuals, local governments and elected officials have supported permanent protection of the BLM lands.

The northern San Juans boast world-class marine parks.

Congressman Rick Larsen and Senator Maria Cantwell introduced legislation to create a National Conservation Area to protect the BLM lands in the islands. That legislation will provide the basis for the presidential proclamation designating the San Juan Islands National Monument.

“San Juan Islanders have been shouting from the rooftops for years: protect these lands. Well the President heard our message loud and clear,” said Congressman Larsen. “The San Juan Islands are among the most beautiful places in the country and are an economic engine for Northwest Washington that attract thousands of tourists each year. That’s why I have worked doggedly alongside Islanders for the last four years to push for this permanent protection. President Obama’s designation of the national monument in the San Juan Islands is the culmination of years of persistence by environmental and business leaders who built consensus and remained resolute in their mission. The national monument designation will protect this resource for residents and visitors today and in the future.”

Tulip Pedal offers three rides – a 20-mile course around the tulip fields between Mount Vernon and La Conner, as well as 40- and 60-mile courses that begin and end at La Conner Middle School. The courses take riders through the spectacularly colorful tulip fields that make the Skagit Valley famous and past breathtaking views of Samish and Padilla bays, Mount Baker and the Cascade foothills. The 60-mile course incorporates elements of the 20- and 40-mile rides, but offers a swing around Fir Island, too!

Tulip Pedal Fun

Riders will get receive tri-fold maps of the courses. A large map will be on display to show an overview of the route. Colored arrows will mark the courses.

Rest areas are located throughout the course at McLean Road Fire Department (all courses), Edison Fire Department (60-mile course) and Conway Fire Department (40-and 60-mile courses).

Since 1982, the Tulip Pedal has drawn thousands of cyclists from all over North America to raise money for various non-profit organizations in Skagit County. Since 2003, Skagit County Medic One has been the primary beneficiary, and since 2009, the ride has been the sole fundraiser for Safe Kids Skagit County.

Riders will receive a free racing beanie (limited number), a tulip from Washington Bulb Company, snacks at the registration area and rest stops, water, and a whole lot of fun!

Register at active.com or by calling 360-428-3230 and 360-428-3236.

Yellow fields: daffodils brighten spring in the Skagit Valley, followed by tulips.

Mt. Elbrus – the highest point in Europe

This is the third installment in Dave Mauro’s Seven Summits series. In previous accounts, Dave was introduced to high altitude climbing on an unlikely ascent of Denali in Alaska, after which he successfully completed the classic trip to the roof of Africa, Mt. Kilimanjaro.

It is safe to say that the Russian people tend to be quite stoic.

We had observed this characteristic everywhere we went during our travels. This is perhaps the consequence of being the children of a generation that had little to smile about.

Our hotel in Azao. The one I named Oz

So it was notable when the passengers of our flight from Moscow to Mineralyne Vody spontaneously erupted in applause. The occasion of their joy was a safe landing. It is said that low expectations are the gateway to simple pleasures.

We boarded a van for the four hour drive to Azau, our base camp for the Mt. Elbrus climb. After summitting the highest peaks in North America (Denali) and Africa (Kilimanjaro), I was eager for this shot at the highest point in Europe.

Our route passed through modest towns and fields of Sunflowers. There were lean dogs and motionless burros.  Shoeless children played with a kitten near a sad-faced old woman selling watermelons from a roadside stand. Incomplete walls protected incomplete homes. These towns all had stories we would never know. We were only passing through, Westerners here for some other purpose.

Azau is a village being built around a decommissioned gondola house at the base of Mt Elbrus. If there is a master plan for the development of Azau, no one has bothered looking at it. Structures have been started and then abandoned, their concrete and dangling rebar telling the forlorn tale of dreams that exceeded the fortunes of the dreamer. Our own hotel was a strangely modern structure featuring emerald green glass set into its white three story facade. Daylight was transformed into an eerie hue that fell heavy upon the simple furnishings within, a space left otherwise dark to allow the proprietors to conserve expensive electricity. I took to calling it Oz.

Border of Russia and Georgia. You can probably tell they were not getting along.

The high summit of Europe, Mt Elbrus, is located in the southern-most part of Russia, bordering Georgia as part of the Caucasus Mountains. Standing 18,510 feet tall, Elbrus is the fifth highest of the Seven Summits. Most climbers regard Elbrus as the “easiest” of the Seven. This is not unreasonable given the conveniences of a chair lift, gondola, and snow cat ride which combine to take a good bit of the climbing out of the climb. As well, Elbrus may be climbed without enduring even one cold night in a tent, such are the amenities that come with the mountain also being a ski resort. But all of this adds up to a head fake. Some climbers view Elbrus as the equivalent of summer camp, ignoring the requisite acclimatization and the violent unpredictable weather up high. As a result about ten of them die on Elbrus each year.

Our team included a young couple from New York, Ed and Swati. They were new to altitude climbing, but fit and enthusiastic. Dr Richard Birkill from my Kilimanjaro team was also along, largely because I had, for several weeks, taunted him with repeated text messages which called into question his courage and masculinity, quite often featuring the chicken tagline “Bocka Bocka Bocka”.

The Caucuses Range.

Our lead guide was famed climber Mike Roberts of Adventure Consultants. We were the lemmings – he was the sound of the sea. Mike is modest and soft-spoken, but his laugh is big, contagious, and somehow reveals the accent of his native New Zealand. Our team was rounded out by Alex, our local Russian guide. Alex had made a name for himself by soloing K2 the year before.

For the first several days we set out on various hikes designed to aid our acclimatization, each night returning to the comforts of Oz. Humorless Russian women served hot breakfast and dinners in the basement of our hotel. Our lunches were packed for us each day. There were comfortable beds and hot showers. I felt equal parts gratitude and embarrassment.

Our last day-hike took us up to 12,000 feet on Cheggett Mountain. This meant we were ready to leave Azau for high camp on Elbrus. The next day we loaded onto chair lifts which took the team up to a gondola station. We piled into several gondolas with our gear and completed the journey up to “The cubes” at high camp. The cubes are a cluster of steel boxes built with four bunks inside for sleeping.  They are dirty and smelly, but they are heated and much more spacious than any tent. We moved into our cube then walked to the dining cube at our assigned time to eat.

The “Cubes” we slept in at high camp.

The team had done well up to this point. We had completed most phases of acclimatization and felt good. The only exception was Swati, who had awakened an old foot injury and was experiencing a fair bit of pain.  Alex suggested a Doctor look at Swati’s foot. When we pointed out that Richard is a Doctor, Alex shook his head “No No No! Professional Doctor!” he asserted. Richard was a good sport, allowing the group a laugh at his expense. But the next day Swati’s foot kept her from completing the final acclimation climb to the Pastukhova Rocks at 15,000 feet and her summit dream fell into question.

We took a rest day at high camp, working on our snow skills and trying to buy some time for Swati’s foot to improve. But when we woke at 1 a.m. to leave for the summit the following day, it was clear Swati would not be leaving with us. Ironically, her troubled foot was not the cause. She had contracted some form of intestinal bug and been up vomiting much of the night.

Swati had done everything right; put in the training, bought the expensive gear, hired the best guides, suffered through her foot problem, and endured the chronic discomforts of altitude acclimatization. But in the end this would not be her day.

It’s a hard thing to see someone’s dream come apart. We all felt terrible for Swati. Ed offered to give up his own summit dream to stay behind and care for her, but she insisted that he press on with the climb. Mike and Richard provided medications. Arrangements were made to have her taken down to Azau where the comforts of Oz would provide some relief. She smiled and bravely waved goodbye to us.

The lone outhouse for high camp. Structurally suspect.

We geared up and boarded the snow cat for the ride that would take us back to where our climb had left off two days prior at 15,000 feet.  By 2:30 a.m. we were stepping off the snow cat, crampons on, and starting up the first grueling pitch, a steep incline 1,200 feet up the west flank of Elbrus. We made decent progress for the first hour, but then our pace started falling off. The wind had picked up and it became increasingly difficult to stay warm.  From my place at the back of the team I could see that Richard seemed to be working much harder than the rest of us. Something was wrong. The temperature was down to – 5 degrees Fahrenheit. This was not extraordinarily cold, but with the oxygen-diminished air the physiological effect is amplified. Mike called for a break and suggested we put on our heavy summit parkas, over pants, balaclavas, and mittens. I dug each from my pack and put them on, feeling immediately better.  We continued on, our bodies warmer, our pace still slow. After 30 minutes I noticed Richard was duck-footing his right foot outward and pushing off of it to step forward and uphill with the left. I called for the team to stop and climbed up to Richard. Pointing out what I had noticed, I urged him to not squander his energy with such an inefficient practice.

Team member Richard Birkill napping with Caucuses Range in background.

We began the second pitch, a long steep traverse winding northward. Dawn broke, but we were still on the dark side of Elbrus. It occurred to me that our problems with the cold would be solved if we could traverse out of the mountain’s shadow. Then Richard suddenly stopped. He, Mike, and Alex had a discussion. By the time I climbed up to them it had been decided that Richard would take a dose of Diamox to stabilize the altitude effects. He had been talking about turning back. “We are trying to persuade him to continue on,” Mike said, having seen climbers work through such conditions many times, believing Richard might do the same.

Dawn, the day of our summit bid. I am at the rear, Edward Olebe is in the middle, Richard Birkill at the front.

It was hard to say how much of Richard’s problems were the result of altitude, hypothermia, or issues of general fitness. On some level, each factor appeared to be contributing. But there was something else. “I have a bad feeling about this,” Richard said. Back in Moscow he had shared with me a grim premonition that had come to him as he said goodbye to one of his daughters. This foreboding was now consuming his thoughts and still more precious energy. Hearing this, Mike asked if Richard would feel better continuing on if they were roped together, a technique called “short roping.” Richard said he would, so Mike started rigging the line. At some point Mike looked at Ed and didn’t like what he saw. “Ed,” he said,” you’ve just been standing there and you still don’t have your over-pants on. I’m starting to question your judgment. Don’t fade on me, buddy. Put those over-pants on now.”

Then Mike turned back to Richard, who had a new problem. With all of the standing around his left foot had gone numb. “Right, we will remove the boot and warm the foot,” Mike said, instructing Richard to lay on his back and place the afflicted foot under Mikes upper layers, against the bare flesh of his stomach. I asked what I could do to help and was handed the inner liner of Richard’s boot. “Keep this somewhere warm,” Mike said. I stuffed it under my parka.

Then I glanced back at Ed and noticed he was impossibly tangled up in the process of putting on his over-pants, the crampons of his right foot piercing them in three places. I backed his foot out and opened the leg zippers completely. Then I carefully guided each foot through.  Things were becoming worrisome.

The high Caucuses.

The team plodded on, chasing the edge of the shadow and the hope that our climb would emerge stronger in the light of day. We passed into the sun forty minutes later on a section of the traverse that flattens out. The combination of warmer conditions and a rest for our legs turned everything around. As we paused to hydrate, I turned to Ed. “We will stand on top of this &#!*% before the day is out!”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I think we will.”

By the time we reached the east side of the saddle we were all removing layers and applying sunscreen. Richard shed his pack at the base of our next pitch, a steep climb rising 1,600 feet from the saddle to the summit plateau.  He was still struggling but seemed to have reached down deep and found what it takes to carry on when most of you wants to cash in.

“And now, dear friends,” Alex called out, “the final forty meters! Most difficult part of climb.” Not only the steepest grade we had seen, this section also menaced climbers with a sheer 2,000 foot drop off on one side. There could be no mistakes. For the next forty minutes we methodically scratched our way up the narrow catwalk at the top of the pitch and onto the summit plateau. Again we rested, hydrated, opened the zipper vents on our clothing, and applied more sunscreen.

We had been climbing for eight hours and had gained almost 3,500 vertical feet. Now, from where we sat drinking Gatorade, we could see the final rise of fifty feet to the summit on the far side of the plateau. As we took those final steps, the realization of what we had accomplished settled on me. There were hugs and photos. We all said how much we wished Swati was there. I called my mother and my love, Lin, on the satellite phone. Then I released my brothers ashes to the Russian wind.

Dawn during summit bid; Me, Ed, Richard

This is the third in a series of seven stories by Dave Mauro, each describing the ascent of one of the “Seven Summits”; the highest points on each continent. Next up: Aconcagua 

Dave Mauro is a longtime Bellingham, WA. resident. By day he works as a financial advisor at UBS. By night he is an improv actor at the Upfront Theatre. Now and again, he travels the world with the goal of climbing the highest summit on each of the planet’s continents. Follow his quest at www.AdventuresNW.com 

His blogs, photos and videos are also available at https://sites.google.com/site/davidjmauro/.

The Waitakere Range receives plenty of rainfall and this has created a dense, green, almost tropical wonderland, a jungle atmosphere at stark contrast to the snowy peaks, boiling mud geysers and more temperate forests found elsewhere on the islands.

If you happen to be travelling around Australia and New Zealand try to see the lush Waitakere Range from the air; there are many charter companies offering cheap flights to Auckland and around the many scenic areas – an excellent way to get a bird’s eye view of the magnificent terrain below.

It is possible to travel from the heart of cosmopolitan Auckland to dense unspoiled rain forest in a mere 40 minutes or so, an almost surreal experience! Camping facilities are available, as are 250 kilometers of walks and trails, in addition to the Hillary Trail.

The Hillary Trail, named after that most famous New Zealand explorer, Sir Edmund Hillary, follows the range on a north-south axis and covers some 70 kilometers,  perfect for a walking or hiking holiday

The Arataki Visitors Centre will provide you with a brochure and any other information you require, to ensure that you do not miss out on any of the treats waiting in the green shade of the tree canopy. Black sand beaches created from volcanic rock, mystic veils of waterfalls and the plentiful streams and brooks have created a magical setting in which a bird-watcher could easily spend hours, looking for shining kingfishers, cuckoos and tui, among the many other birds  found here.

The Waitakere Ranges offers a range of activities to visitors, including fishing, swimming and surfing. The only cloud on the horizon is a lack of reliable cell-phone coverage – but, as you are on holiday, maybe that is actually one of the benefits, an excellent excuse to forget about the office dramas and simply relax!

There are two sports worlds. There is the world of mainstream sports, with its glamorous superstars, enormous budgets and massive marketing machines. Then there’s the world of passion sports, with its underdog heroes, relative poverty and niche marketing efforts. Everyone knows the mainstream sports legends. But in the passion sports, our heroes are legends in the true sense of the word. Stories of their accomplishments filter through the sport. Eventually, their names become renowned, if only among a few thousand enthusiasts. Kayak legend Reg Lake is one of those heroes.

Reg playing at Skookumchuck Rapids

As a young man, he enjoyed hiking in the Sierras of California, but in the late 1960′s something new grabbed his attention. “While hiking at Point Reyes National Seashore, I met a couple of people who built their own kayaks. It wasn’t so much what they said but their enthusiasm, the way they talked about it.  A short time later one of the guys at United Airlines [where Reg was employed] had a kayak for sale so I bought the kayak for a hundred bucks and I contacted these folks, seeking a source of instruction. It ends up that I found a tighter bond with the whitewater group than the backpacking crowd. ”

Thus began a long career in kayaking that drove Reg from day paddles to epic, boundary-smashing explorations. Once he got the feel for whitewater kayaking, he started to ask himself: is there anything more?

“The sport was so young, so many rivers that hadn’t been done before. All the ones without portages had been done.  So then you have to think: what hasn’t been done?”

This train of thought led him to some bold ideas. What if kayaks could be carried over a great distance to seek out some of these previously un-run rivers? How hard could it really be?

“In 1980 I connected with some climbers that I met on a trip on Rio Bío Bío in Chile.  We realized we had an interest in the front edge of kayaking.  So we came back to the Sierras and checked out the topo maps and started plotting a couple rivers to do. I didn’t have the climbing knowledge; I trusted the climbers knew what they were doing. I felt my decision making would matter on the water. . . I would run it if I could and if not, it was a portage. ”

And portage he did. Teaming up with famed climbers Royal Robbins (of Royal Robbins outdoor clothing), Doug Tompkins (co-founder of North Face and Espirit) and Yvon Chouinard (founder of Patagonia), Reg began a series of long hauls to run some truly wild waters. They would pack up their kayaks and all their camping gear and trek across the mountains to find elusive untouched whitewater rapids.

“I felt out of my element in the climbing part of it.  But being with Royal Robbins and Doug Tompkins, if there was any rope work to be set, they’d set it. It goes back to putting confidence in your partners.  Much like the way they climbed, when the lead would change, somebody would get to a crux move on the river and he’d scout it and then describe it to the others or they would point to their eyes and you’d get out and look at it yourself. ”

So, the mountain people and the water people got together and had some epic adventures. They made their way across forest, rock and snow to some of the most remote rivers in the West. Along the way, they got pretty good at it.

Reg Lake on the first descent of the Clark Fork of the Yellowstone River in Wyoming.

One day, Royal was poring over a map and found something of interest to the team. No one had ever kayaked the headwaters of the Kern river, a mighty run that starts in the steep Sierras of Inyo county and peters out just east of Bakersfield. There was just one catch: getting there would mean a 22. 5 mile carry across Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. What sounds insane to you and me became a challenge to Reg and his team.

“For the 22 and a half miles of portaging over Mt. Whitney, we looked into an aerial drop, we looked at using pack animals, and there was no real legal way of doing it. . . So we were going to go through Yosemite and hire some climbers to help tow some gear but Doug ended up getting a couple employees from Espirit [the company he owned at the time]. We all carried our own kayaks but there was extra gear these employees carried. Once we got to the river, they carried the backpack frames and other stuff back out. So, it was a really good experience for them and it worked out well for us. ”

The climb was arduous and the long, steep whitewater was a mental and physical challenge, but the trip ended in weary, wet success: the first running of the upper Kern. Reg and his team had done the impossible.

I asked Reg how his success at these massive climbing/kayaking expeditions affected his understanding of what “difficult” really means.

“It’s funny now, if there’s a quarter mile portage people start grumbling.  You have to do stupid stuff to make it all relative. It’s the same thing with doing long days. Usually 20 miles in a river is a good long day, but five or six times in my life I’ve done over 100 miles in a day. So you can do 20 miles in an afternoon if you have to. You just keep moving. ”

Reg Lake, Royal Robbins, and Doug Tompkins at the pass on Mount Whitney, elevation 13,777 feet before the first Descent of the Kern River. A remarkable 22.5 mile carry to the put-in at 8,000 ft.

And Reg kept moving. He continued finding new explorations in California and went on numerous coastal expeditions in Chile. During this time, he was running his own kayak shop and learned the intricacies of kayak design.  He was struck by the differences between sea kayaking and whitewater, and he explains why he prefers the whitewater.

“There’s a great line from songwriter Chuck Pyle: ‘For every mile of road there’s two miles of ditches. ‘ On the river, for every mile of river there’s two miles of shoreline. So there’s a lot of really good scenery. You take it all in, experience it. You drop down through some different life zones and there are different trees, the river changes character.  It usually starts out steep and gets milder near the bottom. We’d put in at over 9000 feet sometimes and drop from alpine to tree-line to high desert. It’s an interesting experience. ”

Nowadays, Reg Lake is busy with his friend Sterling Donalson at Sterling Kayaks in Bellingham, Washington. They build some of the most beautiful and technologically advanced kayaks in the world, with orders coming in from all over the globe.  A recent fire destroyed the shop, but after some understandable grief and consternation, they are back at it and plan to be running at capacity by summer of 2013.

If you want to get Reg Lake excited, talk about kayak design.

“I was getting frustrated with sea kayak design because I kept modifying a little bit or looking for designs where the stern was freer. And it never was! So when I was working with Sterling, I knew the value of freeing up the stern so we did that on the Grand Illusion. The Icecap and the Illusion had really good control. They’d out-perform the competition. But then with the Grand Illusion, we really got to play with it. And it was  so maneuverable that I thought we were giving away some speed or something. I thought we did too much; something must be wrong. Turns out nothing was wrong; it worked the way I thought it should!”

Though hurtling inexorably into his silver years, Reg continues to paddle. The passion remains undiminished. Among kayakers he remains a living legend. He’d bristle at this description, but in the world of passion sports we need our heroes. They don’t get TV deals or their faces plastered all over cereal boxes. Instead, they have their own secret club full of tremendous athletes; some of them fans, some of them champions. The only thing holding them together is their love of adventure, from the trails to the oceans.

Reg has some sage words on the subject of “adventure”.

“Bruce Mason at Oregon University says ‘Adventure is something that while you’re doing it you wish you were back at home telling your friends about it. ‘ That rings true. Adventure, rightly stated, is only incompetence. Like Yvon Chouinard says, ‘It’s not an adventure until things start going wrong’.  People will say, ‘I want to go on an adventure with you!’ And I’ll respond, ‘How about worthy goals accomplished uneventfully?’ Usually they’ll go along with that. ”

Then Reg chuckles to himself: “I told this to someone and they used it in a book series: The difference between a fairy tale and a whitewater story is: a fairy tale starts out ‘Once upon a time. . . ‘ and a whitewater story starts out, ‘No shit, there I was!’”

There he was, indeed.

Each year in the spring, I have made it a long-standing habit to send myself on vacation down to the Southwest. Specifically, the Colorado Plateau country of southern Utah, northern Arizona – and occasionally – northwestern New Mexico and eastern Nevada. The red and purple landscapes of these dreamlands are as different from the lush blue-green of the northwest as can be imagined. Viva la difference!

In the thirty-plus years that I’ve been exploring this region I’ve discovered many very special places. Some are well-known and need no elaboration here: the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Arches National Park. Others are less famous – but no less amazing. Still others are way off the beaten path. Discoveries waiting to happen. Powerful medicine.

These images were taken in some of the least known, off the beaten path spots on the Colorado Plateau. Hiking – sometimes sans trail – is required to reach most of them. Some, however are accessible by road – usually rough sandy tracks requiring 4-wheel drive, high clearance and nerves of steel. A few are to be found right alongside the highway hidden by a hill or canyon.

Information to help you find these special places can be found in the Spring 2013 issue of Adventures NW magazine.

Happy Exploring!

I’ve been poking around the San Juan Islands with my sailboat for 12 years and I keep coming back to three little islands in the group: Matia, Sucia and Patos. Their fantastic sandstone formations perched above narrow and precipitous ledges compel me to find a way to access them, often a risky endeavor by dinghy, rewarding me only at the confluence of high tide, calm waters and a glorious “golden hour”. The enticement frequently leads to frustration, though, as the few mooring buoys on Matia and Patos are usually taken in the summer months, encouraging me to discover the peaceful seclusion of being alone there in the off season.

Lance Ekhart is best known for his extreme sailing adventures but his longtime interest in photography has been rekindled in the San Juan Islands. His writing and photography has appeared in publications including 48North, Wooden Boat Magazine, and Nautical Quarterly, and his photography has been featured in numerous galleries around the Pacific Northwest. He can usually be found philosophizing and contemplating the universe aboard his boat, Elenoa in Anacortes, WA.

Visit Lance’s website.

Story and photos by John D’Onofrio

A blessing…and a curse.

Here in the ragged northwest we are blessed with some of the most dramatic mountains in the world.  The peaks are sharp against the sky, wild fangs of rock and ice.  The weather has had its way with them and they are shaped and chiseled by its ferocity into these spectacular landscapes.  This is the blessing.

Of course the same weather reduces the snow-free hiking season to a pitifully short span of months, in between the much-anticipated summer melting and the first eager flurries of autumn.  This all-too brief season is far too short to satisfy the high country itch.  This is the curse.

Along the way: Spectacular winter landscapes make the climb to Artist Point a scenic delight.

For those of us who love these mountains, this means only one thing: get out the snowshoes.

I am frequently amazed by the legions of summer hikers who relegate their hiking boots to the closet when the white stuff starts to fly.  They are missing a great opportunity to explore the mountain landscapes of the North Cascades under truly magical conditions.  With the right gear and an adventurous spirit, the mountains are at their best when snow covered – the sun sparkling on pristine white slopes, skies filled with stars, the chance to experience true solitude and peace in the empty backcountry.

Although avalanche hazards restrict access in many areas of the North Cascades in the depths of winter, there are plenty of glorious destinations to explore in your snowshoes, ranging from casual afternoon strolls to multi-day adventures.  One of the very best easily-attained locations is found on the high ridge between Mt. Baker and Mt. Shuksan, officially known as Kulshan Ridge but widely referred to as Artist Point.

Artist Point’s proximity to the Mt. Baker Highway (kept clear in winter to facilitate access to the Mt. Baker Ski Area) and wildly scenic setting make it an ideal location for a winter sojourn, either for a satisfying day trip or – even better – a spectacular overnighter.  Greeting the winter dawn from Kulshan Ridge has become an annual tradition for me and I’ve seen the crystal clear morning sun sparkle on chorus lines of peaks and also hunkered in wind-whipped blizzards.

                Onward & Upward

Today, the forecast is promising and the skies are cobalt blue.  All systems go for an evening spent amongst the Mountain Gods.  We shoulder our packs and start up through the busy ski area.  The journey that will eventually take us to the stillness and silence of the heart of winter begins, perversely enough in the Mardi Gras atmosphere of the ski area and we slowly climb through the hustle and bustle.   Skiers and boarders whistle past us every few seconds.  We are salmon, swimming upstream against the current of Gore-Tex, fleece and iPods.

Digging a platform for the tent.

The route steepens as we climb to the boundary of the ski area.  A sign warns us that we’re on our own now, which is the way we like it.  Today’s avalanche report indicates low risk and the way to Artist Point generally avoids avalanche slopes, although fatal avalanches have occurred beneath Huntoon Point (the high point on the ridge) in the past.  The trick is to head straight up the steep slope above Austin Pass rather than following the route of the summer road around the last switchback.  And of course to be somewhere else when the avalanche danger is high.  Like your hot tub.

So on we go, leaving the noise and frenetic activity of the ski area behind us.  We ascend to the wonderland of Austin Pass with its million dollar view of Shuksan rearing up into the sky above the Swift Creek Valley.  A good place to shrug off the pack, eat some cashews and contemplate my good fortune.

Winter camp on Kulshan Ridge in the shadow of Mt. Baker

Onward and upward!  The going is easier here, on a well-established and well-compacted trail through picturesque snow-plastered trees and past rock faces displaying complex curtains of ice.  We come to the aforementioned last big switchback below Artist Point and veer off the snow-covered road, heading straight up the steep hill to avoid the potential avalanche slope below Huntoon Point.  It’s a stiff but short climb and before long we find ourselves atop the slender ridge at the ever so aptly named Artist Point.  Here is the marquee view of the magnificent North Cascades.  Close at hand, Shuksan’s snow-plastered face rises like a vision of alpine grandeur.  Beyond it, the great Border Peaks crowd the northern horizon.  But the undisputed lord of this high country wonderland is Mt. Baker, its mammoth ice cone filling the southwestern sky.

The winter landscape is a study in patterns and textures.

The thing to do now is to maneuver the elegant bumps and grinds of the ridge upwards in search of a suitable place to spend the evening.  We follow the well-stomped trail between precipitous drops on both sides, past isolated stands of lonely trees.  We stop and drop our voluminous packs at the base of the final upward thrust of Huntoon Point.  A few gnarled trees offer some (scant) shelter, should the wind come up.

With my snowshoes I stomp down a rectangle of snow on the reasonably flat ridge crest and we pitch the tent so that we’ll have a view of Shuksan in the morning.  Wielding our trusty avalanche shovels we carve ourselves a dinette set – table and chairs – in the snow.  We shovel some into the pot for melting on the stove to make drinking water.  The sun drops low in the western sky and aside from the hissing of the stove, a profound silence settles over the high country.  We have the ridge to ourselves.

As the sun makes its exit below the horizon, the face of Shuksan is illuminated with rosy alpenglow.  To the north the border peaks are silhouetted against the darkening sky.  We eat a fine dinner beneath a sky bristling with stars and linger over cups of hot tea.  The air is totally still.  We find ourselves whispering.

For those of us who love the sanctuary of the mountains, a winter’s night is the stuff that dreams are made of.  Solitude, silence, a sky so clear that the Milky Way seems in danger of spilling over.   The hushed white world seems so remote from the busy lives we lead down in the lowlands.

From Artist Point the Border Peaks define the northern horizon.

Dinner eaten, we relax on our snow loungers, exchanging stories and watching the stars.  In our numerous layers of polypro, fleece and Gore-Tex, we’re warm and comfortable.  Life is very good indeed here on Kulshan Ridge.

Eventually we crawl into the tent and our sleeping bags, bringing our boots inside to avoid unpleasantness in the morning.  The moon comes up to illuminate our dreams.

Editor’s Note: Before ventured out into the white stuff be sure to check the avalanche danger. If you don’t know, don’t go.