Chapter 1. The Journey to NOCA (forward and backward in time).
NOCA: A Daily Testament of Youthful Discovery in the Wilderness.
“Therefore, my dear sir, I know no advice for you save this: to go into yourself and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create…For the creator himself must be a world for himself and find everything in himself and in Nature to whom he has attached himself.” — Rainier Marie Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
May 3rd
At mile 964 of our journey to Washington state, Heather and I saw what we could of central Wyoming from a Taco John’s parking lot in Casper, devouring 49 cent tacos. There were no big mountains to behold, only rough and barren hills as far as our squinting eyes could see. Beyond our vision, there were meditative horses and cattle behind fences, and pronghorns in ranges of seemingly endless proportions.
Our road trip up to that point hadn’t been so sweet. We had been shrouded in gloom since the commencement of our journey in Kansas. We got caught in a downpour in Colorado and were nearly trapped in a blizzard in Wyoming.
Back on Highway 210 in southeastern Wyoming, surrounded by a barren wasteland, Heather and I leaned anxiously towards the dash and peered into a frosty oblivion. We were scared for our lives as the highway faded into a blanket of snow. For a monstrous SUV it would have been a small task, but in our 1991 four-cylinder two door Honda Accord, we felt as if we could have been easily swallowed by a snowdrift, never to see the landscape of Medicine Bow National Forest ever again.
Our thirty mile “scenic route” on Highway 210 turned out to be an hour long death grip on the steering wheel. When we finally reached Interstate 80, just south of Laramie, we had to merge with cautious semis straddling the yellow line. We headed down the curvy interstate at 35 mph, navigating a maze of jackknifed semis, snowdrifts and ice patches. Initially, our plan had been to score free camping on Forest Service land, but the winter tempest chased us to the safety of a hotel in Laramie.
We pulled into the First Inn Gold and delighted in the unexpected expense of a heater and cozy bed. We cranked up the heat, stripped naked and drank a Fat Tire while listening to the songs of birds known to be summer residents of the North Cascades National Park, our home for the summer.
The North Cascades stretch for 500 miles from the Snoqualmie River in Washington, north to the Fraser River in Canada. The Cascade Range is bordered on the east by the Okanogan Highlands and the Columbia Plateau and by the Puget Lowlands to the west.
Water is a defining feature of the North Cascades. Waterfalls abound on the lush western crest of he Cascades, which receives over 100 inches of rainfall a year. Incidentally, the eastern crest receives only about 12 inches of precipitation annually. The North Cascades ecosystem contains sub-alpine meadows, dry montaine forest, deep river valleys, alpine lakes, lush temperate rain forest, old growth trees, high alpine ridges and gleaming glaciers. The North Cascades region is home to over 1500 species of plants and over 100 species of bird. There are black bears, grizzly bears, mountain lions, lynx, and gray wolves. In the rivers are salmon and various species of trout.
The North Cascades is a mountainous region that is continually being shaped by glaciers. The National Park itself has 318 glaciers. The almost 7000 glaciers of the entire region contributes 21 billion cubic feet a year to stream flow. Glaciers, which are moving rivers of perennial ice, are still shaping this fairly young mountain range. The characteristic knife sharp ridges and steep peaks of the North Cascades are beautiful examples of the artwork of glaciers. Geologists believe the mountain range was forced up from the ocean floor nearly 90 million years ago.
In 1960, the United States Congress created Glacier Peak Wilderness. On October 2, 1968 after efforts by many environmental organizations, the North Cascades Act was passed creating the North Cascades National Park Complex, comprised of 684,000 acres of land. This includes the north and south units of the park, Lake Chelan and Ross Lake National Recreation Areas. The legislation also created the adjacent Pasayten Wilderness, 550,000 acres, and added acreage to the Glacier Peak Wilderness. In 1988, Congress designated nearly 93 percent of these areas as the Stephen Mather Wilderness. Wilderness status further protects the landscape from human kind, allowing no motorized vehicles and no permanent improvements.
This was to be our Shangri-La.
The First Inn Gold was well worth the money. It snowed all night and the temperature dropped to 10 degrees above zero. Heather and I were afraid that we would be trapped in Laramie because of the road conditions were sure to get worse. We thought that spring was in full swing throughout the US, but Laramie, Wyoming spanked us back into reality. The old gal working the front desk at the Inn said, “Remember sweetie, you’re in Wyoming”.
The people who dwell in the terra firma known as Wyoming were as kind and gentle as the people of my Midwestern homeland. We found folks who loved small talk and conversations were genuine, mostly concerning the weather, our health or safety. There was a pretty girl with helpful eyes in the Comfort Inn who directed us to a vacancy sign in the blizzard night. A nice rotund woman in the First Inn Gold giggled at our questions and comments about the weather. A hippie chick at the beer store didn’t seem to know much about much, but she smiled and wished us good luck all the same. The worn out old ladies working the desk at the First Inn Gold, who had permanent smokes and coffee mugs attached to their hands, warned about the road closings, which seemed to encompass us. At an auto parts shop, we met a man with a jolly gut, who charged me way too much for what he called, “the best damn windshield wipers ever made.” He even slid on his shiny green jacket and stepped into the bitter cold afternoon to help us put the gems on. Suzy, the owner of a gas station, who didn’t know us from Adam, was gracious enough to give us bits of local wisdom to help guide our escape from the grips of Laramie. It seemed there could be no escape with such shitty weather. We were nearly convinced we might have to sign up for classes at the University and rent a house, but fate took us down the road.
We made it out of town that same day with the keen advice of a sweet girl working the counter at the Laramie Chamber of Commerce. She directed us east out of Laramie from Highway 3 to 34 across the foggy Laramie Mountains.
Along our escape route, Heather and I discovered an eerie yet inviting land of white desolation; a seemingly uninhabitable place that was teeming with American robins, American kestrels, European starlings and other birds unknown to us. Heather spotted elk with their butts in the snow, pronghorns on ridges and a herd of big horn sheep that were fenced into a corral.
A haze rose from Highway 34 as we traveled towards I-25 North. We had started our trip planning to take I-80 West through Laramie, but the road closings forced us north. On Interstate 25, we flew 84 mph towards Montana, the Big Sky Country I had only dreamt of. Our itinerary had changed, but we could see a beaming sunshine through the clouds and an open road lay ahead. As Heather drove, my mind wandered and I scribbled into my journal…Why am I heading West? Maybe I should have stayed home and not questioned what is out here to be found. Maybe I should always keep my family and my beer buddies close enough to see whenever I want. No! I must go. I must witness what my virgin eyes have yet to see, be a rebel and take chances. The world is waiting beyond my comfort zone. I must give up my cozy home for a tent, my bed for a sleeping pad, and family dinners for backcountry freeze dried meals. I am not afraid to run!
That night we camped along the Tongue River in Conner Battlefield State Park with the scent of horse manure and river twilight all around. This particular state park is in the city limits of Rochester, Wyoming. We set up our new Kelty Jetstream tent with pride on the riverside in between two deciduous trees, in a low spot of earth. From camp, we could hear a train rolling into town. When we left our confines to call our parents, I became paranoid that someone might steal our stuff. Heather figured Rochester was a harmless town of good ol’ boys who drank Busch from a can, but when you spend big bucks on your gear, you start to be suspicious of everyone, even the folks of Rochester, Wyoming.
After notifying our parents we were still alive, we figured a little beer buzz might be a good fit with our warm fire and mellow sunset behind a distant mountain range. Our only chance for booze was the local bar, but we had spent all the cash that we had (8 bucks) on our campsite. We were actually supposed to drop $9.00 into the “Iron Ranger” deposit box, but we wrote, “Sorry, all we’ve got” on the receipt and dropped our loot into the yellow envelope of trust.
Heather dropped me off at the bar and I hesitantly proceeded inside, hoping to buy some beers with my high tech debit card. Besides the faint country music on the jukebox, a hush enveloped me as I walked inside. Five dudes with names like Jim, Joe, Ralph, Rusty or Bob sat on barstools, shoulders rolled over, elbows on the glossy wooden bar, big noses shaded beneath ball caps, drinking Busch from a can. A small bartendress appeared from behind the bulge of drunken old men to ask, “Can I help you?” “Sure”, I said. However, I soon discovered that without cash, a man can’t catch a buzz in Rochester.
Back at the campsite, the Kelty tent stood strong and glowed in the headlights of my Honda. No hoodlums had stolen our stuff. It’s a shame you grow suspicious of mankind, but it’s also a shame how expensive “stuff” can be. I was reminded of the quote, “the things you own begin to own you”, but a man really can use a reliable shelter and a nice sleeping bag when he plans to spend his future nights amongst the wilderness of NOCA.
We wrapped corn on the cob in aluminum foil and tossed it into the coals of our hearth and in the pot we warmed some canned clam chowder. We shared a joint, did some rodent watching with our headlamps, enjoyed the firelight and some stargazing, christened our tent and slept like bricks.
May 5
We crawled out of the tent to find a spectacular morning in the make. We explored the banks of the cold creek and found western trillium growing in the shade of a Douglas fir. We burnt our eggs, enjoyed them all the same, packed up the car and hit the road towards our final destination in Washington state.
I felt pretty underprepared for my upcoming stint as a field biology intern. I had a couple of volunteer bird watching excursions under my belt, and had backpacked a few times for fun, but the closest I had been to being a field biologist was waiting tables. Our job was to conduct bird surveys in the North Cascades National Park for a non-profit organization. This organization, based out of California, implements various studies to establish baseline data for national parks and reserves. It is instrumental in mist-net and disturbed habitat studies, mostly involving our feathered friends…birds. A friend involved in his Master’s program at Missouri State University had told us about the organization and had worked for them on another project in northern Missouri. He had loved his experience and recommended we give it a shot.
Heather and I were craving an adventure, so we began to contact the organization with the desire to become backcountry field biology interns in the North Cascades. After sending out our resumes and making a few phone calls, we received word from Barry, a field biologist from the non profit group. In a soft voice, he stated that they had enough funding for two fairly inexperienced birders like ourselves to come and work in the North Cascades National Park. We would be required to learn over 80 songs of birds and be prepared to identify over 120 plant species found in NOCA, all the while packing our food, clothing, gear, scientific equipment and whatever else into our packs for a week at a time in the backcountry wilderness.
After we received that excellent news, I freaked out, yet was relieved to have something meaningful to do with my time. My passion had been dwindling after my college graduation in December of 2000. Following graduation, I stayed in Springfield, Missouri and worked in a outdoor adventure shop. It was at this time that I was able to score top notch equipment for our adventures.
Heather and I met in college after I had returned from a summer of bussing tables on Nantucket Island, off the coast of Massachusetts. There, I made some good money as a 19 year old bus boy at a high class French restaurant called The Chanticleer. While on Nantucket, I spent time enjoying my youth, and to make a long story short, when I returned from that adventure I was eager to chill out and take my education more seriously. On one beautiful evening in the Fall semester of my Junior year in college, I met Heather. Even though I lost her phone number, she didn’t give up on me and soon we were backpacking together, studying nature and sharing stories in the Ozarks of Southern Missouri. Our love grew from friendship and I gave up my heathen ways to be with Heather and study the ways of Nature and the outside world, and NOCA was our next step.
Two hundred miles west of Spokane, Washington lay immense flatlands, mostly utilized for agriculture. Much of the native scrubland had been turned into an irrigated crop-yielding landscape. Heather and I were shocked when we witnessed whirlwinds of topsoil rising fifty feet into the air and these massive irrigation systems. We did enjoy the signs labeling the crops…Alfalfa, Peas, Potatoes, Sweet Hay. Surreal mountains appeared rough and dry in the distance and upon investigation, we discovered that they were covered in yellow arrow-leaf balsamroot.
On I-90 West, about 100 miles east of Seattle, our nerves began to act up. The expectations started to become reality when I realized that I was merely a hobby naturalist trying to pose as a backcountry field biologist. Heather had a college education in wildlife biology, but I felt like a kid who burned for adventure who was in over his head. I think our fondness of the backcountry, the challenge of identifying a new bird, plant or mammal species had gotten us this far. I recall my father’s stories of his childhood in northwest Missouri. He would tell me how he’d trudge through oak and hickory groves, down draws and around ponds, identifying the birds he’d come across. He can always name off birds we see on family vacations and he continually impresses me with his knowledge of the natural world. I was ready to accumulate my own knowledge to pass along to him when we would walk in the woods together next. My main hope was that I could adapt to the temperate rain forests of NOCA and get to know all the birds and plants in our short 12 day training session.
In Seattle, there was a misty fog settled on I-90. Mountains were covered by millions of evergreens, but I noticed areas that seemed desecrated and barren. Heather said, “The mountains have mange mite,” and I inscribed in my journal…Hemp for paper, save our forests! I look at the mountains and I feel sorry for them. To take a gigantic bite from a mountain’s side and leave behind a wasteland of charred stumps seems unlawful. Why do some humans see timber and not a forest, money and not beauty, terrorism not environmentalism, dominance of life and not abundance of it? All we can do is drive by in despair. I wish that the evil corporations could hear the song of the forest over the growl of their chainsaws. Stands of trees carol a gentle hymn like a church choir. To me, trees hold a sense of power more intense than any manmade creation. Trees are upright, strong and they hold our earth tenaciously. Trees are the leaning posts of humanity and providers of our clean air. Clear cutting seems so obviously wrong, as if it is a violation of the trust that we should uphold between the human race and our forests. It is a breach of our sacred pact. I hope we can determine what is more important and awaken to make changes in the ways in which we harvest timber. From what I can see, we can’t continue to live against the forces of nature. We must coexist or be swept off the slate.
“It is no coincidence that the more timber we clear-cut the poorer the communities around these clear-cuts become; and the more mines we dig, the poorer we get. The last of the money goes somewhere but never to us, and in the end we have nothing, have less than nothing, for our imagination has been taken, and we have only a memory of how rich the land once was.” — Rick Bass, The Book of Yaak
We made it through the metropolis of Seattle, went north on I-5, then hooked east on the only highway that travels through NOCA, Highway 20. The tensions rose, but we were soothed by the mountains afar.
We passed through towns like Sedro Wooley, Concrete and Rockport before we reached the town we were to be summer residents, Marblemount, WA. Our home away from home.
The land immediately opened up to us, as did the people. On our first stop, in Janda’s Backcountry Cafe, we met Mary Jane, a wild waitress with the blond hair of a cowgirl and then met shy Amy who said she was a bluegrass musician. They kindly let us phone home and offered up the sweetest hot rolls this side of the Skagit River. We drank fresh mountain water from the tap and it felt like our new lives had suddenly begun.
The Skagit was the jewel of Mother Nature flowing on the other side of Highway 20, across from Janda’s Cafe. Heather and I surveyed snow topped peaks from the parking lot as we hopped into the car and headed east, towards a Texaco. There, we bought a fillet of smoked trout from a leather vested backountry salesman. We created our own six-pack of beer, a blend of Pacific Northwest microbrews and cruised to the banks of the Skagit, where we found the essence of our existence. Rocky crags lofted into heaven, unknown girths sat high and mighty in every direction. Everything seemed right, like we had stepped closer to the truth, the real reason we were on the planet. From that moment on, I wanted to crawl into the womb of Mother Nature. To say the least, it felt good to finally be home.
Along the riverside, we saw colossal black slugs, massive snails, smooth rocks, thick green algae, cottonwoods, paper birches and an old steel bridge that joined the two banks of the mighty Skagit River. We were soon greeted by two locals, Will and Shelly, who asked us if we smoked what they called “goo buds”. Will was a fast talking young man ready and raring to show us all the spots. While they talked our ears off, we sipped a few excellent craft beers and our minds tingled with a buzz. When Will and Shelly drove away in their Pathfinder, Heather and I decided to allow our minds to ease and worship the ground we walked upon. We immediately saw two common mergansers floating down the river. They looked divine; I could barely contain my excitement. The male’s white breast shining against the roiling waters was a magical sight. Suddenly, a giant steelhead trout leapt three times from the river. “Holy shit!” we yelled, “We are in paradise!”
After we sobered up, we left the river’s edge to drive in the twilight and find our employee housing for the summer or “The Bird House”, as we started calling it. The organization had rented a small home on the western edge of Marbelmount for the entire team of field biology interns to live. We noticed lights on in the house and a small pickup parked near the garage. We nervously knocked on the front door and were greeted by a dwarfish man with a shaggy beard, short brown hair, wearing a white tee shirt, jeans and flip flops. It was Barry, our new boss. To me, it was obvious that he was a field biologist. I felt assured that we would be priveleged to spend our summer getting to know him quite well. Barry was cool and calm, however he held an air of nervousness when he spoke. He was kind and patient, yet he had vigor.
In the house, Heather and I discovered that we were to have our own room. It quickly became crowded with all of our gear. After unloading the Honda, I stood in the tiny white room, overhearing Heather’s bird song tape booming from her Walkman as she napped amongst all of her things. A mixture of emotions filled my being. I was sure Heather was dreaming of Stellar’s jays and a Pacific-slope flycatchers.
May 6
Heather and I woke to an empty house and it was nice to ‘ruffle our feathers’ without anyone around to watch. We anticipated meeting our crew members and before anyone began to show up we brought to order our chaotic little room and snagged first dibs on cabinet and fridge space. We swept the linoleum and almost tore back muscles moving the couch that Barry had brought for the house furniture. We had to beat dust and cocoons from its nasty orange cushions.
That afternoon, we headed west into the town of Concrete to grab groceries, bath towels and other necessities. At the market, we bought some food, but had to cruise into Sedro-Wooley, a larger interstate town for the rest of our supplies. On the drive east, towards NOCA, we noticed more of the heart wrenching clear cut scars on the once glorious mountainsides. I tried to imagine the old growth stands of the distant past as tears welled up in my eyes.
Back at the homestead, while having a lunch of turkey hot dogs, chips and salsa, Barry showed up with two new roomies packed into his little pickup. It was Tom and Gary, whom Barry had picked up from the SEA-TAC airport. Tom, at first glance, seemed like a frat boy. He had a cocky, yet quiet demeanor about him. His short and stocky stature made him look like a sprinter. Gary was from New Jersey and was slender, introverted and seemed extremely intelligent. Both Tom and Gary were college boys.
Soon thereafter, Gretel arrived in her big black F250 with a camper shell. She was loud and flamboyant, but overly polite. She had short dark hair on her head and under her armpits.
Gary, Tom, Gretel, Heather, Barry and I stood around The Bird House and wondered what to do with ourselves. There were a few awkard moments, so to break the ice, we headed into the woods single file. Barry stayed behind to wait for the last two members of our crew to show, while the rest of us trudged out the backdoor, across a field and into a thicket of thorns, ferns and shrubs.
We all immediately noted chestnut-backed chickadees scolding us from the paper birches. The only thing we all had in common was the new summer job, and that we desperately needed to learn our bird songs. I found pleasure walking through the forest with people who I would otherwise have never met. Somehow our hobbies, passions or career goals had brought us all to NOCA and we were united for the next few months.
Upon returning from our hike, we met Amity, a small girl, who seemed likable and nerdy. She had an aura of simplicity and dirty little bare feet. Julia then arrived in her Jeep with free Patagonia rain gear for us. She slung a guitar and a fiddle onto the floor and was full of stories about environmental jobs all across the US. She was skin and bones and seemed to be a real nature activist and a vegan, which was entirely new to me.
That night the entire crew dined on spagetti and sauteed vegetables with a killer salad. We had a pow-wow and Barry gave us the itinerary for the next few months. We crashed out early, excited for another day.
Read Next…Chapter 2. Basic Training.
Previous…NOCA: A Daily Testament of Youthful Discovery in the Wilderness. The Introduction.
