PHOTO GALLERY (13 Images)

The Enticement
Slide after slide showed the same tantalizing collage: lush greenery surrounding an unspoiled, turquoise alpine lake; a blinding white snowfield clinging to a hanging cirque; weathered and broken boulders strewn madly about by glacial and gravitational compulsions; a perfect summer's blue sky.

It was alternately pastoral and chaotic, and inviting to be sure. But pleasing as these sights were, my eyes continually gravitated to each frame's upper cleft, where a dark feature cut the sky like a giant stone arrowhead poised for vertical flight. Even in artificial rendering, the nearly perfectly triangular summit evoked a certain gloom and mystery, like an ancient Inca pyramid. Black Peak. Even the name sounded ominous, in a Mt. Doom, dark-side-of-the-force kind of way.

Steve killed the projector and turned up the lights, his lure of pristine mountain scenery now lingering in my imagination. "How about it?" he asked. How about it indeed. At 8,970 feet, scrambling to the summit of Black Peak seemed the ideal way to achieve our goal: to score a commanding panoramic view of the most heavily glaciated mountain range in the lower 48. There were countless other perches in Washington state's North Cascades that would yield the same result. But for this trip we were mountain goats not climbing rats, with hopes of keeping both feet (or all fours, when necessary) on terra firma at all times. Yet this trip would be no walk in the park.

Steve promised a vigorous ascent through diverse terrain: a steady initial hike on a maintained trail through old-growth firs, cedars, and lush wildflowers; a technical backcountry traverse across a massive boulder field; scenic treks along the shores of two glacier-fed tarns; a trudge up a permanent snowfield to a razor-sharp saddle of immense relief; and finally, a fairly steep scramble up the peak's exposed south side to Black's airy, postage-stamp summit. In two days we would gain nearly 5,000 feet and an astronaut's view of the last remnants of the Ice Age.

Were we in? Of course we were in. All seven of us.

The Climb
In the great battle of Mark versus the rock, Mark was going to get squished. Steve and I, pasty-white in our swimming trunks and sandals, had just combined for a 1-2-3 heave-ho of a microwave-sized boulder into the drink - ker-sploosh! - and were admiring the spray and mini tsunami we created, when we turned to see Mark struggling by himself to unseat a rock more closely resembling a small washing machine. He grimaced and groaned like a mover under a grand piano.

					"Soon, however, we found ourselves in a tight spot just below the summit. And the exposure was getting a bit sketchy..."

Yet instead of rushing to Mark's aid, Steve and I just stood there, entertaining ourselves at Mark's expense. This occurs frequently and there was no hurry. Finally Mark collapsed in a heap of wiry limbs and pale skin, wiping his sweaty hat-hair and forfeiting a fatigued "Hoo-boy." We erupted in laughter, then lent our considerable might for the grand finale. KER-PLOSH! The huge rock cut the water line and dropped hard, sending skyward a geyser-like stream of water that drenched us in a frigid afternoon shower.

Somehow throwing rocks into lakes had become a strange tradition for us, but it also was a good way to blow off steam following the morning's approach to our shoreline camp. It was July and even though snow lingered on the cirque side of the lake, we were broiling under an intense afternoon sun. Steve and Katie had gotten a day's head start to Lewis Lake, leaving the remaining five of us - myself, Eve, Maxine, Elesa, and Mark - to break trail near Rainy Pass. Armed with maps, compasses, and years of combined wilderness travel, we felt secure about the backcountry adventure ahead.

But when the first of several spurs exited the main trail without signage, we had our doubts. We could see the ridge far above us through the thick brush and mossy evergreens, but it wasn't clear from this fork exactly which trail got us there. Our instincts told us to take the higher trail. Better to backtrack downhill than up.

A late snowpack meant a late spring in these lower woods. Verdant grasses, monster ferns, wildly roaming vines, and piquant wildflowers tugged at our boots from the narrow trail's border, while shaggy and heavily scented coniferous giants blotted out the sun in places. Creek crossings, lazy most of the year, were fully raging. However, the greenery didn't last long. By the time we got to the ridge the trees had thinned noticeably.

We crested into a lush meadow, still wondering if we were on the correct trail, when Steve and Katie jumped up from their card game. Having tackled the impending boulder field, at least a mile of piled, broken rock-the day before, they figured they should meet us here to show the best way through. The meadow yielded an expansive view to the west where, in the distance the milky blue lake of Steve's pictures shimmered, perched impossibly above a cliff rimmed by a terminal moraine. Far above was our towering destination. Black Peak sat sphinx-like, guarding its treasured terrain, and exuding a commanding presence.

One month earlier and the boulder field would have been a relatively simple snow traverse. Now we were facing a boulder maze. Trekking poles were essential, providing much-needed extra balance as we jumped from one house-sized rock to the next with 30-plus pounds on our backs. It took about an hour and a half to clear the rock field, loosely following cairns along the way. After a short hike on solid ground again we were at camp, doused in sweat and busting out the energy bars.

Following the whole rock-throwing episode, we made camp, filtered water, and settled in for a late lunch/early dinner. The opposite lakeshore rose in snow ribbons to a towering cliff band, creating a natural sound stage for our echoes. Also amplified were the cascading waterfalls and periodically falling rock, with the granite cracking quite loudly at times. The valley was still coming out of its winter deep-freeze.

The seven of us basked in the internal glow of full bellies. The evening light was soft, ethereal. It appeared we were the only party at the lake and possibly even the entire valley. Our view from camp was shortsighted due to the pressing terrain, so we followed a short footpath to an east-facing vantage where we could gaze across a deep valley to Cutthroat Peak several miles away. Beautiful as this distant sight was, we still were far too low for the money view. That would come tomorrow and 3,000 feet higher, weather permitting.

I can still see Black Peak as the dreamy final outline of earth against the darkening heavens. Suddenly the waterfalls were louder and I felt warmth on my face. When I got out of the tent I learned that Steve had already spent an hour shooting a cloudless dawn. Slowly we all shook off our slumber and began preparing for the push ahead.

We knew the upcoming snowfield didn't require crampons or plastic boots. And at 30 degrees or so, the scramble was not steep or technical enough to require ropes or rock or head protection. Day packs with extra food, water, and clothing would do it, plus poles. And most of these would be left behind for the final crux to the summit.

Our next stop: Wing Lake, a thousand feet above camp just below the snowfield. The warm sun soothed morning bones as we trekked out of camp and up the gentle, forested slope on a primitive trail, which soon petered out. Our ascent became a gentle, cross-country free-for-all on loose earth and patches of hardy grass. Soon vegetation gave out altogether as we passed tree line.

We made good time, reaching Wing Lake in an hour. We kept a close watch on the clock since the plan was to be back at the trailhead by 4 o'clock. An aggressive schedule kept us from dallying. We filtered more water from the partially frozen lake, snapped some pictures, and kept going.

It turns out that Black Peak's name comes from the rampant lichen that has severely darkened its airy granite flanks. We were close enough to see that now, but still far from reaching the goods. The snowfield began in earnest and we marched single file in each other's boot prints. Slowly the horizon widened with each upward step. A steep cornice had formed at the crown of the snowfield, requiring some technical kick-stepping and maneuvering. And then we were dancing on the saddle.

The effect was like watching an IMAX movie where the camera suddenly flies over an abyss, and your stomach lurches into it. Across a great and deep divide, which dropped immediately from our feet, towered the glaciated masses of Mounts Goode and Logan, Dome and Forbidden peaks, and others. But curiously the sight that caught our attention most was a playful marmot lounging like a beach bum on a nearby rock. He shrugged us off as tourists and stayed put until we dropped packs to eat; then he began heckling us for food.

Making sure everything was tightly zipped to avoid unauthorized marmot entry, we left our packs among the rocks and began scrambling under a rapidly clouding sky. The rock was somewhat crumbly, but the slope was mild enough that there was little danger of natural or human-induced rockfall. We were on Black's south side now and heading up a major rock gully in full exposure with some 500 feet to go. There was no avoiding the scenery. Every few steps were followed by a glance over the shoulder to see which peak popped into view next.

Soon, however, we found ourselves in a tight spot just below the summit. And the exposure was getting a bit sketchy. As we wrapped back around toward the north face on a cleft in the rock, we saw just how high we had come from camp. Wing Lake was a dizzying drop from here, approaching sheer in fact, and Lewis Lake was a blue dot. The bend of the cirque and valley, combined with the perspective of altitude, made for the optical illusion of a curved earth below.

Now some bouldering was needed to gain the final block, and nerves tightened. Every foot and hand hold had to be secure. A little group therapy got everyone into place and just like that we were finished.

The top was so small we had to take turns sitting, standing, or lying down on it, whichever felt safer to each. Looking south, our ascent route fell away gracefully back to the saddle. Rugged peaks and valleys spread out beyond in an endless sea of whitecaps. To the north, however, the drop was near vertical for 2,000 feet to a hanging glacier with a nasty bergschrund and scree field. We considered casting a few rocks over, the start of a new tradition, but thought better of it in case anyone was climbing below.

With more clouds brewing we quickly descended, stopping only to say goodbye to our marmot friend at the saddle. In the end we got our view…and a new favorite scramble, too.

— Kristopher Kaiyala, MountainZone.com Correspondent