High on Cascade Pass

Gettin' lost on a back road

Twenty miles south of Marblemount, ten on gravel, and the gate is closed across the road. Above the gate, the road is still blown out by floods and landslides and is impassable to vehicles. I'll have to hoof it three miles to the trailhead at Cascade Pass.

Over fifty cars and trucks are parked in the dirt lot by the gate - the hikers, backpackers, and climbers wandering the backcountry. I am uncomfortable leaving the truck parked among them and find a nice pullout two miles down the road near the boundary of North Cascades National Park. I sling my day pack over my shoulders - water bottle, cheese, and apple for lunch - and start hiking up the road through the ancient forest. Ten miles today.

I dig out my headphones and pick some music. Dead and Company is a flowing jam band if ever there was one. Immaculate percolating guitar riffs backed by thumping bass, twinkling piano, and syncopated drums frame ol’ Bobby Weir singing with all the grace of a derelict sipping whiskey out of a paper bag. I set the phone to autoplay and start boogying up the road.

Echo is at home. Off-leash dogs are not allowed in the park, and no dogs - leashed or not - are allowed on the trails. It's lonely without her, so I concentrate on the music while tramping through the woods and the miles roll away. A half mile past the closed gate, the climb begins. It's a cloudless day, and the road is exposed to direct sunlight. It's hot, and I am slow. The band is in the groove now and cooking. Their instruments and voices vibrate together, and improvisation is effortless. They are in a zone and pull me along with them. The last mile is a sweaty, panting trudge along the tree line, fully exposed to the sun, yet I feel like dancing.

The road ends in another dirt parking lot at the trailhead proper. I find a small, secluded grassy area and plunk down on some rocks warmed by the sun. It's time for lunch. I munch some apple, nibble some cheese, slurp water, and look around - flabbergasted.

I am perched on the rocks, gazing down the long valley. My truck is parked five miles away in the thick cedar and fir forest. Across from me is a granite massif about two thousand feet high, with snowfields and waterfalls. The top of the pass is about a mile to my left. I take off my headphones and listen to the sounds of the place. Above the deep silence of the wild, I hear the whoosh of water and the song of robins and wrens. I close my eyes, let go of all my thoughts, and feel the sun warm my skin and the breeze ruffle my thin hair as I drift away and melt into the rock.

It was like this -

I am overwhelmed. Out of nowhere comes the thought: the mountains are made of music - they are jazz - they are a magnificent improvisation. Just as musicians improvise with vibrating air to create a fleeting form, pattern, and structure that we recognize as a song, so too are these mountains, trees, snowfields, rivers, and birds improvisational vibrations of energy and consciousness as transient as a melody. The entire scene is a magnificent symphony directed by a beautiful, creative mind.

And I am a participant, playing my part, a boy in the band.

I replace the headphones, adjust the volume, hoist off the rocks, and swing down the road. All the way down, I work with this idea that creation is an infinite melody of voices playing their parts, making something out of nothing. As the band flows in my ears - the forest, mountain, and river flow, too. Trees cooperate to get to the sun, pump water two hundred feet up to their crowns, and communicate via intricate networks of mycelium below ground. Melting snow tumbles into bubbling torrents of water - enough sacred water to hydrate millions of trees, animals, flowers, and people. Mountains of rock born of immense heat and pressure deep in the earth now soar above ice-carved glacial valleys high enough to squeeze the vital moisture out of ocean breezes.

Gratitude.

I get my drifty self back to my truck without floating further away. I am stiff and sore, and the drive back home is long. I cross the bridge over the Skagit at Marblemount, turn left onto US 20, and accelerate to 75 just to keep up. I am back in the human sphere, and black news blares from the radio. Bad times are upon us. I turn it off, find music again on my phone, and listen to Dead and Company play New Speedway Boogie. It goes like this:

Please don't dominate the rap, Jack
If you've got nothing new to say
If you please, don't back up the track
This train's got to run today

I spent a little time on the mountain
I spent a little time on the hill
Heard some say: Better run away
Others say you better stand still

Now I don't know, but I been told
It's hard to run with the weight of gold
Other hand I have heard it said
It's just as hard with the weight of lead

Who can deny? Who can deny?
It's not just a change in style
One step done and another begun
And I wonder how many miles?

I spent a little time on the mountain
Spent a little time on the hill
Things went down, we don't understand
But I think in time we will

Now, I don't know but I was told
In the heat of the sun a man died of cold
Keep on coming or stand and wait
With the sun so dark and the hour so late

You can't overlook the lack, Jack
Of any other highway to ride
It's got no signs or dividing lines
And very few rules to guide

I spent a little time on the mountain
I spent a little time on the hill
I saw things getting out of hand
I guess they always will

Now, I don't know, but I been told
If the horse don't pull you got to carry the load
I don't know whose back's that strong
Maybe find out before too long

One way or another
One way or another
One way or another
This darkness got to give

One way or another
One way or another
One way or another
This darkness got to give

One way or another
One way or another
One way or another
This darkness got to give

And if you want to hear it played in all its subversive glory - here is a link:

One way or another - this darkness gotta give. Amen.