{"id":3511,"date":"2013-04-26T09:42:10","date_gmt":"2013-04-26T16:42:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/community.nrs.com-2\/souls-and-water\/?p=2485"},"modified":"2017-10-09T15:55:40","modified_gmt":"2017-10-09T22:55:40","slug":"paddling-in-kerouacs-path-part-i","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/2013\/04\/26\/paddling-in-kerouacs-path-part-i\/","title":{"rendered":"Paddling in Kerouac’s Path: Part 1"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Rob-Lyon-100x100\"When Rob Lyon and his buddy Steve take to Washington’s Ross Lake in their canoe, strange and wondrous\u00a0experiences\u00a0await them \u2013 some expected, others not. Following in the path of writer Jack Kerouac, who spent a summer on Desolation Peak high above this North Cascades jewel, their story takes on some of the same poetry and discovery as his.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\"Ross1\"<\/a>
\u00a9Robyn Minkler<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

It was late autumn in the Northwest. I\u2019d taken the red eye ferry from the San Juan Islands to rendezvous with Steve Thomsen, long time adventure partner and photographer, in the parking lot of the Airport Shuttler in Burlington. A quick schlep of swag from my rig to his and we were tooling north up the Skagit River Valley on Highway 20 heading for Ross Lake, a glacier-fed alpine reservoir in Washington\u2019s North Cascades. When Jack Kerouac traveled north to take a gig above the lake on top of Desolation Peak in the fifties, his trip in sounded about like this:<\/p>\n

Now I was really in mountain country,<\/em> he wrote in The Dharma Bums. The fellows who picked me up were loggers, uranium prospectors, farmers, they drove me through the final big town of Skagit Valley, Sedro Wooley, a farming market town, and then out as the road got narrower and more curved among cliffs and the Skagit River which we’d crossed on 99 as a dreaming belly river with meadows on both sides, was now a pure torrent of melted snow.<\/em><\/p>\n

Steve and I had checked out of our routines for a week-long canoe trek in the heart and soul of the North Cascades wilds, and we planned to hike up Desolation and have a look at the legendary tower.<\/p>\n

We crossed the bridge over Diablo Lake and pulled into Colonial Creek campground. The place was deserted except for an overloaded canoe and two guys about to launch it at the boat ramp.<\/p>\n

One of them, a small, hatchet-faced man with close-set eyes and a scruffy red beard, was sitting in the stern holding a martini glass. His buddy was bigger and kind of fat, with a receding hairline and a broad, blank face. He was ready to push the boat into the water.<\/p>\n

We walked down the ramp and asked them where they were heading.<\/p>\n

\u201cRoss Lake,\u201d the little guy answered. \u201cWe\u2019re going to rough it in the wild.\u201d<\/p>\n

He pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket, waved it and read: \u201cCougar Island. October 10th. Back Country permit.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at his buddy like we weren\u2019t even in the picture.\u201cA cute little island all to ourselves, Bill; it sounds so romantic. The clerk at the Ranger Station said it was divine. And no bears.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBears swim, you know,\u201d Steve said. \u201cWe\u2019ve seen them crossing the lake.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell shoot,\u201d the little guy said with faint dismay, then a quick, toy smile. \u201cWell, Bill will just have to patrol the perimeter to shoo them away, then. Won\u2019t you Bill?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood luck with that, \u201c I said. \u201cMaybe we\u2019ll see you up lake, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

The guy in the stern held up his glass and trilled a toast: \u201cTo adventure!\u201d His buddy pushed the boat into the water as he lipped his glass, sloshing it down his shirt. The big fella was smiling then, I noticed.<\/p>\n

Steve and I walked back up the ramp to the rig, looked at each other a moment and laughed.<\/p>\n

\u201cLaurel and Hardy,\u201d Steve said, snorting.<\/p>\n

Sure, I thought, but feeling a darker vibe, more like Steinbeck\u2019s Lenny and George.<\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/p>\n

Finally we were on the water ourselves. We paddled out across Diablo Lake, a smaller reservoir just below Ross Dam, into a cool-aired, shadowed cleft in the mountain. Sheer rock walls towered left and right before we reached the landing at the dam. We unloaded and staged our boat and gear while awaiting the shuttle around the dam to Ross Lake.<\/p>\n

Riding on the wooden bed of the open flatbed shuttle truck, our canoe bounced unmercifully until I took out a pad and slipped it under the hull. We had the truck to ourselves driving the 600-vertical-foot switchbacks up through thick-ranged fir and boulders the size of cars, to Ross.<\/p>\n

I leaned out over the rail to ask the driver if he’d hauled the two canoeists up earlier.<\/p>\n

\u201cCouple drunks?\u201d he shouted back through the open cab window.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne, at least.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2018\u2019Yup, heading for Cougar. They’ll need a little luck to make it, I’m thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/p>\n

The name \u201cLittle Brown Jug\u201d was burned into a wooden plank above the door. It was a small, rustic cabin with a kitchen and a bunk room, floating on a raft of ancient cedar logs. Tom Barnett, old friend and owner of this unique floating resort, had offered us a room for the night.<\/p>\n

\"Ross3\"<\/a>
\u00a9Steve Thomsen<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The evening chilled up quickly and clouds moved in with rain. The wind was picking up. We figured the canoeists were safe at Cougar Island by then. We stoked the stove so hot that the sides glowed orange and the cabin rocked from the hammering waves.<\/p>\n

While Steve hunched over the fly tying vise wrapping up some big sexy soft hackles that Tom was keen on, I prowled around the floating dock, chatting up the few fishing neighbors on the float with us and taking in the mountain air. Suddenly it was dusk and I stood transfixed at the sight of white-capped peaks glowing a soft lavender in the fading light and mirrored across the surface of Ross Lake. Man, it was great to be in the mountains again!<\/p>\n

It did not get cold enough to snow that night, but reared back and poured at about two in the morning instead. I woke up to a timpani of hail on the metal roof and sheets of water and ice pellets funneling into the barrel of aluminum cans outside my window. I scuttled out naked and dragged the can back under the eave, wondering how the martini adventurers were making out. Back in bed, I didn\u2019t wake again until dawn.<\/p>\n

A low sun cleared the ridgeline when I stepped out the door. Tendrils of mist lifted off the surface of the lake like wraiths from the grave. We brewed some coffee and prowled around putting the canoe to rights and packing the few things we\u2019d taken out. It was a big canoe and full up with our stuff, but considering we were geared up to camp, fish, hunt, photograph and backpack, there was no getting around the pile.<\/p>\n

We walked down to the office and said good-bye to Tom. I mentioned we were thinking of climbing Desolation. He told us he\u2019d been up just a few days earlier, rescuing a couple in an early blizzard.<\/p>\n

\u201cWatch out for those winds, you know,\u201d he called out as we paddled passed the office. \u201cThey\u2019ll kick up like a cranky mule in the afternoon with this high pressure settling in.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/p>\n

There was no sign of weather on the horizon as we paddled north, but it wouldn\u2019t take long for a storm to catch us by surprise. The entire horizon was jagged with white peaks and ridge lines. But the glory of the day was heady and I let out a yip.<\/p>\n

The smell of mountain air was wine for the soul, and the surface of the lake mirrored the dark-firred banks. The red and gold of sumac glinted where avalanche had razed the slope, and high up on the flank of Little Jack we could see patches of red.<\/p>\n

\u201cCheck it out.\u201d I pointed. \u201cBlueberries.\u201d<\/p>\n

Blue grouse liked the berries and we liked the grouse; pan-fried fowl would make a nice addition to a diet of fresh trout. My shotgun was behind me in its case, but you didn\u2019t just run off up the mountain.<\/p>\n

We passed through the narrow channel in the log booms and rounded Green Point. Not much later we could see Cougar Island in the distance and a stream of black smoke spiraling up from the top.<\/p>\n

\u201cLooks like our friends are home,\u201d Steve said. \u201cWant to stop in and say hi?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know why I would.\u201d<\/p>\n

He laughed.<\/p>\n

\u201cMight figure into a story sometime.\u201d<\/p>\n

I snorted in reply.<\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/p>\n

Hiking up from the floating dock on the north shore, we found their camp on the top, and what a wretched scene it was. The small man was laying in the tent, half in and half outside in the mud, with the tent collapsed on top of him. His buddy looked as sullen as ever, tending a fire of smoking green wood and tin cans.<\/p>\n

Man, did we feel out of place.<\/p>\n

\u201cShould have called first, eh?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

The big dude just looked at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe just thought we\u2019d stop in and say hey,\u201d I said. \u201cLooks like that storm spanked you pretty good. You guys need anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWeather\u2019s on the im-prove at least. Well, maybe we\u2019ll see you up lake.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI doubt it.\u201d<\/p>\n

The scene was too tawdry for pity. We made short work of social and hiked back down to the boat.<\/p>\n

We paddled north under blue sky sucking up fresh lake air, mountain air, fir- and lichen-dosed air, and we hung our souls out to breathe. We were silent for a good half an hour.<\/p>\n

We closed on Roland point, on the north side of which was our camp, but we veered west toward the Big Beaver Valley instead. We could just make out the mouth of the creek where it debouched into the lake.<\/p>\n

The spunky Beaver cascaded from just below the suspension bridge on the trail for a hundred feet down into the lake. Peering closely into the roiled water we could see fish everywhere! But it was closed at the mouth and we had to hike upstream a ways to fish.<\/p>\n

It was close and dank and cold hiking up alongside the Beaver. We couldn\u2019t get to the water easily because of the brush and deadfall, and the bank was steep and muddy and no good to fish. We talked about the time we\u2019d floated it in kick boats, the bitch of portaging the giant log jams with our fins on, and the thrill of catching one huge trout after another on big drys as we floated along in single file taking turns with the fish. Steve had been along on that trip, along with Ken Morrish and Tom. I will never forget that float. But the Beaver was just not happening on foot, and we hung a U after only a mile and hiked back down to the lake.<\/p>\n

Near the canoe we found the fixins\u2019 to go with some pan-fried trout (which still needed catching). We collected a dozen prime Matsutake mushrooms, poking their caps up through the duff. We carried them in our hats and they smelled fragrantly of almonds. We flushed a ruffed grouse foraging on alder catkins in sight of the lake, but had left our shotguns in the boat.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood omen, at least.\u201d Steve said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would have gone real good with these mushrooms though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo will those trout.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201dWell let\u2019s go catch them.\u201d<\/p>\n

And we did.<\/p>\n

\u00a0***<\/p>\n

As we paddled out of Beaver Bay and across the lake, I caught sight of Desolation Peak bumping the northern horizon. It was getting late, so we fired up the little folding Evinrude. About a mile out we killed it and tossed out our lines. With my rod tucked under my leg I warmed up my arm muscles and found my rhythm.<\/p>\n

We got in synch and were fairly flying along when Steve called out, \u201cWhoa Chief! Our flies are hoppin!\u201d<\/p>\n

We slowed the pace, and our flies slipped back under the surface. The only sounds were the yodel of a distant loon and the swish of paddle blades.<\/p>\n

\"Ross4\"<\/a>
\u00a9Robyn Minkler<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Then my rod bent double and a bolt of silver arced out of the lake! We brought the boat around and I played it in steadily, giving and taking line, but leaning on it whenever it rested, finally bringing it to the net.<\/p>\n

It was beautiful big rainbow trout! Silver sided and dark, moss backed with a pink swoosh down the side! The lake was lousy with big fish these days.<\/p>\n

\u201cNice, \u201c Steve said. \u201cOne more.\u201d<\/p>\n

Moments later I heard Steve call out: \u201cFish on!\u201d<\/p>\n

This one stayed deep and dogged around under the boat for a while. Steve\u2019d been running a light leader that he\u2019d forgotten to swap out from another trip and couldn\u2019t lean hard on the fish.<\/p>\n

\u201cDolly,\u201d Steve said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYup.\u201d<\/p>\n

After a long stubborn fight we brought a second large fish to net. It was another beautiful fish but it was a Dolly Varden alright and illegal to keep.<\/p>\n

As we trolled off the flank of Roland Point within sight of our camp at McMillan\u2019s, Steve hooked up again. Another fine bow, it leaped three times across the darkened, metallic surface of the lake before he finally swung it head first into the net.<\/p>\n

We would feast this night.<\/p>\n

I dug out a couple of beers, cracked the seals and handed one back.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo predators,\u201d I offered, leaning back with my can.<\/p>\n

\u201cRoger that,\u201d Steve replied, stretching forward with his.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read Paddling in Kerouac\u2019s Path: Part 2<\/em> here.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

There was no sign of weather on the horizon as we paddled north, but it wouldn\u2019t take long for a storm to catch us by surprise. 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