Rock Mountain Rock

Summit #19 of 70--August 3, 2023

The name “Rock Mountain” strikes me as slightly redundant. It’s a mountain. It’s made of rock. Okay. Looking up at it from the Snowy Creek Trail I see a lot more green meadow than rock. It just as well could have been named “Meadow,” except that name’s already been taken several times over. At least “Rock Mountain,” for a name, seems somewhat unique. I can’t help but notice that a big, rocky mountain a mile to the northeast is called Mount Howard.

USGS map, early 1900s

We humans have a tendency to name a lot of places after other humans—mountains, lakes, forests, deserts, even entire continents. The Americas, for example, named for Amerigo Vespucci. Imagine if the cartographer Waldseemüller had applied Vespucci’s last name to this mysterious new world on his 1507 map. We’d all be singing God Bless Vespucciland.

Things named after people often have an interesting story attached, so the name can be traced and possibly understood. “Rock,” not so much. Nevertheless, I do like places named after natural features, especially when combined with a juicy descriptor, like Grand Canyon, Misty Falls, Thunder Knob, or Mount Terror. As for Rock, there’s not a lot to chew on there. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t named for Chris Rock or Rock Hudson (no offense).

Back in the day, there was a fire lookout on the proud summit of Rock. In fact, there were many hundreds of manned lookouts scattered around the Cascades Range, relics of which are still visible, including traces of wire, bits of glass, a rusty this and that. Other than the few lookout buildings that have been preserved and the few iconic sites that once hosted a lookout, the rest are long gone, their stories mostly forgotten.

The story of the Rock Mountain Lookout seems to rest in this forlorn, forsaken status, although it may be that I have not asked the right person or read enough local history. There must be a story somewhere, so I’ll keep an eye out for it.

But I’ve come to Rock, not to solve mysteries or litigate the nomenclature, but to truck to the top and claim another high point: to rock and roll to the apex as a well-intentioned peakbagger. I do this with due respect, and with a sense of appreciation for the magnanimous beauty of our North Cascades. And yes, I do it for the view and sometimes for the thrill, and to keep myself in shape. I also just love being in that space, in summer especially, among the wildflowers, the ravens and the breeze. Who wouldn’t? And once on top, there’s no better place to inhale a bagel and a hunk of cheese.

I arrived at the empty Snowy Creek Trailhead just after 2:00 pm, a wee bit later than planned. Given a 3,200 feet gain over four miles, I presumed about three hours up and two hours down, which would allow plenty of daylight for the return. The first mile was a breeze, with good trail in beautiful woods and minimal elevation gain.

After some easy bashing through a couple of overgrown sections, the trail steepened before popping out into a broad meadow basin with a great view of the high ridgeline, still more than 2,000 feet above. Happily, there were no biting bugs to speak of, other than a handful of overly affectionate black flies.

Then came the steepist part of the trek. Endless switchbacks in forest quickly gaining another 1,000 feet, before I was spit out in the open to stay. Here, the grade lessened slightly, making the last mile to the top a real joy, as waves of mountains emerged into view.

I’d fully expected to run into a few folks at the ridge crest after intersecting a more popular trail that leads up the southeast side of the mountain from Highway 2. But alas, I was the only one there. I walked up the final stretch to the flattened site of the old lookout, taking in the scene, gazing out at Glacier Peak and trying to identify the peaks I’d climbed before.

And I tried and failed to imagine what the days and nights, for weeks on end, of serving as a fire lookout on Rock Mountain must be like. Somehow, I suspect they weren’t all perfectly sunny days like this one.

I was back at the car by 7:15, with just enough time to meet up with friends at the Beckler River Campground before dark. The next day we would head for Mount Sawyer, which just happened to be the surname of an old friend I’d be climbing it with.