Wild West Traverse
Summits #42 and #43--October 20, 2023
I couldn’t recall where I left my dern chaps and spurs, and my cowboys boots seemed to have grown legs and walked off somewhere. But at least I had a hat. Not one I’d wear with pride at any rodeo, but enough to preclude the hot desert sun from roastin’ the bare spot on my scalp into a big crusty strawberry.
So with standard hikin’ attire and a manly pair of trekkin’ poles, I hopped in my Chevy pickup truck and drove across the range to meet my friends at the Starbucks. We was goin’ to the mountains.
I found them waitin’ and fiddlin’, which is pretty much what people do when they go to the Starbucks, especially when they’re standin’ in line for the outhouse. Jeannie and Steve tied up their steeds out front, hoisted their belongin’s and hopped on my horse, that being my Chevy, and off we go. Into the lonesome drizzle and fog.
First stop: Monroe, Washington, for an outhouse. Somewhere, anywhere. Right now. Unfortunately, we were about seven weeks late for the Evergreen State Rodeo. Given the condition of the outhouse at the city park, we might’ve been seven weeks late for that too.
Second stop: Sultan, Washington, for the famous roadside bakery. Homemade goodies and a dollar coffee. Life is good. We drove on, drizzle be damned.
Third stop: Stevens Pass and the big empty parking lot for the southbound PCT, which, of course, is a trail. I’m pretty sure the PCT stands for Perspicacious Cowpoke Trail. And the primary perspicacious purpose of comin’ here was to climb to the top of Big Chief Mountain. The trail don’t actually go up there, but it gets you close.
The mountain might not be the most towerin’ hunk of earth this side of the Rockies, but it is quite conspicuous from the motorway, risin’ proudly as it does above the Stevens Pass Ski Resort. I guessed we was about seven weeks early for shushin’, given the fact that there weren’t any actual snowflakes on the ground, this bein’ October and all. But at least it’d stopped drizzlin’.
So up we go. Me and Steve a-clickin’ and clackin’ our walkin’ poles, while Jeannie, who is one tough cowgirl, doesn’t require no stinkin’ poles. As we climb toward the saddle on the ridge crest above, the clouds are breakin’ up and the sun is breakin’ through. Hallelujah.
We look over at Cowboy Mountain to the west, a rocky high point on the same ridge as Big Chief. The clouds are still hung over the upper part of the peak like a saddle blanket. I’m hopin’ it clears, cuz if the hike up Big Chief proceeds expeditiously, we are considerin’ continuin’ on over to Cowboy. We’d thereby be scorin’ two summits in one day, which would make me as happy as doin’ the senior barrel run without knockin’ one over. I was gonna to try that once, the barrel run, till I realized you’re supposed to bring a horse.
Again, steedless on the PCT, we reached the saddle, turned left and proceeded on over to Big Chief. The lope along the ridge crest took us past a couple of fancy ski lifts, so it wasn’t exactly the kind of authentic wilderness experience you might see in your favorite old John Wayne movie. A big sign said YOU CAN DIE in bold letters, which seemed a tad negatory if you ask me. But once past all that, the unperturbed beauty returned.
Waves of sunlit mountains, fog in the valleys, the colors of autumn and newborn calves made me want to start playing the harmonica around the campfire. But no self-respectin’ cowpoke plays harmonica around the campfire in the middle of the day when it’s warm and sunny outside.
We were gettin’ all blissful at the scenery and stuff, although Cowboy Mountain, two miles away, was still behavin’ like a cloud magnet. We finally reached the long meadow slope leadin’ to the official high point of Big Chief Mountain. When the climbin’ was done, we dug into our vittles. I had the funny feelin’ the Big Chief was lookin’ over at Cowboy Mountain sayin’ “Hey there, Cowboy. Why are you still in the clouds over there? Why don’t don’t you sidle on over here where it’s sunny and sit a spell?”
Grubbed up and content with having achieved my 42nd summit, which is quite symbolic since the number 42 is well known as the answer to life, the universe, and everything, as well as being the total of all the dots on a pair of dice. Because I’m a humble cowpoke, I won’t get into the hypothetical maximum efficiency of converting mass to energy, as predicted by E=mc², for any object spinning helplessly around a black hole. Yup, 42 percent.
We weren’t quite yet tuckered enough to feel like we was gonna get ate up by a black hole, or a black bear for that matter, so we rambled back west to find ourselves, as Gene Autry would have it, “Back in the saddle again.” We stared over at Cowboy Mountain, now nearly free of any pesky clouds, and checked our personal sundials. We had time and we had spunk, so thanks in part to Jeannie’s enthusiasm for truckin’ up another hill, off we went.
I should add that when you climb both Big Chief and Cowboy in one go, it’s a thing. Peakbaggers and buckaroos call it the Wild West Traverse. We were gettin’ wild and goin’ west.
But first, lemme tell you a story.
Stevens Pass was the first place I ever put on skis and tried my luck at gettin’ squirly on the snow. It was at night under the lights. We’re talkin’ decades ago. My partner at that time coaxed me into goin’, then asked which run I wanted to try. The green one is easier, she said. The blue one is intermediate.
“Well,” I said, watchin’ little kids with no poles bounding down the slopes, “It looks easy enough. Let’s do the blue.” I spent the next forty-five minutes doin’ the blue essentially face first. Then I remembered that I was a humble cowpoke and said, “How about we switch to the green.” For the next two hours, I skied up a storm doin’ the snowplow at 0.2 miles per hour, and didn’t even break a leg. I’m not sure it was worth all the snow up my nose and down my shirt, but it was better than ropin’ crocodiles.
Oh, right. Cowboy.
We followed a dang steep boot track up the ridge, then lost it, then found it again, before losing it pretty much for good. We got to a place where the ridge was gettin’ way craggy, with scary cliffs on both sides. Considerin’ the hour and the fact that I had not brung my lasso, my spurs, or my spiritual levitation manual, I figured it was best to drop down southward to a bouldery basin, cross there, and gain the next ridge, which I knew from my detailed research would also get us to where we was goin’. So that’s what we done.
After a fairly gruelin’ uphill slog from the boulder field, we topped out in a steep meadow with a few trees, then quite proudly stepped on the official high point of Cowboy Mountain. This would be summit #43, which has absolutely no special meaning whatsoever, other than being the number of Richard Petty’s famous race car. As for E=mc², 43 would be a blatant violation of the laws of physics, so we won’t go there.
We admired the views, including a good look back at Big Chief, loungin’ in steady sunshine. Glacier Peak and a sliver of Mount Baker were out there lookin’ back at us as well. If we were campin’, we’d be happy campers.
So the Wild West Traverse had been a grand success. We’d made the most of perhaps the last summer-like day of 2023, with snow in the forecast just a few days out. All that was left now was to get ourselves back down on sore knees. Lucky for us, a steep boot track descended to the west and returned us to the ski area in a jiffy. From there, we only had to walk the lonesome road back to the pickup truck.
I suppose it’s only natural that on the long drive home, I had Gene Autry in my head singing Back in the Saddle Again. Maybe next time I’ll bring a horse.
Would I recommend the trek to my fellow cowgirls and cowboys? Big Chief, most definitely, and I’m surprised more people don’t go there once the snow is gone. It attracts some snowshoers in winter and spring, but avalanche risk needs to be taken seriously. Cowboy Mountain is best reserved for experienced peakbaggers. It’s not a hike per se and requires scrambling and routefinding skills to keep out of trouble.
You tell the tale of the traverse with cowboy true travails and triumphs, cowboy Ken! Mighty obliged for the adventure to #42 & #43!
Another great read. Thanks.