Lost Among The Monoliths

Part three of my series on America tells the story of three puny humans and the mighty mountains they set foot on

As we reached the closest entrance to the road leading up to Mt. Rainier, the park ranger, remorseless, informed us that the road was closed for construction.

All that intense driving through those plumes of forest fire smoke were for nothing. Each of us on maybe a cumulative 10 hours of sleep , we were running on fumes, but we weren’t going to be stopped.

We would now have to double back and take the scenic route, the ranger said —another two hours added to the journey. We had just driven ten, and had made good time, but now the fear of God was in us, and we had to rush — **GULP**.

To catch the last rays of the sun, and make sure our fourth travel companion who was supposed to meet us atop the mountain, wasn’t left stranded for too long. There was no turning back, calling it quits, leaving with our tail between our legs.

A quick change of driver and we were off. The swap had led to a musical chair merry go round with me ending up in the back corner again. Having learnt my lesson from the last time I was here, I strapped in, “safe” with my seatbelt on. Or so I thought.

“On a trip like this one must be careful about gas consumption. Avoid those quick bursts of acceleration that drag the blood to the back of the brain.” Hunter S. Thompson wrote in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas a favourite of mine, and in many ways inspiration for most of my late teenage and early twenties.

This trip had had elements to it – not least charging through the American west at high speeds – but it had still been a relatively sober holiday in direct contrast to the inhumane amount of substances ingested in Fear and Loathing.

The drugs explained their madness. Nothing could explain ours.

The quote ringing through my head, I gave a silent prayer to Odin as we took off like a concord. I was now the narrator of that story—monologuing in my head—dazed from the lack of sleep, lightheaded forest fire smoke, and the creeping increasing altitude all adding to the fierceness of the journey so far. We had been running on sheer will, adrenaline, and a good old fashioned gas-powered automobile. And we were reaching the finish line. One way or another we would cross it — even if it was in a full body cast and a breathing aid to help us get there.

All our time spent on the road had been filled with piss and vinegar. Yet the mountains had been the stoic opposite, as our previous day had proved. It had been surreal, calming and magical.

***

Having finally made it to the entrance of Glacier’s West Side, we first took a beat to breathe in the fresh mountain air and let our skin roast in the harsh, but wonderfully warming, autumn sun. Now began the long, winding road up through the park.

With it being the tail end of October, we found that the park was mostly closed for the season. It was deserted. Shops and hotels were boarded up and the sporadic few cars and people we did see seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to us. We decided to keep driving forward and see what lay ahead.

An hour or two into our hunt for the action, we pull up at the northernmost point of the park, having made plenty of pit stops to hike up short trails and admire the scenery. The gate leading towards the Canadian border was closed, which meant there was no more road to drive on. A car park and some humanity greeted us as we manoeuvred the car into place and got out.

Our next steps would have to be on foot. There seemed to be a crowd heading in one direction, so the perfect solution, no matter the consequences would be to follow these fellow adventurers into the abyss.

And what an abyss it was.

Over there, on the horizon, a giant rock stood tall, overlooking the valley below it. The size and scale of it made me think of The Chief in Squamish, but there was a different feel to this one. It stood tall, all on its own – a king, powerful and peerless, glaring down at its subjects.

Leading us to this was a long path made of wooden planks, perfectly placed, and curated to leave our surroundings untouched.  

Only a few brave souls had decided to take the journey to join us and explore the half-closed National Park, knowing that it was very likely that most things around us were boarded up for the winter. At least, they were well informed. We hadn’t a clue this might be the case.

But these weren't the thoughts that plagued our mind.

In our line of sight were some stairs, and up those stairs and beyond was a magical land waiting to be discovered. It was time to take that road up and perhaps discover if that man Robert Frost really did know what he was talking about.

And so, we set off not knowing our destination, walking until our feet said no more.

As it turned out, the trail was quite mellow. There wasn’t much elevation, and the planked path made it easy to keep going even if one didn’t (and I certainly didn’t) have the correct shoes for it.

We kept going up the winding path, first seeing people – most of whom heading back to where they came from – until we got to the very end to a point so serene it wouldn’t have been absurd to see people projectile vomit on account of the beauty.

This landscape was stunning.

The sun – I cannot emphasize enough just how much I love this fucking star – beat down upon our faces, using its cosmic powers to put us into a comatose state. There was no need to talk, and there was no need to shush anyone. For there were so few around us, and because there was urgency to make that point.

It was as if we all understood it intrinsically.

“Just take it all in. The vast, endless, indescribable beauty. You’re in God’s country now.”

Sometime on this walk, we had passed by the giant rock without any regard to gaze at its magnificence for even if we didn’t know what lay beyond it, we knew there was something special. We would catch it on our way back, something else lay beyond it, waiting to be found.

First, a lake, tucked perfectly between two mountains, a valley so perfectly created it couldn’t have been done on purpose. This lay at our feet, as we each stood there silently breathing in and admiring it from the cliffs. Directly ahead of us was the sister peak, now draped in shadows as the sun glowered on from behind it, taking its sweet time before it chose to set.

And when one looked in the general direction of the sun, one saw more and more and more mountains, layered behind one another. We’ve all drawn such a painting in our youth – clichéd, and silly, yet so pure in its truth.

It wasn’t all silence and meditation of course. This was us; there was a lot of hysterical laughter at the most mundane, juvenile shit, and a photoshoot here and there because yes, however brief this story was going to be, it was undoubtedly going to live forever in our hard drives. During our final breaths – when we are each raging against the dying of the light, as each of us goes on to live our life, paths deviated, and merged again, our brains destroyed by dementia and that sadist, time itself – we will remember this moment.

A silent pact was made, and we set off on our way back, down, and then way down the mountain. My stomach called out to me. None of us had eaten much all day – so wrapped up in awe we were by this alien creation around us.

Even our walk back was more of a casual stroll with a noticeable detour to stand under the greatness of the giant boulder that had drawn us here in the first place. There was a glacier somewhere here, a tiny stream that led the way to it until – even at this time of year – we felt the cool air that only the runoff of a massive ice cap can leave.

When we finally did reach the parking lot, it was deserted. Just two or three more cars lay next to ours as dusk approached. Still, we hadn’t the faintest clue what we were to do next. Another all-night drive was surely out of the question. A polite older couple informed us that it would be wise to get out of the park and go West rather than East – for that were where the unwelcome Natives lived. The park itself was closed for the season; there was absolutely no way we would find accommodation anywhere nearby.

Squatting in a boarded-up hotel might’ve been an option if only we fancied freezing to death.

And so, we set off, all the way back down the mountain – catching another extraordinary sunset standing next to an older gentleman who had a wild story to tell. Was he and all this just a figment of my imagination? Hindsight seems to hint at that. Things were just too surreal for me to want to use my brain’s power of deduction. I’d rather just coast along until a force of nature forces me into a change.

We had a vague heading, and good fortune on our side, we weren’t going to be stopped. Driving through the now pitch black Glacier National Park was an experience of its own. The same roads unrecognisable, the billions of stars above us our only companion, until we pulled in to our sleepy off-season resort just shy of midnight – our bellies full of gargantuan sized burritos (God Bless America), and the perfect micheladas.

A plan was taking shape. Translucent in its form, inspired by adrenaline, excitement and impulsiveness, our destination tomorrow was to be Mt. Rainier. Two states over and further South of our point of origin.

Another ten-hour journey on the road through God’s country. What could go wrong?

***

Using willpower to force my brain into distracting myself just wasn’t working. Two nights ago, when we were driving in the darkness on the narrow flat roads of Idaho, I had thought that we had been pushing all limits of speed and sound.

I was wrong.

That limit was merely a figment of my puny imagination. What we were doing now was just absurd. I doubt even Hunter would’ve been capable of it. At least he had a briefcase full of schedule 1 drugs to distract himself from the death-defying speeds he and Raoul were driving on in the highways outside Las Vegas.

We were making our way up the snake-like roads of Mt. Rainier – tires mere centimeters off the road’s edge – at Formula 1 level speed. But I had no schedule 1 drugs, shit, I barely had a soda to gulp down to ease any nerves.

I had been assured that this was undoubtedly going to be worth it. The trails on Rainier were spectacular, and the colours at this time of the year were said to be outrageous.

I believed them, of course.

But I feared that I may never get the chance to witness it. Intimidating the cars ahead of us into giving us an inch through which we can fly past at 80 miles an hour – on a road that called for 30 – was too much for me. My brain was fried from the travel, and despite the excitement of what was to come, I did miss my bed.

I’m sure a past version of myself must’ve been looking over my shoulder scoffing at the fact that yet again I was choosing safety over freedom, calmness over adrenaline – in short just being a giant pussy.

But I was 28 now and preferred doing things at a leisurely pace. Somewhere between 18 and 28 I discovered that I was probably Southern European in a previous life, a life that called for relaxing over rushing.

Clearly, not everyone believed in that idea.

***

The peak at Rainier was packed – unlike Glacier. The trails were crowded, and the colours were truly alien. The flowers looked like they were from a frozen planet somewhere out in the universe – gifted to us by their inhabitants, magically transformed by the Earth’s climate.

The shades of red, orange, green and yellow were so vivid and vast that they should’ve been jarring and harsh to look at, yet somehow, they all worked. The mountain was painted with these tones mirroring the colours of the sunset we had come all this way to see.

The scenery at Rainier couldn’t have been more different than that of Glacier. Rainier was abundant with a blend of contrasting sister-colours that just shouldn’t have worked. But the aesthetic and psychedelic in me was starting to see what all the fuss was about.

And so, we set off, up and up and up – a proper hike this time. Wearing skateboard high tops and jeans was not a good idea, but we trudged along, following the leader intent on reaching the perfect sunset point.

I felt like one of the Hobbits climbing the winding stairs, a sinister Gollum-like creature leading me forward; me following on more in hope than certainty that there was light at the end of this tunnel.

But the sun was fading away, and we’d already passed multiple perfectly reasonable spots in chase of this fictional “perfect viewpoint,” and now my feet were hurting, my head was spinning, and the withdrawals from a weekend without indulging in degeneracy was starting to rear its head.

I didn’t care about this sunset anymore. I was done with this mountain. I wanted a shower, a shit and a shave, and some comfort food to warm my belly.

I was making the trek back to Vancouver the next day and was ready for a night’s rest to guide me through the harrowing bus journey across the border. The Amtrak trauma still hadn’t left me.

But here we were continuing to climb up to a point where we were near the peak and there was no more trail. All around us were precarious loose rocks, and a nervy looking stranger who informed us that the only way to get to the other side was to go around the peak. This would add another thirty minutes to our hike and defeat the purpose of catching said sunset.

We forfeited this adventure — losing any bonus points we might’ve picked up — and turned back to take the same path down through the darkness.

I was tired and grumpy, dying for some food and a nice cold beer.

But the last few days had been special.

We had driven across three different states twice over the course of two days. I had seen more than I could've imagined. The bond that drew us together in the first place had grown tighter. All of what we experienced was going to live with us till the very end.

“It’s been a wild ride. A road, sometimes smooth, sometimes hard and ugly, and I guess I can tell you that if you look hard enough that just next door is just as interesting as the other side of the world. But that’s not exactly true. If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move — as far as you can, and as much as you can across the ocean, or simply across the river. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.”

That quote from some cynical, grizzled, travel-hungry, suicidal maniac, and one of my biggest inspirations, Anthony Bourdain, seems apt to wrap this series up with.

I don’t know if he’s right, and I don’t know if there’s ever going to be the perfect trip — I’ll be sure to keep you posted though. This blue-green ball floating in the middle of nowhere is decently sized. So before I decide to leave it to go check out what else is out there, I’m going to chase plenty more near-death/near-life experiences right here.

America though was a good place to start.