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Scenic Photography of the North Cascades

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For me each mountain in the Cascades has its own personality made up of shapes and lines. Eons of tectonic uplifting and erosion by wind, water and ice have created sculptural masterpieces in stone that, in my opinion, are unmatched in both size and beauty by anything created by human hands. The forces that have shaped these mountains seem to also have imparted elements of hardness and relentlessness to them. This is a place of sheer rock and fierce sudden storms, of soaking rains and thick, ghostly mists. The mountains challenge or even threaten anyone who enters their realm. If the peak or ridge or brush patch is between you and some destination, you must go over it, around it or through it. There is no bargaining. The mountain does not care if your legs and shoulders ache or if you are tired or scared. You have two choices, endure and persevere or turn back.

The Cascades also have a timeless quality for me. One can feel the spirits of many thousands of yesteryears on their ridges and in their valleys. These spirits abide in the smell of hemlock and fir and yellow cedar and in the flowers of the native plants blooming each spring as they have for millennia. They live in visions of meadows carpeted with myriad wildflowers in a riot of colors or rock slides aflame with fall colors. They haunt the dark forests covered with new snow and fog. Ancient spirits seem almost tangible in the twilight of the fading day and can be heard in the roar of a nearby stream, in the echoes of its waterfalls and rapids. They can be heard in the sounds of birds and animals that live there.

Yesterday can be touched in the summer breeze that carries the sweet smells of growing things drying the sweaty brow and driving away insects. And the breeze of late fall still caresses the cheek with the bitter kiss of winter and the promise of hard times to come as it has for ages uncounted.

Though the Cascades offer hardships and challenges they also offer beauty, solitude and solace for the soul. There is nothing quite like topping a ridge to feel the wind on your face. The heart soars with the wind while one views a panorama of jagged rock jutting above timbered slopes and valleys, the mountains like grand beings mantled with white snow and green meadows. Nor can the feeling be matched when one reaches an opening in the timber or rounds a ridge to see a snow clad giant towering above. The cycles of nature bind tomorrow to yesterday and, as I travel in the mountains, they bind me to something that is vastly bigger than myself in both time and space.

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