Gee Point

While browsing a map of the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, I spotted what appeared to be a little used trail in a tract of the forest south of Skagit River. I quickly assessed whether it was worthy of my short list for exploration: Is it interesting and is it within cycling distance? With an affirmative yes to both criteria, I set off with my bike, Rocinante, to Gee Point.

I pedaled about eight miles south on the usually quiet Concrete-Sauk Valley Road. Only slightly rolling, this road was a good warm up for the rest of the day, which I knew would require a lot of climbing. Upon reaching the Finney Creek Road, I began a slow ascent through a mosaic of forested land—fields of stumps in recent clear cuts, thick second and third-growth stands, and occasionally a pocket of old growth forest.

view of forest area with maturing trees and recently clear cut areas

In contrast to younger forest, old-growth stands are characterized not only by large and tall living trees, but also by a complex, uneven canopy and a relatively high amount of dead standing snags and down trees. Even from a distance, the old-growth can be easy to spot once you learn to look for these signs.

view of forest with tall trees on horizon

Large trees with an uneven canopy reveal a stand of old-growth trees on the edge of a former clear cut.

Most of these old-growth trees were inaccessible from the road (perhaps the only reason they remain standing), but a few other giants were spared the chainsaw. Perhaps too dangerous to cut, or perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, or already dead, these trees stood as the last remnants of the forest that used to be.

bicycle leaning against bole of large dead tree

A few miles up the Finney Creek Road stands a giant dead Douglas-fir tree. These trees remind me that, with the exception of fire-maintained prairies and frequently flooded areas, nearly all of the Sauk and Skagit river valleys were covered with old growth trees.

Specific trees, like Sitka spruce, along Finney Creek also indicated this was often a wet place. Sitka spruce is typically found in areas with cool summers and high rainfall.

silhouette of Sitka spruce

The North Cascades, however, experience a bi-modal climate. Its cool, wet winters stand in start contrast to hot and droughty summers, and I was soon reminded of the region’s aridity even as I cycled underneath a thick canopy of needles. As the road transitioned between gravel and broken pavement, the dirt was so dry I kicked up a rooster tail of dust anytime I gained appreciable speed and each pickup truck left a cloud in their wake. (I saw about a dozen motor vehicles in this stretch of national forest. With the exception of one ATV, all were pickup trucks.)

By the time I reached FS Road 1720, I was within a few miles of Gee Point, but I still had most of the climbing ahead of me.

view of dirt road lined with thick forest

It’s a lot steeper than it looks.

The road, now completely dust and gravel but pleasantly lacking washboards, switch-backed through young, even-aged trees as it gained elevation. The terrain was changing as I climbed and signs of winter’s harshness began to appear. I crossed through an avalanche chute at least three times, which gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath as I admired the power of snow to snap trees in half.

view of short trees caused by avalanche

Winter and springtime avalanches are a frequent occurrence in the North Cascades area, pruning any plant too tall or any too stiff to flex under their tremendous force. In summer, the brushy chutes are prime habitat for bears and I caught a glimpse of a black bear in this one.

The bright, hot sunshine and steepness of the road slowed my speed dramatically and I accumulated a sizeable escort of biting flies, but the views kept getting better, even with a slight haze from wildfire smoke.

dirt road leading toward mountain peak

To reach Gee Point though, I had to hike, so I locked Rocinante to a convenient fir tree at the end of the road and started walking. About a half mile in, I entered a beautiful, uncut forest dominated by large western hemlock and Pacific silver fir. At over 4,000 feet in elevation, which is not particularly high for the Cascades and in stark contrast to the tired burned out green of lower elevations, the forest floor had a noticeably fresh appearance.

The trail soon gained a ridge line and swung to the top of Gee Point where I was rewarded with a panoramic view.

 

The air, so calm and comfortably warm, easily could’ve induced a nap, but then I remembered that I was running low on water and time, so I reluctantly retraced my steps to the trailhead. After taking one final break to filter drinking water from Little Gee Lake, I bombed down the mountainside.

view of alpine lake and basin

On the rapid descent, I was glad to have wide 700x38cc tires to handle the rough surface and working brakes to check my speed. The ride home was quick, taking me half the time to ride back compared to riding there. When I reached home, my lower legs were caked in a fine powder. They felt worked too, but it was a good kind of tired.

Spring cycling along the North Cascades Highway

Last June, I wrote about cycling to Rainy Pass on the North Cascades Highway. For half the year, however, this road is closed as snow accumulation and avalanche danger, especially, become too great to keep it open. On weekends in spring, when road crews pause their work to clear snow and avalanche debris, the highway opens to bicyclists, so last Friday I took a rare opportunity to ride a car-free road. I found springtime fully fledged at low elevations in the North Cascades and winter’s legacy still holding a firm grip on the high country.

At low elevations, near the town of Newhalem, the weather and vegetation reflect mature springtime conditions. Hummingbirds seek nectar from red-flowering currant, deciduous plants are nearly fully leafed-out, and the ground is snow-free.

pink flowers on shrub

Red-flowering currant (Ribes sanguineum)

Heading east through Ross Lake National Recreation Area, the road climbs most steeply where it skirts the three hydroelectric dams on the Skagit River. Even here, at elevations below 1000 feet, avalanches will sometimes crash across the road when winter conditions are right.

gully on mountainside

In February 2017, a large avalanche crossed the highway at this location, trapping a few dozen people on the other side for several days.

view of avalanche snow on road

An avalanche covering the road at the same place on February 25, 2018. Photo courtesy of Washington State DOT.]

After fifteen miles of riding, beyond Diablo Lake…

View of lake and mountains

…I reached the Ross Dam trailhead where the highway remained closed to cars.

gate across highway. sign reads "Active slide area proceed at your own risk" and "Stop"

Freed of the stress of close encounters with cars, cycling on car-free roads is wonderfully relaxing. Even as I remained reasonably alert for hazards and other cyclists, I was able to do stupid things I’d never try when sharing the road with motor vehicles—like riding down the centerline while recording video.

GIF of road and surrounded by mountains and trees

For me, the car-free environment also promotes stopping where anything catches my attention. Ascending higher into the mountains, I watched as the vegetation became less and less green. From a certain phenological perspective, I was moving backwards through time. By the time I reached 2,500 feet in elevation, most of the raucous birdsong of the Skagit lowlands disappeared and deciduous plants were just breaking bud.

green flowers at the end of a maple branch

Big leaf maple has already finished blooming at low elevations along the Skagit River, but it was still in full flower around 3000 feet in elevation along the highway.

Around highway mile 150, about 15 miles beyond the gate at Ross Dam and 4,000 feet above sea level, snow continuously covered the ground. It only became deeper as I pedaled farther. Just a couple of miles shy of Rainy Pass, where state road crews had halted their work for the week, snow remained five feet deep on the road.

bicycle leaning against snow bank with one lane of plowed highway

 

bicycle leaning on five-foot high snow bank

The end of the plowed road on May 4, 2018.

As it melts, the snow provides much needed water to streams and rivers in a mountainous region where summer drought is common. For many plants though, the deep snow hinders growth well into summer. On the day of my ride, temperatures hovered in the 60s˚ F, certainly well within the temperature tolerance of plants in the Cascades, but the deep snow keeps the underlying soil cold and dark. Under these conditions, most plants have to lie dormant until growing conditions improve. In the North Cascades, where snow accumulation is so deep and extensive, this set of conditions creates a perpetual spring season on the margins of the snow pack. This gives wildlife like deer and bears the opportunity to eat young and nutritious plants through July and August.

yellow-flowered lily

Yellow avalanche lilies (Erythronium grandiflorum) are currently blooming in the Diablo Lake area. More commonly associated with meadows at higher elevations, these perennials have a short growing season. They begin to grow from a perennial bulb as soon, and sometimes even before, snow cover melts away to take advantage of ephemerally moist soils. By late July, the soils where this specimen grows will have become powdery dry, but at higher elevations this species will still be in flower.

new leaves at the end of small twigs in shaded forest

Late last July, long after I began to feast on blueberries at low elevations, blueberry plants in a snowy portion of Pelton Basin has just begun to leaf out. Late season berries are an important food source for bears this area.

Even during this ride into the middle elevations of the North Cascades (the highest non-volcanic peaks here top out over 9,000 feet tall), it was easy to see how snow exerts a significant influence on the landscape. The week of my ride, road crews reported nine feet of snow at Rainy Pass (el. 4,855’). In a couple of months, when tender plants like yellow avalanche lilies have withered and dried at lower elevations, I can ride up here again and find a microcosm of spring along the edge of the remaining snow.

view of snow-capped mountains and coniferous forest

A Winter Cycling in Death Valley

Author’s note: Over ten years ago, I wrote this essay about my cycling experiences at Death Valley. In it you may notice a bias against car travel because I wrote it for a cycling audience in mind, particular those who travel by bicycle. I even pitched it to a cycling magazine (they liked it but needed more quality photos).

I continue to ride my bicycle a lot, and I highly encourage everyone to do so (it’s better for you and the Earth), but over time I’ve come to realize that I should be less judgmental of people who experience parks in different ways than me. Still, I chose not to edit this essay—even though it could certainly use it, especially stylistically. With that being said, here it is, unadulterated and unedited.


I had never been anywhere this windy. I was out for a leisurely overnight trip from Furnace Creek in the heart of Death Valley to the town of Shoshone and back. All went well during this ride—my legs felt strong but worked, I was able to relax, the temperature warmed to a comfortable level (it was December), and I was surrounded the whole way by beautiful scenery. All went well, that is, until the wind hit me like a punch in the face.

Visibility was great earlier that day, and the wind was mostly calm. I could see fifty miles to the north along the wide-open expanse of the valley floor, but there appeared to be a haze obscuring the most distant mountains. My attention was repeatedly drawn back to this haze because it was moving closer. As I rode north, it moved south further obscuring the horizon. By the late afternoon, it was easy to see what was approaching, one of Death Valley’s infamous wind storms.

I’m slow on my bicycle and even more so when it is loaded down with camping gear. The windstorm, if it had any malicious intent, couldn’t have chosen a better time to try and wipe me out. It was late afternoon. I had already ridden sixty miles and my energy levels were dropping. Home was only a dozen or so miles away but the wind forced me to drop into the granny gear. Then it blew even harder. Sand stung my face and dust irritated my eyes. I felt like I was trying to pedal through water. I gave up riding a few miles from home and started to walk.

View of dust storm approaching from right.

A dust storm blows across Death Valley.

That day was rough, as were many others, but I always felt compelled to go back out. After all, there was a 3.3 million acre national park surrounding me. In many areas of the United States, the winters may be soaking wet or too cold to bicycle. Occasionally those things can combine to make Death Valley a not-so-fun place to ride. The odds of that happening, however, are very much against it.

It was an easy choice for me to not bring a car to Death Valley National Park, because I don’t own one. I had lived without a car in remote areas of New Mexico and Washington State before, but still I was a little apprehensive about living and working in Death Valley without the ease an automobile would provide (the supermarket lies sixty miles distant from Furnace Creek). It’s not uncommon to read about a car being a “must have” in order to visit and explore Death Valley. For typical national park visitors, this is true. However, I don’t consider touring cyclists to be typical visitors. Without a car, and on a bicycle, is one of the best ways to experience this park.

On average Death Valley is the hottest and driest place in the United States. The books written about it are full of superlatives describing its extreme heat and changes of elevation. The Badwater Basin, elevation -282 feet, is the lowest dry land point in North America. Telescope Peak, the park’s highest point at elevation 11049 feet, looks right down upon Badwater from its western foothold. Temperatures exceeding 120° F are routine anywhere in the valley during the height of summer. The earth’s second hottest temperature ever recorded, 134° F, was measured at Furnace Creek*.

Those are a couple of the most notable features of Death Valley National Park, but during the five months I spent there I discovered that there were many things rewarding to find, and most of those things I would have missed if I hadn’t been riding my bicycle.

I would have missed the level of fitness Death Valley propelled me to. I spent the previous winter and summer in one of the flatter portions of Maine. Cycling there kept me fit, but not like Death Valley. When you’re in the valley, especially at Badwater, there’s only one-way to go—up. The easiest way out of the Death Valley is on a road that climbs over 3000 feet in 20 miles. That’s the pass that I tackled first. From there, the roads became more challenging and exciting. Days riding with 4000 feet and 5000 feet of elevation gain, or more, became common. Whether or not I was loaded up with camping gear or out just for a day ride didn’t matter. The challenge was always there. Over the course of the season, I pounded at the roads daring gravity to slow me down. Of course gravity did its job, but with each passing week my legs became stronger, mountain passes became less daunting, and the return trips down those monster climbs became more rewarding.

That’s something else I would have missed without my bike, the challenge and reward of it all. How far could I safely ride this day or that? What discoveries does that canyon next to the road offer? I found that some days were devoted to cycling, some were devoted to hiking, and some were devoted to both.

I sometimes carried my hiking boots, daypack, lots of water, and trusty bike lock in a couple of panniers. After finding a suitable road sign near a promising destination or hiking route, I would lock my bicycle to the signpost confident that bicycle thieves probably were not perusing the roads. After that, it was just a matter of hiking in.

I wandered to some spectacular places on those days—canyons with waterfalls (yes, even waterfalls can be found in Death Valley if you know where to look), mountain peaks, and the ruins of mining operations gone bust. The lack of daylight during the winter months was limiting however, even more so than my energy levels on some days. I would regretfully leave the mountaintop I reached or the deep canyon I was sheltered in only to be surprised by what I could find while cycling back home.

Without my bicycle, I would’ve missed the surprises that even the ordinary roadsides offered. It was sometimes as simple as being surprised by how different the land looked under different light, how hard cycling can be when you just don’t feel as energized as you wish you were, or sometimes it was just the simple presence of wildflowers that surprised me.

Obviously, Death Valley is a very dry place. Furnace Creek averages less than two inches of rainfall per year. Plant life is not abundant. Occasionally though, winter rains can help produce spectacular flower blooms during the late winter and spring seasons. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those winters. Hardly any rain fell, even by Death Valley standards. However, some areas did receive a light rain shower or two. Annual and perennial plants will respond to such things in due time. I must admit, I’m a bit of plant nerd and easily get distracted by things such as roadside wildflowers. Still, it may seem oxymoronic to go to Death Valley to see wildflowers, but in the right place at the right time of the year flowers can appear.

Along a road I pedaled numerous times, light rain had fallen months before. When I came back that way early in March, I was surprised to see the diversity and results of that rain. That day I was sailing down the road on its 6% grade until I noticed the scattering of flowers along the shoulder. I was distracted and surprised enough by them that I barely covered a mile in the next hour. These flowers didn’t produce much along the lines of lushness, but the land no longer felt as desolate as before.

I couldn’t say the same for other areas of the park. “No Services Next 54 Miles.” “No Services Next 72 Miles.” These were some of the road signs I encountered in the Death Valley region. Remoteness and desolation were in no short supply, and that’s part of why people are fascinated with this place. Other than roads, Death Valley has very few developed areas. Yes, there certainly are the typical campgrounds, restaurants, and trinket shops one expects to see in a national park, but the lack of water mercifully limits these services to a very limited number of places. Away from those places, nothing seems to stop the desolation and expansiveness of this place.

The Harrisburg Flats, which the Emigrant Canyon Road crosses, was once the site of a thriving mining community, and like most mining towns in the area it went bust. Now, not much more than rusting tin cans scattered amongst the low shrubs reveal the town’s location. This area, with its evidence of people come and gone and its lack of people today, filled me with the sense that this is about as lonely and desolate of an area as I’ve ever visited.

I cycled up the long haul through Emigrant Canyon for miles and miles to this point with only a handful of automobiles passing by. When I reached the Harrisburg Flats, ten then twenty minutes came and went between cars. I was alone. The old tin cans didn’t offer any company and neither did the northern harrier and the golden eagle I spotted flying nearby. This certainly was a desolate spot, but a blissful one as well. If I had reached this spot in a car after an hour of driving, instead of several hours of pedaling, the emotion of the moment would have been lost. It’s a moment I sometimes think about when streets are crowded and society is noisy.

A lot would be lost without exploring this park on a bicycle. Even the wind added to the experience. The same wind that forced me to walk my bike and flung dirt in my eyes and mouth made plenty of noise. It howled through the edges of the doors and windows of my home. It roared across my ears when I cycled drowning out almost all other sound. But when the wind quit, which it often does (trust me), the silence of Death Valley took over.

During one wonderfully calm day, in the midst of a ride that climbs a vertical mile from Furnace Creek to Dante’s View, I was fortunate to discover just how quiet Death Valley really is. Few cars had passed by me that day in November, which certainly was welcome. However, it wasn’t the lack of cars that I discovered that day. What struck me the most was the immense silence. As I ascended the last few miles to Dante’s View, I only heard two things: the sound of my tires gripping the pavement and my heart pounding in my chest. After I stopped and rested, I didn’t even hear those things.

View of salt flats and mountains

Looking into Death Valley from Dante’s View.

Minus forests, abundant streams, and maybe a conveniently placed bicycle shop, Death Valley offers all a cyclist could want. Ascents of challenging mountain passes, the land’s vast and subtle beauty, the isolation and desolation, the new discoveries, even the wind—it was always these things that brought me back out to ride again. You can even find trees and water if you look for them. Would I have experienced all of these things if I was traveling by automobile? Possibly. Would they have been as fulfilling? Never. The views were never as grand, the flowers never as pretty, and the wind never blew as hard as it did when I was riding my bicycle.

*This is now considered the hottest temperature ever recorded on Earth.

Burpee Hill

Dry weather has been infrequent in western Washington this fall, so when a clear day dawned earlier this week I couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a wandering bike ride, one of my favorite pastimes. Over the last several years, my bicycle rides and hikes have become far more leisurely since I have become more prone to distraction. Without a fixed agenda though, I’m more open to discovery. Why, for example, would anyone pass on the chance to see a baby snake?

tiny snake in palm of gloved hand

This tiny garter snake was basking on the side of the road on a warm fall day in late October. Concerned it might become road kill, I moved it off of the pavement.

With temperatures near freezing on Monday, I wasn’t going to find any snakes, but over a fifty mile round trip—from Skagit River to the end of the road near Baker Lake—I found more than enough to hold my attention. After a mere two miles of pedaling, I found a reason to pause.

I began at the old concrete silos in Concrete, a small town along the middle reaches of Skagit River…

Concrete silos. Text on silos reads,

Why was Concrete named Concrete? You only get one guess.

Cycling route profile from Google Maps.

No, I didn’t ride the hill as slowly as Google Maps says it will take.

…and immediately began a steep climb up Burpee Hill. In two miles, the road gains over 800 feet of elevation, although I didn’t mind the opportunity to warm up with frost lingering on the grass.

The North Cascades region is the sum of a complex geologic history. Large-scale mountain building, volcanism, and extensive glaciation created and shaped a landscape of unparalleled ruggedness in the Lower 48 states. This area’s geology is, well, complicated. Just take a look at the geologic map.

screen shot of geologic map of Mount Baker and Baker Lake area

Yikes.

On a bicycle, unlike in a car, stopping to check out roadside curiosities—wildlife, road kill, trees, wildflowers, rocks, scenery—is very easy and is an important reason why I enjoy it so much. About half way up the Burpee Hill climb, I stopped to ponder some interesting sediments exposed in a road cut. The coarse to fine grained sediments were well sorted, indicating flowing water had deposited them, and were capped by a mix of unsorted rocks. This is one piece of a grander glacial puzzle.

view of road cut

A few exposures of loose and coarse sediment can be found on the Burpee Hill Road.

Maps that outline the last glacial maximum in North America give the impression that ice flowed largely north to south. While generally true, the story is a bit more complex on a local scale, as Burpee Hill illustrates.

Glaciers are masses of ice that flow and deform, and they behave differently than ice from your freezer. Set an ice cube on a table and strike it with a hammer and it will fracture. Ice in a glacier’s interior, however, is under tremendous pressure. Ice crystals are altered and deformed like plastic putty, so much so that only the upper 30 meters of temperate glaciers are brittle. (The relatively consistent maximum depth of crevasses reveals this fact. Below 30 meters, deforming ice seals any crevasses. Cavities at the base of glaciers have been measured to seal as fast as 25 centimeters per day.) The ice is not impervious to liquid water though. Within temperate glaciers, ice remains at or slightly above freezing, which allows meltwater to percolate to the glacier’s base. Pressure from overlying ice also causes some water to melt at the bed. Once there, meltwater acts as a lubricant helping the glacier slide. These factors, combined with gravity’s pull, drive glaciers along the paths of least resistance, and sometimes these paths lead uphill.

Between 19,000 and 18,000 years ago, a broad lobe of the cordilleran ice sheet invaded the lowlands of Puget Sound. Fingers of the ice sheet reached into the North Cascades as it continued to advance southward. Around 16,000 years ago, the ice sheet reached its maximum extent in western Washington, reaching south beyond Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia.

On the margin of the ice sheet, lowland valleys like the Skagit offered ice easy passage as it advanced. About 18,000 years ago in the lower and middle reaches of the Skagit valley, ice flowed in the opposite direction of the modern Skagit River. Burpee Hill is largely the result of this process. It’s a 200 meter-thick layer of glacial outwash, glacial lake sediments, and glacial till deposited at the front of ice as it advanced up the Skagit valley. The features are clearer in a LIDAR image.

LIDAR Image

Burpee Hill is the wedge-shaped feature in the center of the image.

LIDAR image with labels. From left to right:

Glacial ice from the Puget Sound area flowed east over the current location of Concrete. The sediments that make Burpee Hill were deposited in front of the advancing ice.

Since its formation, erosion and landslides have eaten away at Burpee Hill, and it is easy to overlook when the lure of craggy peaks and snow-capped volcanoes always dangles ahead. If volcanoes and orogenies are architects of this landscape, then glaciers are certainly its sculptor, reshaping landforms in profound ways. Stories like this are tucked away everywhere. Landforms are rarely ordinary.

Epilogue:
I continued my ride, which (in case you’re wondering) was wonderful even though temperatures remained near freezing. As I expected it to be on week day in early December, the road was quiet. The views of Mount Baker, pockets of old growth forest, and Baker Lake were worth the effort.
view of snow capped volcano and creek valley

Short Ride Up Stehekin Valley

October has been a wet month here in Stehekin. So far, seven inches of rain have been recorded. Today brought a break in the weather though. When I saw clear skies this morning, I ate a quick breakfast and hopped on my bike for a ride up the Stehekin Valley Road through Lake Chelan National Recreation Area. I wanted to casually revisit different habitats along the way while enjoying bold fall colors.

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Snow-capped mountains over Lake Chelan

For the first mile the road hugs Lake Chelan’s rocky shoreline. The shallow areas near the head of the lake are popular with waterfowl right now. With the birds and the view of the mountains, I could’ve spent the whole morning near the dock at the Purple Point Campground. But, I probably would’ve chosen a different spot to linger, since I don’t necessarily enjoy the smell of rotting kokanee (land-locked sockeye salmon).

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Many dead and dying kokanee salmon are flushed from Stehekin River into Lake Chelan. This one, and many others, accumulated at the dock for Purple Point Campground.

 

The road quickly leaves the lake and roughly parallels Stehekin River for the next 12 miles.

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Stehekin River rises and falls considerably from peak runoff in late spring to its low point in late summer. It’s come up at least a foot since rain returned to the area, but is still several feet below its seasonal high.

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Stehekin River

The river is fed by several tributaries. Rainbow Creek is probably the most well known. From a hanging valley, it pours over 300 foot high Rainbow Falls onto an alluvial fan.

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Many small tributaries of Stehekin River form alluvial fans where they encounter the valley bottom. Rainbow Falls is tucked back behind the trees at upper center.

Alluvial fans on the side of the valley are typically dry, fire prone habitats. Around Rainbow Falls, fire is managed through controlled burns, which keeps the understory clear and trees well spaced. Usually, only plants with very high tolerances for hot, dry soils live here. The soils on the alluvial fans aren’t particularly rich either, which is one reason my garden, located on the toe of one these fans, sucked this year.

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Several species of manzanita (Arctostaphylos sp.), also called kinnikinnik or bearberry, inhabit the area, especially in dry sites. Black bears feed on the berries, but I find them mealy and almost flavorless.

 

Shortly after Rainbow Falls, the pavement ends next to a talus slope….

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…and the road weaves its way on top of more alluvial fans and down to the floodplain.

Areas that are prone to flooding or have wet soils have a far higher proportion of deciduous trees, like black cottonwood and red alder, than the adjacent uplands.

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Along the whole route, I stopped frequently just to enjoy the scenery.

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At the boundary between Lake Chelan National Recreation Area and North Cascade National Park, the river flows through a narrow valley where wet and dry microhabitats can exist within feet of one another. Plant life here is fairly diverse. Most of North Cascades tree species are found growing in the upper Stehekin watershed, and it’s a good place for animals too. Often I find fresh bear scat and tracks on the roads and trails.

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Tracks from a black bear that had walked on the road not long before I passed through.

Near the end of the road, I was forced to cross the river on this rickety down tree.

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Just kidding. I crossed on a sturdy bridge.

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But, within a few more minutes was met with an ominous sign.

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Impassible Beyond Here

Habitats along Stehekin River are subject to change, especially when the river floods. Just beyond the sign, the road is washed away.

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Road’s End: A 500 year flood washed away large sections of the Stehekin Road in 2003.

Here, I turned back to enjoy the mostly downhill ride home. Of course, fall colors and scenery kept distracting me, so I didn’t ride too fast, just enough to remain comfortably warm.