Observations by a Fire Lookout

Dear Kula Diaries,

A few weeks ago, I received this question in the Kula Diaries Vault:

Dear AMA,

Would you prefer to be a wildland firefighter or a fire tower lookout?

When I first read this question, I wondered if it had a typo… was it missing the word ‘in’? As in… Would you prefer to be a wildland firefighter or in a fire tower lookout? But then I decided that I liked the question as it was written — because it was even more interesting that way. I mean… who wouldn’t want to be a fire tower lookout?

Me, Three Fingers Lookout, circa 2009

The infamous ‘triple ladders’ on the way to Three Fingers Lookout!

I started writing this piece to be included in an AMA column, but as it unfolded, I realized that it needed a place of its own. To be completely honest, this is probably one of my favorite things that I’ve written for The Kula Diaries — it was fun, emotional — and it came to me so naturally that I simply reveled in the process of allowing it to become something. Isn’t that wonderful? There is nothing more delicious than the feeling that a story just writes itself.

I really hope that you enjoy it. To start, I want to share that I *love* fire lookouts.

Me at Hidden Lake Peak Lookout, circa 2011. This was a winter trip, and the traverse to the lookout was spicy (see below for the photo!).

I’ve been to many fire tower lookouts during my time here in Washington:

• Mt. Pilchuck Lookout

• Hidden Lake Peak Lookout

• Lookout Mountain

• Three Fingers Lookout

• Tolmie Peak Lookout

• Heybrook Lookout

• Sourdough Mountain Lookout

• Copper Mountain Lookout

• Granite Mountain Lookout

• Green Mountain Lookout

• Park Butte Lookout

• Freemont Lookout

I’ve spent the night in many of them … and I’ve always described fire lookouts from my perspective… but this particular AMA question made me wonder… what did they have to say? If a fire lookout could talk… what words would it share?

I decided to find out.

The aforementioned traverse up to the Hidden Lake Peak lookout… ice axe required!

Observations by Park Butte Lookout, Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest

I’ve been sitting here for awhile. Since 1932, to be precise. For a long time, I watched for fires… and I saw a lot of those. But, really, what I watch… is people. More than anything else, that’s what I’ve seen. Sure, an occasional wisp of smoke in the distance and a panicked call to some wildland firefighter crew provided a bit of excitement — but nothing is more exciting than wondering who will visit me next.

I have a lot of time alone — in the winter, hardly anybody visits me, and so I sit — in the shadow of Mt. Baker… cold and empty. My windows are shuttered, and I simply wait… in silence. A few mice have made me their permanent home — they look for tiny chunks of fallen trail mix or breadcrumbs from a hiker’s sandwich. Some days, I sit here and I watch the slopes of Komo Kulshan — Mt. Baker — turn from orange to pink to purple… and then fading into an icy blue, before the sun dips down and away. On other days, I’m covered with rime ice so thick that I feel heavy and exhausted trying to carry the weight — silently wishing for the warmth of the sun to provide some relief as the chunks of ice fall off.

I don’t mind waiting — but, mostly, I look forward to the people. I can see them as they walk through a meadow down below, and I get anxious wondering who they will be… and whether or not they will stay with me for the night. It’s loneliest at night, and there’s something comforting about being able to nestle in for the evening with a hiker who is snuggled up on my tiny bed. I can always tell if hikers plan to spend the night, because they usually arrive way too early in the day. Dayhikers are fine with leaving the car at 10am, because they aren’t vying for a spot in my alpine accommodations. But backpackers? Well, they usually start at 7 or 8am — because they want to be the first ones to arrive. Most people are pretty friendly, and they will share me with others — but I also get the appeal of having a fire lookout entirely to yourself.

A few years ago, a nice couple arrived at 10 in the morning — I saw them in the meadow below, and I knew — I just knew — that they were going to spend the night. I had been empty for a few days, and I was start to feel pretty lonely. I looked around at my tiny accommodations — everything was perfect. There was barely any mouse poop (the mouse and I have been working on this together), and the weather was glorious. Komo Kulshan looked taller and prouder and shinier than ever before — and I just knew this was going to be a really special day.

The couple arrived and heaved off their big packs— a man and a woman — and I could just tell that something wonderful was going to happen. When you’ve been a fire lookout for as long as I have, you just get that feeling about people — and I could tell that this guy was nervous. The woman? Well, she was just excited — I had never seen anybody so ecstatic before about being in a fire lookout, and I listened quietly as she described her first two climbs on Mt. Baker. Then, they started talking about a climb they had done together…

“There’s the Roman Wall,” the woman said excitedly, “We climbed that!”

I watched with eager anticipation as they pulled out their foam pads and sleeping bags and laid them down on my tiny bed — people do this a lot, because I think it gives them a feeling that they’ve ‘claimed’ the spot. And, really, I understand — I’m pretty spectacular, and I couldn’t imagine not wanting to sleep next to my window. Out of all of the humans on earth — how many of them get to wake up, peer out a window, and watch the sunrise on a giant, glaciated mountain?

I’ve been here for so long, that sometimes I take the view for granted — but when people arrive, it always reminds me how special it is. For a few moments in my life, I’m able to see the world through their eyes again. I watch as they point out the objects of wonder that surround me every single day — a perfect tarn, surrounded by twisty larch trees… crumbling seracs and gaping crevasses in the distance… layers upon layers of endless and seemingly infinite trees. It’s a big world up here, but usually it’s just me — and sometimes, when you’re permanently perched to a rock, the world can feel a little bit small. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to travel — to go places and to see new things. Are there other mountains out there? Other places that I could explore? And what about the people? Are there more people than the ones who visit me? Does the air smell different in a new place? Does the sky look more blue than it does here?

I ponder these things as I sit and I wait — and, then, in these moments where I allow myself to receive guests, I’m reminded just how special I really am. This time, I watch as the couple look through the books that have been carefully placed on my shelves… they read the maps on the table in the center of the room, and they discover hidden messages that have been left by other hikers and backpackers. In the distance, I can see another hiker who is arriving, and I can hear the anxiety level raise in the man’s voice — he doesn’t want this person to stay. I’m pretty sure he has something planned, and I can’t be too sure about that… but I’m no stranger to this sort of thing. I don’t want the other hiker to stay too, if I’m being honest. Usually, I’d say the more the merrier, but this time — no. I’m ok with this couple being here alone.

Eventually, the hiker shows up and pulls out the most ridiculous stove that I’ve ever seen and cooks an entire can of soup. He’s carrying a pair of wooden snowshoes — the type that you might see on the wall as a decoration in an old restaurant that will probably go out of business next year. The couple is kind and welcoming, but don’t worry, he informs them, he’s not staying the night. I breathe a sigh of relief and I sink my foundation back into the boulders underneath me — creaking only slightly, not enough to cause alarm.

The couple is sitting on the porch — just enjoying the evening, and making their own dinner and hot cocoa. I love hot beverages. Well, I mean, I can’t really drink them — but I love them. I love the smell of cocoa, and the way that it makes all of us feel cozy together. People think I can’t feel coziness, but I can — I shiver a little bit in the breeze and the scent of the warm cocoa drifts across my wooden siding. I feel right at home — and for now — there is nowhere else I want to be.

The sun is starting to set, and I can tell that the man is getting a bit more nervous with every sentence. In fact, a few of his sentences don’t even make sense — so I silently urge him on and watch as he slips something from inside his backpack to inside his pocket. I’m pretty sure it’s a ring — but maybe I’m wrong. I watch him start to pace a bit… it’s definitely a ring. The woman is completely oblivious to everything — except for the sunset — and wow, what a sunset! Komo Kulshan and the sun are pulling out all the stops tonight and the colors are vivid and saturated and deep. The woman bounces around from boulder to boulder and watches the sunset — her shrieks of excitement growing in intensity and pitch as the colors change and bloom around them.

The man reaches into his pocket — and it seems like he doesn’t know what to do. He walks behind the woman, embraces her in a hug, and slips a tiny box into her pocket, and my heart surges with excitement — this is it!! Except that it isn’t. She bounds away from him as the colors turn even more vibrantly orange and starts snapping photos. Silhouetted against the sky, her eyes sparkling she yells, “Look at THIS!! Can you believe it?!”

The man and I are nervous. We are feeling a bit panicked. I watch as she preciously jumps from boulder to boulder — completely unaware of the precious cargo in the pocket of her down puffy jacket. I watch as his eyes widen and he holds his breath each time she leaps between rocks — desperately hoping that the box and the ring don’t disappear into a granite crack forever. I try to do what I can — I paint the sky with all of my might and I try to look like the most beautiful fire tower that the world has ever seen. Maybe — I think — maybe if I can get her to stare at me, she’ll settle down enough and slip her hand into a pocket for a moment. In nearly a century of being here, I’ve gotten good at this — being in the perfect place, at the perfect time — so the light can hit me just right.

It works. She stops. She lifts her camera to take a photo as her jaw opens in awe at the perfect beauty of my tiny, wooden structure. The man walks up behind her in this moment of stillness and gently takes her hand and slips it into her pocket. I see her eyes widen — and I feel such a lift in my frame that my pulse quickens and even the mice scurry around. Mt. Baker holds its breath in the distance and the entire world seems to pause as she opens that tiny box that carries a little ring with a diamond that now reflects the tears that fall — one by one — to the boulders at the base of my feet. I feel them drop… cool and quietly. I see her slide the ring on her finger and hold it up to the sky. The whole world feels like it is smiling.

Later, they take photos on the balcony, and they climb into their respective sleeping bags on my tiny bed. The woman turns on her headlamp before she falls asleep and tilts her hand back and forth so she can look at this little ring — which, quite honestly, she doesn’t really understand. One day, many years from now, she will know what it means. But right now, that doesn’t matter. For tonight, the three of us can hold the infinite possibilities of love.

I watch their eyes close and, eventually, the mice start scurrying around the window sill — hoping to find a dropped crumb of that chocolate bar they ate together. I settle down for the night, but I’ll keep my shudders open. I don’t want to miss anything. There’s a sunrise tomorrow, and I get to share it with somebody else. There’s hot coffee to drink, and a bear to watch in the snow-covered meadow below. And then, they’ll pack their bags and I’ll watch them walk away. Off to their lives. Off to find out what that ring really means. Off to the next of a billion adventures that they can’t possibly predict. And the whole time, I’ll just be here… waiting. And do you know what? I’ll wait another hundred winters alone if it means that I can feel this type of love just once more.

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Friends — thank you so much for being here and for inspiring me to reflect about and write about such special things. I wrote this entire piece in one sitting… as soon as the idea came to me, it honesty felt like the words poured easily from a place that I can’t quite describe. I read it out loud to Aaron after I wrote it, and after we had both stopped crying — we reflected a lot about that day. We’ve been together for over a decade now — and it’s true … I had very little idea of what marriage was really about when I slipped that ring onto my finger at sunset. But do you know what? As I look back over the past decade, I’m really glad that I’ve had the chance to find out.

Wishing you all a week filled with infinite ease, peace, wellness and abundance — you are loved!

Aaron, on the lightning stool wearing an extra pant leg that we found in the lookout for unknown reasons — ha!