If I look to my left as I type at this moment, I see the whispering canopy of a European white birch some 40 feet tall, its branches dangling boas of diamond-shaped, tooth-edged leaves. I see the straight line of a utility cable weaving through the crazy puzzle of the tree’s profile. I see the nose of a silver sedan parked on the street below, and if I crane my neck to look over my shoulder I can see another birch, another cable, and a clutch of houses rising on the curve of Phinney Ridge, the neighborhood northwest of the one where I live. I see these things through the nearly full-length windows I am lucky to have lining the wall by my desk.
These are my windows; they are part of my apartment. It is simple enough to say, as you do: This is my view.
On Thursday morning Ross and I woke in the half-dark and drove two about and a half hours north of Seattle, picking up our friend Susie along the way. The goal for the day was to hike to a place called Hidden Lake Lookout, which lies just over the border between Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest and North Cascades National Park. Susie had hiked this route before, several years ago, and had in general sung the praises of the landscape through which it climbs—a part of the Cascade mountain range that Ross and I had not yet visited.
Nothing about the hike disappointed. The vegetation was everywhere riotous and everywhere changing; as we moved from forest to open cliffside, the dappled ferns and mosses fell away and we started seeing spikes of fireweed, starry asters, lupine, mountain ash, paintbrush and false hellebore. At times the giant, hairy fans of cow parsnip—cousins of the hundkex (“dog biscuit”) I encountered in Sweden—nearly pushed us off the path. And after Susie pointed out the ripe wild blueberries that lined the trail, every new patch became an excuse to pause and pluck a half dozen tiny bright beads, tart as anything and more satisfying than water.
We saw and heard pika as the terrain got rockier (each call like a fraction of a red-breasted nuthatch). Four white-tailed ptarmigan, brown summer plumage fading sooner than I would have thought into winter white, stood clucking softly on a steep outcrop near the top, as high as snowfields. Near the top of everything, the first glimpse of Hidden Lake appeared like a crazy mirage shining low in the throat of the mountains around it, and here there were ravens. Always ravens in high places.
But windows are my subject today.
Ross and I left Susie napping on a boulder in the sun and half-hiked, half-scrambled up another few hundred feet to the top of a narrow peak above. The views here, if possible, were even more expansive. We could see, though we could not have named all of these mountains at the time, Mount Shuksan. Big Devil Peak. Eldorado. Mount Baker. Johannesburg. Mount Sahale. Boston Peak. Mount Forbidden. Glacier Peak. The sky was close enough to touch and nothing for miles around, it seemed, was hidden from us—except perhaps the place where we had started from that morning, down below the shadows of the trees.
We found a place to stand, to twirl around and take it in. And then we turned our attention to the structure that gives the trail its name: a wildfire lookout built in 1932, decommissioned a few decades later, and currently maintained as a first-come, first-served camping shelter.
Five or six other parties were at the top when we arrived, including a pair of young backpackers who had been lucky enough, they told us, to nab the space just as its previous occupants were leaving. The couple had arranged their sleeping bags and foodstuffs in the lookout, a little wooden cabin tethered to the rocks at very nearly 7,000 feet, and were now sitting just outside it. Ross, before me, hesitated on the doorstep. The lookout was, of course, public property—but even at that height, a certain canon of possession held.
“Go on in,” the couple said, with jovial magnanimity (a relief to me, since a trip report I had read about this hike made mention of a party that had commandeered the house and tried to prevent day hikers from entering the lookout even for a peek). “Go take a look!”
And so we did. And as we entered, both of us—entirely involuntarily—gasped. “Oh, my god.” Here’s what we saw:
I’m not sure if these pictures made you gasp, too. It’s hard for me to know how I would feel about them if I didn’t have in my mind the memory of what it was like to step over that small threshold onto clean, peeling floorboards, thinking of nothing in particular except the sun and the air, feeling only a mild curiosity about what the inside of a fire lookout might be like, and to all of a sudden see that view, through those windows. It was quite genuinely breathtaking.
Not that the view outside the lookout’s walls had been less breathtaking—at least, it made no sense for that to be the case. By definition, what you could see through the windows was circumscribed and what you could see outside was not. Nothing ought to have been more spectacular than the 360 degree panorama we had beheld from the exterior, turning on our heels and back again until we all but lost our balance. A few pieces of wood and glass ought not to have improved on our eyes’ best evidence.
And yet, as soon as you walked through that doorway something made you gasp. It happened in exactly the same way to the people who stepped in as we stepped out—a stopping in their tracks, a sharp inhalation. “Oh, my god,” a woman said.
Reemerging from the lookout I was slightly irritated by the extra awe I’d felt on entering the structure. It took me a while to understand. At first I thought it must be something about the way the windows framed the mountains; perhaps they gave the overwhelming beauty of the scene some shape, I speculated. Perhaps they somehow emphasized the vastness of the landscape by placing onto it a sense of human scale, making the peaks seem even bigger and more majestic than they already were.
There may be something in that, but now I think the simpler, more direct, and more frustrating explanation is that windows make us feel as if we own what we see through them. And what a possession this would be! Everyone who stepped into the lookout that day, I think, immediately entertained a fantasy of moving into that irresistibly charming wooden cabin—of making it their home. That table, theirs. That bare bed, theirs. And that sublime, extraordinary view: theirs.
I often wish, spoiled as I am by having grown to love the outdoors through fieldwork at sites that were very nearly empty of other human beings, to be more alone when I hike. I grumble, quite unjustifiably, about having to share the trail with people who love wild places just as much as I do. This selfish impulse, I know, is another thing I share with many of those same people. I wouldn’t try to change it—solitude is precious, and we all deserve to seek it. But I would like to let go of the hunger to see the view through those windows, and of the silly, seductive sense that a place like that lookout was somehow the best possible vantage point from which to pass a night in the North Cascades.
I don’t want to want to own the mountains.
(But I do kind of want to be in that lookout during a lightning storm. Wouldn’t you?)