Fire Lookout Friday

Six seasons on the same mountain, and the questions don't really change. What do you actually do up there? Don't you get bored? How does a thousand pounds of groceries get to a 7,000-foot summit?

This week, straight from the catwalk at Goat Peak, I'm answering the questions I hear most from visitors, including what nobody ever thinks to ask about: the sleepless nights, the Murphy's Law of mountain breaks, and why staffing Goat Peak is never, ever lonely or boring.

Some places stay with you because of the destination. Others stay with you because of everything in between. Dodger Point turned into one of those rare adventures where the fire lookout almost became secondary to the journey itself.

This week's story is about a 40-mile odyssey into the Olympics, the remarkable rebirth of one of the Pacific Northwest's greatest rivers, and why some places have a magic all their own.

For five summers at Goat Peak, Slate Peak has been a familiar silhouette on my northwest horizon. Fifteen miles away, but always there. This past winter, the 70-year-old tower collapsed, and the ridgeline has been empty ever since.

This week's story is about what it feels like to lose a place you didn't realize you depended on. A full moon visit in 2017, a sea of clouds in 2019, the gutting reality of standing in the wreckage two weeks ago, and the question that keeps coming back—what do fire lookouts leave behind when they're gone?

By the summer of 2022, Lookout Mountain had spent several years sitting quietly above the Methow Valley. Shutters closed. Doors locked. This is a story about what happens when an old fire lookout wakes up again. Four unforgettable days over the Fourth of July weekend filled with old logbooks, northern lights, spectacular thunderstorms, more than a hundred visitors, and the simple joy of watching a historic fire lookout remember what it was meant to be.

A few weeks ago, vandals severely damaged the historic High Rock fire lookout just as a decade-long restoration project was nearing completion. But this week's story isn't really about the vandalism. It's about what happened next.

This week, I'm sharing stories of High Rock, Lookout Mountain, Columbia Breaks, and the remarkable community of volunteers who quietly spend thousands of hours keeping Washington's historic fire lookouts standing. Because it turns out these little buildings on mountaintops have an extraordinary way of bringing people together.

Washington's lowest elevation standing fire lookout sits hidden on one of the largest military installations in the world. The problem? Almost nobody on base seems to know it’s there. This week's story is about a fire lookout that took me two attempts, three trips to Range Control, a drive through artillery fields, and a military police escort to prove it actually existed.

North Twentymile is the Washington fire lookout that took me more failed attempts to reach than any other. Fire. Smoke. Heat. Snow. All caused four years of failure before I finally stood on the summit. And now, I keep returning. 

This week’s story is about one of Washington’s most unique fire lookout sites, it’s rare D-6 cupola, a young mustang’s first fire lookout, and the strange way certain places get under your skin and refuse to let go.

A cattle dog who grew up on a mountain. A one-eyed Mustang from Oregon. A Quarab mare who doesn't have time for your produce aisle. And a five-year-old South Steens Mustang who could pass for his big brother's mini-me. Eight episodes in, it's time to properly introduce the herd—and the story of how horses and fire lookouts turned out to be more intertwined than I ever expected.

A Montana-based watchdog group. A federal judge. An 80-year-old fire lookout listed on the National Register of Historic Places, restored and then ordered removed. This is the story of Green Mountain, the lawsuit that nearly took it down, and the larger question underneath all of it: what does wilderness actually mean? And who gets the last word?

The conclusion of a three-attempt journey to what might just be Washington State's most remote fire lookout. After two failed attempts in Part 1, this is the episode where I finally make it to the summit of Holdover Peak. 300 downed trees, some of the largest animal tracks I've ever seen, a spectacular sunset, and one of the most extraordinary nights I've ever spent on a fire lookout catwalk. And... a gravestone with a story that deserves its own Friday.