The traditions we keep

By Ben Olson
Reader Staff

Tradition is a curious concept. Do something once, it’s a lark. A few times, a habit. Often, perhaps you’re forming a custom. At some point, after time and repetition, these practices become tradition.

Traditions are everywhere. From opening a single present on Christmas Eve, to attending your senior prom or having one too many shots on your 21st birthday, traditions bring us out of the cold and unite us together under a common action.

One of my favorite traditions has been backpacking up to a mountain lake every fall to get in one last view of the alpine world before the snow buries it all.

This year, the road leading to our chosen trailhead was closed due to logging operations, so we had to redirect quickly to a nearby drainage for our annual excursion. 

We hit the trail in the late morning. The crisp alpine air was softened by the warm sun overhead, shining free and clear from any clouds in the sky. The hillsides were dotted yellow with the changing needles on the tamaracks (a.k.a. western larch). 

Once at the lake, we set down our heavy packs on giant granite slabs, took off our hiking boots and cracked some beers. There are those who are diligent about shaving every ounce of weight from their backpacks before a trip. Then there are those who enjoy a cold beer beside a mountain lake. I am one of the latter, except I usually stuff about four tallboys in my pack, along with a snort of whiskey. I’ll take a bit of extra sweat in exchange for enjoying a slight buzz after a long hike.

A mountain lake in North Idaho. No, I won’t tell which one. If you know, you know. Photo by Ben Olson.

Fall in the mountains is a peaceful time. Swaying quietly in a hammock with my book beside me, I’m amazed at the absence of noise. It’s a quiet you can hear. Most of the birds have moved to warmer climes for the season. Critters like pikas and chipmunks scurry around gathering nuts, occasionally emitting a loud chittering before scrambling up a nearby tree.

The only reminders of the outside world came both mornings, as we emerged from our tents to a world covered in frost to see a crazy old guy in an ultralight aircraft buzzing over the treetops. Shivering, I wondered how cold his morning trip to the lake was. While I was perturbed to be awakened so early, I had to admire the pilot’s chutzpah.

While cutting up wood for the fire, I counted almost 90 rings on one dead piece that was only about four inches wide. Trees grow slowly at high elevations because the more you climb, the less concentration of oxygen there is in the air. This often leads to stunted, gnarly subalpine trees — referred to as krummholz or knieholz — where trees are misshapen due to continued exposure to fierce winds and extreme temperatures. Looking at the larger trees near our camp, I wondered if they were mere saplings around the time of the Civil War.

With a fire roaring, we put together our lightweight burners to boil water for the evening victuals. After eating freeze-dried meals during a camping trip earlier in the year that tasted bland and overly salty, we decided to try something new. We brought pouches of wild salmon chowder made by our friends at Thunder’s Catch and a baggie full of oyster crackers. Purists will again scoff at the extra eight ounces of weight these pouches added to our packs, but I have no regrets. These chowder pouches are amazing, whether you eat them camping or just at home when you don’t feel like cooking. You can find them at Winter Ridge.

A couple days later, we loaded our packs — now a few pounds lighter — and made the slow push back down the mountain, looking back to the mountaintop with smiles, already yearning for the next trip. 

Sometimes traditions fall out of practice, due to age or changing habits. It’s the traditions we keep that are so important. They bring us together, but they also remind us of the better things in life, like eating hot chowder with your loved ones beside a crackling fire in the mountains.

I’ll continue making the annual pilgrimage to the mountains each fall until I’m physically unable. 

This is the way.