Komo Kulshan: Into the Realm of the Great White Watcher
Mountains have always been a compass for me. Growing up beneath the sandstone curtain of the Boulder Flatirons, I learned to measure my days by their jagged silhouettes. They gave me calm when in view, and left me uneasy when absent. So when my wife and I traded the familiar comfort of Colorado for the mist-draped horizons of Washington, I wondered if I would find that same grounding presence here. It didn’t take long. On every dawn dog-walk and every fiery Salish Sea sunset, a colossal form beckoned me from the northwest: Komo Kulshan, the Great White Watcher.
Most know it as Mount Baker, its more recent english name, given by Captain Vancouver after his lieutenant Joseph Baker spotted it while on expedition in 1792. The 10,781-foot stratovolcano is crowned in ice, second only to Rainier in its glacier count. Its runoff feeds the Skagit and Nooksack Rivers, lifelines that sustain salmon runs, nourish the Puget Sound, and ultimately keep the resident orca alive. To the Coast Salish peoples, though, it is more than geology — it is spirit, presence, ancestor. To me, while away from my beloved Colorado mountains, it became a distant companion. But gazing from afar was not enough. I wanted to step onto its frozen skin, feel the grind of crampons on glacier ice, and look into the fiery heart of a living volcano.
The Ascent Begins
On September 7th, after months of anticipation, I shouldered a 65-pound pack — far heavier than my usual go fast-and-light ethos — and set out with three trusted companions: Seth, our seasoned guide from Northwest Alpine Guides, along with Daniel and Rod, brothers from my mountain rescue team in Colorado.
The lower trail wound through delicious blueberry thickets, then zigzagged into the marmot inhabited moraine before spitting us out on the Railroad Grade, a rocky ridge shaped like some long-forgotten track. By evening, we established our high camp atop a rocky outpost above the glacier. The looming wall of snow and ice above us — the infamous Roman Wall — gleamed in the dying light that was tainted burnt orange by a far off forest fire. Rain was in the forecast the following day when we planned our summit push, but fortune bent in our favor and the precipitation fell back. So, at 4 a.m., after a quick breakfast of instant coffee and oatmeal, we shouldered ropes, strapped on crampons, and began our climb upward.
Across the Ice
The mountain wasted no time reminding us of its hazards. Gaping accordion-like ridges from glacial flow run horizontal across the lower ice fields forcing us to clip into the rope line and move as one. Ascending higher over narrow ice bridges with black-mouthed crevasses yawning beneath. Each step demanded precision, each of us listening for a crack or a call to action from a teammate. In that fragile ballet, trust was absolute: if one of us slipped, the others would drop instantly into self-arrest, axes biting into ice, rope pulled taut. Alone, the glacier is merciless. Together, it is survivable.
At dawn, we reached a ridge where the volcano revealed its boiling heart — steam vents exhaling sulfur into the sky, like some primordial furnace. It was the kind of scene that belongs on a double-page spread of National Geographic: stark, alien, unforgettable.
The Roman Wall
The final gauntlet loomed above us: the Roman Wall, impossibly steep and foreboding with late-season hazards. The scattered boulders on the snow reminded us that dangerous rockfall was a constant threat. At one point, a boulder the size of a small car broke free from high above, hurtling down the slope with terrifying speed. It skipped a crevasse like a stone across water before detonating into the opposite wall. Had it chosen our path, there would’ve been no escape. The mountain reminds you in such moments — you are a fragile visitor, nothing more.
Pushing higher, we cleared the Wall and gained the upper glacier. A false summit teased us, then finally gave way to the final stretch: loose scree, a flattened pitch, and at last, the summit cone on the northeast corner of the cirque.
At the Summit
Standing atop Komo Kulshan was not triumph, but communion. The view stretched endlessly: the jagged teeth of the North Cascades, the far off shimmer of the Salish Sea, the distant peaks now dwarfed by this King of the resident mountains. But what struck me most was a sense of humility — of gratitude for teammates roped together in trust, for family who supported this restless pursuit, and for the mountain itself, which had allowed us passage.
Days later, back in town, I tossed a ball for my dog in the park. That evening the cloudiness gave way. The Great White Watcher emerged once again on the horizon, silent and steadfast. I caught myself whispering:
“Hello, mountain friend. Until we meet again.”
