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Wilderness cabin calls to Kerouac fans
The hikers stop to rest at a scenic lookout and the fog finally begins to break. At this elevation, with a few rays of sunlight reflecting off its surface, Ross Lake far below is no more than a slender blue thread. High above, Desolation Peak is still shrouded in drifting fog. The hikers commence their arduous slog, the swirling mists part for a brief moment and there it is: Jack Kerouac’s famous cabin. A Zen-like image in the fog, and then… poof… it's gone.
When aspiring novelist Jack Kerouac ventured this far into the wilderness in northern Washington State in 1956 to work as a summer fire lookout in the midst of these jagged peaks of thunder and lightning, he was a nobody, a drifter, a bum. It was a full year before his famous classic On the Road made Kerouac a star and changed American culture forever.
Ever since his death from despair and drink in the late 1960’s thousands of hardy rucksack wanderers have made the long, steep trek to this high and lonely place, trying to find the essence of Keroauc’s tortured soul. Such a long journey, such a small cabin.
The pilgrim’s trail commences in Bellingham on the I-5, then it’s a long drive east along two-lane Highway 20 to the remote Cascade Mountains. From the tiny town of Marblemount the pilgrim plods onward to giant Diablo Dam, which holds back the waters of Diablo Lake. It’s a long ferry ride some 12 miles up Ross Lake to Lightning Camp, and finally a stiff six-hour mule ride up to the top of Desolation Peak; a long way to find peace of mind.
In the howling winds and racing clouds, the tiny cabin is a revelation, a mere 14 by 14 feet of faded wooden walls and panes of glass bolted to the bare rock by iron cables to prevent the flimsy structure from flying off into the endless void in the frequent storms.
Inside the cabin, nothing has really changed since that prophetic summer when Mad Jack spent his days wrestling with his tortured mind, trying and failing to find solace in the vast emptiness that mirrored his own shattered soul. His lonely cot, his small wooden table are still here, and his words still ring in the high mountain air.
“I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution, thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray,” wrote Kerouac. “... making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of ‘em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures...”
Text and Photo by Michael McCarthy ©
