Despite overwhelming evidence that this is not a good idea, I want to climb Mt. Baker for my birthday. The trip is part of a whole 4 for 40 celebration, wherein I go skydiving, ski a volcano, take a trip without my kids, and throw an epic dance party. Never you mind that I haven’t skied much in the last five years, let alone hiked my 40-year-old, out-of-shape heinie up a hill of any size. I call my ski wife Theresa. We’ll summit Mt. Baker off the couch.

The plan is to ski the Squak Glacier in early-July. For the uninitiated, July is quite late for a Baker ski, particularly during a moderate snow year. Whatever, the stars align for scheduling. We’re going.

An Auspicious Start

We arrive at the trailhead in the early evening and pitch our tent. The only spot available is very close to – and downwind of – the outhouse. A questionable choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. I should mention that I already made a questionable choice an hour ago, when I devoured a giant Chipotle burrito for dinner. Oops. But hey, we are close to the outhouse and I brought a whole roll of toilet paper!

Our 3:45am alpine start is auspicious. Theresa inhales a bug the second she emerges from the tent, and – this gets graphic – she eventually coughs so hard that she pukes. We are 99% confident that the bug comes out, and we count that as a win.

With our skis on our packs, we set out on the trail. We make it a whole tenth of a mile before Theresa realizes that she never locked the car. 

She circles back. We start again.  

Moments later, I miraculously avoid a near-fatal wipeout on giant toad in the trail (near fatal for the toad, I should say, which would have been flattened; I’d have been mostly fine). 

We spend the next two miles dodging toads by headlamp. More close calls are had.

Once we get to treeline, we begin the annoying hopscotch from snowpatch to snowpatch as the trees thin to open expanse. Snow is always the preferred method of travel. Unfortunately, mud and slide alder are what’s on the menu.

Surmounting Mosquito Mecca

When we finally reach consistent snow, we share the joyful action of switching to our skiboots. The elation is short-lived, however. If we’d experienced Toad Town before, we have now entered Mosquito Mecca. Bugs are in my mouth. Up my nose. One even gets in my eye. Each of us is surrounded by a black, buzzing, hungry cloud. It’s misery personified. 

We get our boots on as fast as we can. For the next hour, we race to higher ground, eventually reaching an elevation where the buzzing bastards can no longer fly.

(Thank god I trained for a foot race at 6,000 feet. Oh wait…I’m skiing Mt. Baker off the couch.)

We’ve been on our feet for six hours when I completely bonk. I hate my life. I hate my choices. Take me home. I never want to ski again. 

Sensing a mild calorie deficit, Theresa forces me to sit, eat, and take a long break. We put on our harnesses and agree to keep going, just for another hour. And then we can quit like I so desperately want to.

The hour passes. And then another. We keep climbing. Sugar is amazing.

Skiing or Summit?

We reach the crater rim at 11:30am. With 90 minutes to go before our predetermined quitting time, we pretend to debate if we should keep going or turn around. But when I see the glint in my ski wife’s eye, I immediately start up the Roman Wall.

We have no idea that saying yes to more climbing will mean a wallow-fest in waist-deep postholes, but sometimes you just gotta go for it. 

A scant two hours and 1,200 vertical feet later, we stand gratefully on the summit. A 9.5 hour one-way feat from which we still have to ski and hike down. 

We did it! Mt. Baker Off the Couch!

As we take in the incredible views on a blue-bird day, Theresa shares a tidbit from a conversation with her husband the day prior. “I told Chris that I thought we had a 0% chance of summiting.” I laugh in tacit agreement. If someone had asked me, I’m sure I would have given us similar odds.

And yet, here we are, standing on the summit of the third highest peak in Washington state. Not bad for two old-ish ladies skiing Mt. Baker off the couch. 

Turns out, despite all evidence to the contrary, skiing Mt. Baker for my 40th birthday is a good idea after all.

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Our trip down is mercifully shorter and only marginally less exciting. As expected, the skiing is… fine. The mosquitoes are even more brutal, as is the slide alder. Both of us slip and fall in the mud, but the toads have vacated the trail so at least we aren’t tripping over those. 

The descent from the summit to the car takes just three hours, where we make good use of the stinky latrine, pack up our tent, and settle into the air-conditioned comfort of the car for the long drive home. I swear off Chipotle burritos for life. As for Mt. Baker? I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll even train next time.