Conscious Choice Seattle: Stehekin

March 2007 | Escape the Pace

Stehekin

The Quietest Valley in Washington

By Crai S. Bower

“Great joy in camp, Ocian [sic] in view.” —William Clark

We’re just going to head up-valley to the ranch after one stop at the bakery, if that’s okay?” Bus driver Alton Leatherman asks, with inflection light as the breeze blowing off the estuary. “Welcome to Stehekin, I’m really glad you’re here.”

Stehekin, located at the western end of Lake Chelan and abutting North Cascades National Park, contains 82 inhabitants, one phone (out-calls only), a handful of lodges and more character than most cities. The valley winds along the Stehekin River before climbing into Glacier Peak Wilderness and accessing the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), which traverses the continent from Canada to Mexico.

I had boarded the Lady Express boat two hours earlier. The houses disappeared about halfway up the 55-mile lake, and outcroppings hung like gargoyles as we entered The Straits—the windiest and deepest part of the lake. Lake Chelan, ranging from 400’ below sea level to 1100’ above, is the third deepest lake in North America, and the deepest gorge.

“Just hang around the bakery,” Alton tells me, “and you’ll get every story you need.”

The Stehekin Valley Pastry Company remains the requisite first (and frequent) stop. It’s here, over a black-bottomed cupcake, that I first encounter the ubiquitous Courtney clan, Stehekin’s monarchal family.

Hugh Courtney first homesteaded Stehekin in 1916 with his new bride Mimi Morse, whom he’d met while ferrying passengers to the nearby Morse Resort. Today, Hugh’s five grandsons run the bakery, ranch, construction, large machines and barge. (Peggy, the baby sister, lives in Chelan.)

Proprietor Cliff Courtney greets us as we arrive at Stehekin Valley Ranch, which is tucked in like a toddler beneath 8,122-foot McGregor Mountain. The breeze whispers through the cottonwoods while hammocks lure afternoon nappers.

The dining lodge boasts (sawdust), floor-to-ceiling windows and a six-foot fireplace purveying cowboy coffee. Custom meals span breakfast to dinner. At dinner, I order one of the finest 12-oz. New York steaks I’ve enjoyed from Alberta to, well, New York. The entrée is thoroughly trumped, however, when nine pies are laid out. Because meals are included in the lodging costs, seconds are encouraged. And thirds?

Earlier at lunch, I meet Fran Gnose, from Bend, Oregon. It takes barely two minutes of conversation before we discover that Steve Lorton, my mentor and former Northwest Bureau Chief for Sunset, and she were pals thirty years ago in Eugene.

“These big tables make for a small world,” Cliff smirks, “because people suddenly talk to each other. In fact, when people ask me about our evening program, I tell them it’s these tables.”
I spend my first afternoon in the saddle. Jeni Bruckler, a seasonal wrangler, introduces me to Biscuit, a sable gelding. We climb through ponderosa pines to Coon Lake. I scramble down to the lakeside where Jesse surveyed “a thousand frogs spawning” the day before. I spy no amphibians as I dive beneath submerged snags into the surprisingly warm water.

The next morning, I rise early, gobble two pieces of cinnamon swirl–walnut French toast and catch Alton’s 8:30 bus to the entrance of North Cascades National Park. This portal provides access to hikers who, after weeks (or months!) on the PCT, reenter “civilization” for a hot meal and hotter shower. Gail “Gutsy” Johnson, a South Carolina school teacher, has laid out her gear to dry. She’s especially excited about the hot meal. “It’s been 173 miles since I’ve had a really good feed,” she sighs.

My 2.5-mile hike is 1/1000th of the PCT. Still, I’m excited to see Agnes Gorge, a local favorite. Enthralled with the rushing rapids, hillside cascades and Glacier Peak vista, I dip my head in Agnes Creek at trail’s end, careful to brace myself against adjacent rocks.

I catch up with Alton and ride down-valley for an afternoon’s kayak. We paddle to the white rock-face where 8,000-year-old pictographs depict local fauna, as well as an aboriginal with drawn bow, in rust colored dye.

That evening after the BBQ, Peggy Courtney and friends play bluegrass music on the lawn as two score horses frolic in the pasture beyond.

I spend my final night at Silver Bay Inn, a lovely set of cottages on the estuary. I wake early to dive off the dock into the brisk, glacier-fed lake. My sojourn almost drawn, I lean against a piling in the morning blaze as pilot Brick Wellman of Chelan Airways settles his ’54 Beaver like a dandelion seed upon the water. Ten minutes later, the floatplane lifts off and Brick provides a guided tour from 2,000 feet.

As we fly into the headwinds of The Straits, I recall Peggy singing a tune called “Away to the Mountains.”

“Leaving ain’t something that’s a pleasure,” she sang.

Especially when you’re leaving the Stehekin Valley.

Crai S. Bower spends plenty of time in downtown Seattle and Vancouver, reviewing restaurants and hotels. ‘Escape the Pace’ provides him with the opportunity to ‘turn off (the road) and ‘tune out’ (the world).

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