The history of Winchester Mountain has always been closely tied to gold mining in what was then called the Mt. Baker Mining District. In fact, the mountain got its name from Jack Post who reportedly left his favorite rifle on the summit. Jack Post was the renowned sourdough who staked the initial claim to the Lone Jack Mine in 1897. The gold rush of the area took place through the 1920s, but the mine is mine still operates most years. This year, despite record gold prices, the mine remained closed due to the road failing to melt out, so the lakes basin was left to hunters and hikers at a time when ore trucks normally rumble through the locked gate.
 
The first recorded ascent of this mountain, later named Winchester, was accomplished by Henry Custer in 1858; he was the leader of a survey expedition to establish the Canada/US boundary along the 49th parallel. Despite all of the formidable footsteps that preceded us, Tina and I merely climbed a trail for 1.5 miles to get a little exterior painting work done on the 1935 structure before the serious snows of winter. We fortunately had a few days of sunshine and still air; the World Flag was lazy on the pole most of the time. Cleaning and repairs (like a hasp that was torn off the storm door) were also required. A chair had been damaged beyond repair and was removed.
 
Nights featured stars and a waning gibbous rising orange like a dented pumpkin from the jagged east. Later the moonlight got bright-n-busy on new snow for great photography. Scouring the LO of all cooking utensils last visit seems to have been effective at discouraging slob-behavior and the consequent mouse issues. We were able to sleep soundly sans the rodent circus of years past.
 
Our job each evening was to settle inside; we sipped wine and nibbled tidbits of home-jerked beef out of the wind. The light bent and slipped closer to climactic gold as the interior dimmed like a theater before the show. Soon, only snowy peaks glowed in the windows; featured actors in flattering light, delivering their ancient impressive performance.
 
The kerosene lamp was lit at last-light. Brilliant orange in cross-hair panes was replaced by reflective glow from within. This simple act reversed the role of 72 glass panes from conduits to mirrors of light; the lookout palace transformed to funhouse.
 
The first sunrise had been stolen away by a slate of stratus that slid in from the NW in the wee hours. That made our second morning all the sweeter. It started with a ptarmigan’s strangled call as it circled at the appointed hour before sunup, remarkably punctual in my experience. We awakened in fits having slept deeply through a lengthening night. I heard Tina stir and exhale a private “wow” while she gazed eastward from her soft cocoon of feathers. The windows glowed richly with dawn. We arose well before sunrise, anticipating the new day. It was quiet, nary a breeze stirred. Even the hiss of the propane stove seemed intrusive against the empty canvas of morning, but the blue flame provided us with mugs of warm water that accompanied us to the north meadow, near a large olivine boulder colored with bright lichen. We settled upon the soft snow on foam pads facing SE.
 
This was a time to be away from the windowed confines of the lookout, exposed to the perilous silence & freshness of the mountains, where the earth fell away at one’s feet and the sky balanced on the icy tips of Cascadian summits. We had many minutes to contemplate such things while gazing at the ragged silhouettes of Ruth Mtn, The Pickets, Whatcom Peak, and Redoubt against brilliant orange. Color drained skyward, replaced by fast-pink announcements of sunrise on the summits of Kulshan, Shuksan, Larrabee, and Tomyhoi. Molten ridgeline firs marked the distant point at which the sun would emerge. Then it happened, at 7:32; the first sharpened rays reached our eyes, thus born into a new day. Eventually, water finished, we trundled off with our pads and mugs, seeking strawberry flavor pop tarts and a simmering pot of coffee.
 
The final day was the best, making it difficult to leave such a high, bright place. We busied with stowing the flagpole, repainting the sign lettering, and securing the shutters. Tina packed the garbage, including a derelict guitar, and gamboled down the mountain, but not before we admired our freshly painted shutters, and said goodbye to a very special place.