Easy walks, mountain hikes at B.C.'s Manning Park

By Mike McQuaide

Picking my way through one last stretch of talus rock, using my hands as well as feet to hike this not-too-gentle slope of granite, jumbo-sized corn flakes, I spied a welcome sight: a sign poking up from the summit. My buddy Jim Robbins and I would be there in five minutes. It was in the bag.

And thus, using the powers invested in me, I made an official (not really) international declaration: This, Frosty Mountain, just north of the U.S.-Canada border in Manning Park, has this July day in 2007, been deemed a perfect hike-scramble outing.

Long, but not too long (about seven miles one-way); steep (about 4,000 feet of elevation gain), but not too steep, the gently climbing trail started at the edge of Manning's chain of pristine alpine lakes. Lightning Lake. Strike Lake. Flash Lake. It carried us through dense forest of lodgepole pines — intoxicating us with wonderful dry, eastside forest scent — and followed with an otherworldly high plateau of Alpine larch that are some of the oldest trees in British Columbia. Up to 2,000 years, declared an interpretive sign that, frankly, seemed somewhat out of place this high up on the mountain's shoulder.

"These are my favorite trees in the world," said Jim, who, like me, hails from Bellingham.

From there, we had a clear-shot view of Frosty's multiheaded summit — a prominent, gentle-looking if rocky walk-up hump in the foreground that had our names on it, and a jagged, snow-cloaked, rocky ridge-type affair to the right that was just fun to look at.

An hour from the larch, we'd hiked to our objective's doorstep and couldn't have been happier. Pleasantly surprised, too. It was just a few weeks into summer and, given that we were hiking at close to 8,000 feet, we thought for sure that lingering mountain snow would've turned us back by now. But aside from a few easy-to-cross, soccer-field-size snow patches, the route was clear. Thus, with the summit sign just ahead, practically within spitting distance, I made my declaration, which was quickly seconded by Jim.

"Awesome," he said, his eyes burning with summit fever.

Where's the real sign?

The only problem was — the summit sign wasn't the summit sign. Nor had we reached the top. It was a warning sign on the summit's shoulder advising us to "Use Extreme Caution Past This Point" if we wanted to hike to the actual summit, which was thataway — about a half-mile away, where a 330-foot rock pyramid stood waiting.

After lengthy discussion ("Think we have time?" "Let's go."), Jim and I set out. Twenty minutes later, there we were posing for photographs by the real summit sign. "Frosty Mtn. Elev. 2,408 M." Top of the world, it seemed. Front row center for the spectacular North Cascades show.

Spread out before us to the south was row upon row of jagged, icy, snow-clad peaks. Wave after wave as far as the eye could see. Mount Winthrop in the far-north Pasayten Wilderness. Castle Peak, a stunning massif directly across the border. The 8,000-plus-foot shark-fin summits of Hozomeen Mountain towering over Ross Lake. Even, in the far distance, Mounts Shuksan and Baker.

"Simply awesome," Jim said, echoing my thoughts.

That's looking south. Turn around, look north and all the craggy, jagged, sky-kissing peaks have disappeared. The Cascades have petered out. It's all rounded hills and ridges, forested valleys and drylands — Canada's Okanagan. At the top of Frosty Mountain, you feel like you're sitting on top of the last remaining peak of the Cascade Mountains.

Awesome.