We didn’t take the highway. No sir, we went in the back door like fugitives on the run from reason, bouncing down busted logging roads just past Big Springs Sno Park and Lava Lake. Back there, past the civilized world, we found the real stuff. Deer skulls nailed to trees, bones scattered like old poker chips, and the unmistakable vibe of off-grid hunting madness. Took a few photos. Didn’t stick around.

From there we wandered through mountain country, whispering past ghost camps and lava flows, until we found ourselves at Fish Lake which, in a cruel cosmic joke, had no lake. Just a hollowed-out grass field and old lava rock like scars where water once lived. Nature doesn’t owe you an explanation, just a view.

By 6:30 PM we were staring at the trailhead to Iron Mountain, slapping on our backpacks and readying the camera gear like war drums. The climb wasn’t awful, just enough sweat to remind you you’re mortal. Switchback after switchback, the air got thinner, but the view got meaner, slamming us with the kind of beauty that makes your heart pound for reasons you can’t explain.

We reached the summit, the old fire lookout platform. Right before a youth group came marching in like a parade of shrieking chaos. Dozens of kids and a few adults… But one kid, one, wouldn’t shut the hell up. Just babbling stream-of-consciousness madness. Loud. Random. Pointless. A verbal hurricane. I wanted to throw him off the mountain, but the law and decency said otherwise.

We staked out our spot and settled in. Everyone else was here for the sunset. Not us. We were here for the long haul, for stars, silence, and a front-row seat to the Milky Way. The sun sank like a bloody god behind the Sisters, and the crowd, save for one guy with a dog, started heading down the trail. The loud kid’s voice echoing down the canyon like a curse.

And then night.

The deck became sacred. We were moving like priests with cameras, offering shutter clicks to the cosmos. Lightning flashed far off between the Three Sisters like divine warning shots. The Milky Way drifted into view like a drug hallucination, and we chased it across the sky. Robert passed out like a log. I stayed awake wired, restless, staring into infinity, counting meteors and my own thoughts. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Too many stars. Too much everything.

Around 4 AM, headlights and voices came from the trail, another group, this time for sunrise. Reality was bending now… Sunset. Stars. Sunrise. All blurred into one long, beautiful hallucination.

That’s when we heard it.

Screaming.

From down the trail.

Loud, panicked, primal. I thought someone was dying. Robert thought it was a bear attack. Then came the music, Ozzy Osbourne blasting from the darkness.

What the actual hell…?

The man finally stumbled up, beer in one hand, chaos in the other. Name was Milton. Twenty-something. Said he drank five beers before the hike, and was yelling to “scare the animals.” Jesus. A one-man circus. And yet… he was fascinated by our setup. Wouldn’t stop asking questions. Like a confused raccoon caught in the glow of astrophotography. We humored him. What choice did we have?

The group that hiked up for sunrise left almost immediately, too much Milton.

Can’t blame them.

Once the sun crested the horizon and painted the mountains gold, Robert brewed one last round of coffee and we packed up, leaving Milton alone with his empties, and the dawn.

The hike down was pure joy. Legs tired, minds spinning, cameras full.

We came for photos, but what we got was something far wilder.

Stars. Storms. Silence. Madness.

Iron Mountain didn’t give us peace. It gave us truth.