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The Hikerdelic Journal

The 1977 Yosemite Dope Lake incident
dope lake

The 1977 Yosemite Dope Lake incident

Every now and then, you come across a story that feels more like a fairytale than real life. And along the long, winding trail of climbing mythology, a few tales stand out - not for superhuman feats of endurance, but for their sheer surrealism. Chief among them is the most infamous, far-fetched, and mind-blowing story of them all: the Yosemite airplane crash of 1977, better known as Dope Lake. Ask anyone about Dope Lake and you’ll get a different version of the story. But here are the facts: in the dead of winter, a Beechcraft twin-engine plane - crammed to the wings with Mexican red-hair marijuana - lost its bearings in a snowstorm and crashed into the frozen expanse of Yosemite’s Lower Merced Pass Lake. The wreck sat quietly beneath the ice, holding not only the bodies of the two pilots but an estimated 6,000 pounds of weed, shrink-wrapped and waiting. Word didn’t take long to travel. News of the crash filtered through the trees and into Camp 4 - the infamous stomping ground of Yosemite’s dirtbag climbers, who spent their days scaling granite walls and their nights dodging Park Rangers. Suddenly, a new kind of expedition presented itself. Allegedly tipped off by a radio call relayed by a climber’s Park Ranger girlfriend, a small group of dirtbags set out on the initial hike to the crash site. What they found was nothing short of a miracle: a plane embedded in a frozen lake, surrounded by bales of high-grade hash. They hauled back as much as they could carry and made their way - slowly and carefully - back to Camp 4. Their return sparked something close to a second Gold Rush. Word spread like wildfire, and soon climbers from across the region were making pilgrimages to Dope Lake - some reportedly bringing chainsaws to cut through the ice and free the bales. Supposedly, some dirtbags walked away from the affair with their pockets well-lined, and there are rumours - unsubstantiated, of course - that this is how Yvon Chouinard got Patagonia off the ground. Not saying we buy that… but it's a good story. The product itself, by all accounts, was absurdly potent. Joints were known to singe eyebrows on lighting, thanks to jet fuel soaking into the bales during the crash. Sadly, though, the high times didn’t last. Eventually, the DEA caught wind of the operation and shut it down. But by then, the legend had taken root. Dope Lake became climbing folklore - a hazy crossroads of wilderness, rebellion, and wild opportunity. Slogan tees appeared, emblazoned with: “I got mine at Lower Merced Pass.” The tale even helped inspire the 1993 musclebound mountain thriller Cliffhanger - well worth a watch, by the way. Stories like Dope Lake don’t come around often. And to us, they represent the raw, unpredictable magic of the outdoors. One day you’re climbing El Capitan; the next, you're hauling 30 kilos of jet-fuel-steeped weed out of a frozen lake.

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Remembering The Baltic Way
baltic way

Remembering The Baltic Way

On the evening of 23 August 1989, nearly two million people across Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania stood side by side, hand in hand, forming a human chain that stretched over 600 kilometres. Known as the Baltic Way, it was one of the most remarkable acts of peaceful protest in the 20th century - an unbroken line of people linking the capitals of Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius in a shared call for independence. The date was significant. It marked 50 years since the signing of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, a secret agreement between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union that paved the way for the annexation of the Baltic states in 1940. For decades, the pact had been denied or dismissed by Soviet authorities. In contrast, the Baltic Way made it visible—geographically, historically, and emotionally. Organised by the independence movements in each country, the protest was meticulously planned. Radio broadcasts gave instructions. Roads were closed. People arrived by car, by bus, on foot. Some brought flags; others came with candles or handwritten signs. But most came simply to be there. No stage, no speeches. Just presence. The chain itself was silent, almost reverent. Along rural highways and city streets, through forests and over rivers, strangers held hands. In some places, the line was dense; in others, it thinned and wavered, but it held. For fifteen minutes - at 7:00 p.m. local time - the Baltic people stood together as one. Not shouting. Not pleading. Just standing. It was not a spontaneous act. It was the result of decades of cultural resistance, political organisation, and quiet resilience. But in that moment, it felt both grounded and transcendent - a peaceful assertion of dignity after nearly half a century of occupation. The world took notice. The images - grainy, sunlit, resolute - spread quickly. The Baltic Way made a complex geopolitical situation strikingly legible: three small nations, long overshadowed, now unmistakably present. Within two years, each had restored its independence. Today, the Baltic Way is remembered not just for its scale, but for its clarity. It remains a model of civil resistance - calm, coordinated, and powerful in its simplicity. It’s easy to think of protest as something loud, chaotic, or angry. But the Baltic Way was none of those things. It was steady. Human. Intentional. Proof that sometimes the most enduring statements are made without saying a word.

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The Archive: Climbing Magazines 1980 - 1990

The Archive: Climbing Magazines 1980 - 1990

Something that never fails to capture our attention is old outdoor ephemera. Leafing through tea-stained pages of climbing magazines is an activity we spend hours doing at Hikerdelic HQ, and we're fortunate enough to have amassed a pretty hefty archive as a by-product of this pastime. The golden era of outdoor catalogues is up for debate, but in our view, you can't get much better than the '80s and '90s. The colours were brighter, typefaces were bolder, and smiles were wider. There's something irrefutably motivating about magazines from this era. Something that makes you want to put down the bundle of paper and head outdoors to assimilate the feats of Joe Brown & Don Whillans. As much as our office could be a library, it's not. Therefore, the only way we can share our mountains of outdoor ephemera with you is through scanning pages and posting them here. So, sit back, start dusting off your hiking boots, and revel in the scans of the golden era below.

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