For various reasons, we hadn’t backpacked in—I just checked—two months!  A fine amount of dayhiking, sure, but what with our upcoming trip to the Canadian Rockies, I felt we needed a bit more conditioning.  And I thought maybe, just maybe, we’d get some clear skies.  After shortening our list earlier in the week to three possible destinations, we decided we’d spend Saturday night in Gothic Basin.

Gothic Basin worked its way onto my must-do list way back when.  As sometimes happens when time passes, details regarding degree of difficulty slipped away from me, replaced only by snapshot statistics: 2600′ elevation gain, ~10 miles round-trip.  No problem.

We were up early enough Saturday morning, and on the road at 05:05.  I felt an early start was important, since we needed to find a campsite.  At 06:55, we pulled onto the side of the road at Barlow Pass, and were walking down the gated road to Monte Cristo ten minutes later.  Low clouds and fog made visibility poor.

Holding...

Fifteen minutes after squeezing through the posts on either side of the Monte Cristo gate the road is really closed, and a trail is routed above the washed out road along the South Fork Sauk River.  I’d read that it wasn’t necessary to take the re-route, so we continued along the remains of the road, which wasn’t difficult, but does require that you watch where you step.  We’d be watching each step closely later on, too.

At 07:30, ~25 minutes after leaving the Forester—

[As an aside, while driving through Robe/Verlot/Silverton we drove by a sign that read: "Hey Libs, slow your Subaru down!  Speeding contributes to global warming!" I laughed, I cried, I got a little mad.  As a liberal Subaru driver myself, I was forced to confront the fact that I was going ~3 MPH over the speed limit.  I calmed myself by rationalizing that I was driving efficiently—oh, how I love watching my MPG rise with cruise control engaged somewhere between 45 and 50 MPH!  But what of the Conservatives?  Surely they speed as well, perhaps while driving something with worse gas mileage than my beloved Subaru?  Where is their sign?]

—Ahem, as I was saying, ~25 minutes after leaving the Forester, we reached what had been the road’s river crossing.  At this point there’s a trail that continues on toward the Monte Cristo townsite and the trailhead for the Gothic Basin Trail #724.  After signing in, and noting that (at least according to the register) there was perhaps one party camped overnight and a day hiker ahead of us, we were off.

For the first ~25 minutes the trail stays relatively close to the river, comfortably undulating amongst large old trees and over wooden walkways.  Through the fog we glimpsed a waterfall as we crossed a small stream along the way.

At 08:05 we stopped for a banana as the trail began to climb up, sometimes switchbacking but often simply climbing uphill to the southwest steadily, and steeply.  It had begun.  For the next ~hour we continued on, until we eventually had to stop so that I could adjust my boots and attach some moleskin to my burning heels.  I’m pretty sure the moleskin fell off immediately after we started climbing again.

King Kong's Foggy Showerbath

Around 09:25, the trail emerges from the big trees and turns less steep, but more rocky.  Surely there’d be views across Weden Creek, but it was all clouds for us—at least on the way up.  This nearly-flat section of the trail is a welcome break, but short.  Here there are a few rocky gorges with rushing streams.  After crossing the first two, the trail bids adieu and introduces you to its replacement: a rocky, steep, slippery path that’ll really bring out the curses that’d only been at the tip of your tongue until now.  Especially if you’re carrying a ~35lb backpack.  Nicole, in particular, had some choice words to describe the experience.  In the midst of it all is another rushing stream, this time including the quite nice waterfall known as King Kong’s Showerbath, which we passed by at 10:00.

This? Trail?

Still we climbed up, until leveling briefly near mining remnants and a small pond just off the trail, it was 10:20.  It seemed like we were getting somewhere.  In my mind, we were close.  How could we not be?  We’d been hiking for over three hours, and been going uphill for nearly the entire time.  What was left?

More.

Just past the small pond, the trail crosses through a mini-pass, where there’s a small campsite off the trail, and turns sharply right.  In the fog, it was difficult to orient myself, but I felt a strong change in direction that wasn’t really represented on my map.  The valley was fogged in to our left.  There were now less of the scrambly sections of trail, but still a steady climb on rocks and roots.

En route to Gothic Basin.

Some half-an-hour later, the trail reaches a small pass and lower Gothic Basin is before you.  Thank the appropriate gods, but if you’re headed for Foggy Lake, like we were, you’re not there yet.

The basin is full of large, smooth rock outcroppings.  As we approached, a small lakelet appeared, nestled in between the humps of stone.  We saw the dayhiker that had left Barlow Pass just before us.  He said he’d had his lunch and was headed down.  He saw that we were backpacking and said it was filling up.  Since we’d seen only three people the entire morning, we were a bit surprised.  I said, “The lake’s on the other side of that, right?” And he said yes, but it wasn’t much more than what we saw in front of us.  I wondered if he’d really been to Foggy Lake and took his warnings of campsite crowding with a grain of salt.

Lower Foggy Lake, with Foggy Lake proper over the rocks.

Through the rocks of Gothic Basin...

At lower lake, the trail becomes hard to follow, and pretty much disappears after it hugs the water’s right edge.  There was a tent set up here, in a beautiful spot, but right on the trail.  We passed by quietly on our way to the base of the rocks that, we supposed, hid Foggy Lake from us.  Up the rock wall we climbed a fissure filled with ferns.  Follow the ferns, I thought.  Once atop that rock, more rock lies in front of you.  Foggy Lake still isn’t visible, but Gothic Peak and Del Campo Peak are—though weren’t to us at that point, due to the clouds.  We worked our way to the left, around more rock and just above Foggy Lake’s outlet stream.  Cairns are precious few.  Just keep going.

Foggy Lake.

In just a few minutes more, at 11:45, we were there.  Foggy Lake lived up to its name.  Clouds seemed to pour in from every direction: between Gothic Peak’s spires, through Foggy Pass across the lake, over Del Campo Peak’s striated face.  For a few brief moments there was silence; our pulses slowed, Nicole decided not to kill me, I felt satisfaction at having reached our goal—a beautiful goal, at that.  Then the two dayhikers that had passed us began to call out to one another, repeatedly, from opposite ends of the lake.  Oh well.  We stumbled upon a small flat, dry space with just enough room for our tent; we set up, ate, watched a family of ptarmigans with stripes of white, and slept.

Our camp in Gothic Basin.

After napping for an hour or two (it was our first opportunity to use our Big Agnes Insulated Air Core pads, and I feel that my sleep in that small amount of time was more restful than countless nights on only my RidgeRest), I exited the tent and counted thirteen people spread around the rocks near the outlet stream.  I set off to explore the arm of Del Campo Peak, to the right of the lake, while Nicole stayed snug in her sleeping bag.  It was pretty cool, and we were more than happy to try out our new Montbell jackets.  I worked my way along the rocky shore of the lake, passing by one tent, then seeing another occupied camp on a small isthmus separating Foggy Lake from a satellite pond.  The trail up the arm of Del Campo is comparatively easier than what had come before, and as I gained elevation Foggy Lake shrunk below and vistas, though still partially obscured by clouds, like Silvertip Peak, were beautiful.  I made out another tent set up at the south end of the lake nearer Gothic Peak.  In all, it seemed that four parties were camped at the lake, though we couldn’t see any of them from our site.

Above Foggy Lake.

Once back to camp, and as the dayhikers descended, and those with backpacks and tents and no place to put them turned back to the lower basin, it felt as if we were all alone.  It was a peaceful night, and our sleep was only interrupted for a moment as the wind played with the rainfly I’d been unable to stake out.

We were up early the next morning, and found it foggier than it had been the day before.  As we ate our oatmeal and broke down camp, however, the sun began to shine through.

Nicole and an entirely visible Gothic Peak.

Clearing in the south.

Behold, the power of sunshine.

We left Foggy Lake at 07:45 into increasing sunshine.  At 08:05, we passed by the lower lake and a pile of someone’s unwanted spaghetti; at 08:45 we passed the small pond that had raised my hopes on the ascent; at 09:05 we walked by King Kong’s Showerbath; at 09:50 we were into the big trees again; at 11:10 we reached the trailhead; and at 11:35 I unlocked the doors to the Forester.

It took us just under four hours to make our way down.  The steep and rocky sections made us place each footstep carefully, but even so, Nicole fell three times—charmed!—on our way down.  By the time the path became a trail again, our pace was slowed not by precariousness but by our own beaten bodies.

Water droplets on blueberry leaves.

Once back in the car, I consulted with 100 Hikes in Washington’s Glacier Peak Region: ~9 miles round-trip, 2600′ of elevation gain (Green Trails Maps #111/143 say ~10 miles, 2800′ gain).  Boy did it feel like more than that.  The book does estimate 9 hours of hiking time for those 9 miles, though.  Some pace!

What a hike!  I may not repeat it carrying a full ~35lb backpack, but I recommend it for both backpackers and dayhikers (who will probably have an easier time on such terrain).  Though we didn’t get the weather I’d hoped for (i.e., clear night skies to experiment with starlight), we camped at a great location and conquered everything those old prospectors laid before us.  We also got our share of exercise—a great training hike for our upcoming trips.

Day one stats: ~4.6 miles, 2800′ gain (plus several a bit more of each for Jeremy re: Del Campo), 4:40 from Forester to Foggy Lake.  Day two stats: ~4.6 miles, 2800′ loss, 3:50 from Foggy Lake to Forester.  Totals: ~9.2 miles, 2800′ gain/loss, 8:30 active hiking time.

As always, a few more photos at Flickr.

I’d had my eye turned toward the Olympic Peninsula for several weeks. Our only hike on the other side of the Sound was a beach backpack, so we hadn’t really experienced the Olympic Mountains. And, after years of admiring them from afar, it was well past time to do something about it.

Falls in the Big Quilcene River.

Last month, I’d decided that we’d hike the Upper Big Quilcene Trail #833.1 sometime soon. The Forest Service conditions report on 05/18/09 said the trailhead was open and that there was heavy snow around 5000′. With Marmot Pass another 1000′ above that, I decided to wait it out a bit. Several weeks passed, temperatures soared into the 90s—then retreated, and I forgot all about the knee pain from two weeks prior.

Nicole’s dad was in town for a conference, so after dropping him off late Saturday morning, we were off for an estimated one-night backpack. It wasn’t until 10:25 that we left Seattle, which was a later start then we’re used to. Though the Hood Canal Bridge had opened a day or two before, I chose to drive south on I-5 through Olympia, and then up WA-101 along the western edge of Hood Canal. (Actually, I’d been secretly hoping that the bridge had stayed closed for another week, to lessen the chances of a busy trail.) It’d be a bit more time in the Forester, but we’d avoid the ferry fees and drive along a stretch of road we’d never driven along before. The drive north from Olympia to Quilcene was enjoyable: beaches and clammers, smooth asphalt, and a speed limit of 50mph. I’m a sucker for a 50mph speed limit, at least when the scenery warrants it. If you asked why, I might tell you it’s because of the gas mileage (we averaged ~28mpg for the entire trip), but there’s more to it than that. Or maybe I’m just getting old.

On I-5, it had rained intermittently, several times quite strongly. I reassured Nicole that once alongside the eastern edge of the mountains, it’d be drier. I was right, for the most part, but clouds still loomed ominous but beautiful up the valleys to the west of us as we passed by them. Nicole wondered aloud whether we should backpack into the weather, bringing up the option of lightening our packs and dayhiking instead. It didn’t take much, but I convinced her that we should stick to our original plan; we needed the experience of hiking and backpacking in less-than-ideal conditions anyway.

At 12:45, after two hours and twenty minutes on the road, and double that since breakfast, we pulled into Quilcene and ate a hamburger. This may or may not have been a mistake. But it was one we couldn’t take back, and after a quick bite and a coffee left behind nearly full, we left Quilcene and WA-101 for Penny Creek Road (just south of town) and another ~15 miles up to the trailhead via Forest Service Roads #27 and #2750. Rhododendrons bloomed immediately aside the road, but clouds obscured any vistas.

Boots on, poles extended, we signed into the trail register at 14:10. Several dayhikers and a couple groups camped at Marmot Pass were all that lay before us. That, and ~3500′ of elevation gain in 5.3 miles.

The first ~thirty minutes of the trail climb gently through forest—more rhododendrons here, though fewer than those on the side of the road—and the Big Quilcene River seems far off in the distance, barely audible at first, then growing louder until it’s just off to your left.

The greens were the most vibrant I’ve ever seen. The river and its many small falls were picturesque beyond belief. We stopped immediately to make use of the tripod I carry for just such occasions. We were in high spirits at 15:00, as the trial—er, typo—trail started climbing, mildly to moderately, through the greenery and trees whose tops were shrouded in what I can’t decide whether to call clouds, fog, or mist.

Rest stop.

While it didn’t seem to be raining, the trees themselves dripped droplets upon us, and at 15:55 we stopped at a “Stoves only beyond this point” sign and I wrapped the camera up and put it away while we ate sandwiches mainly to make the smell of onions go away. As we should’ve known, just after our break there was a large established camp to the left of the trail and next to the river. Had I paid closer attention to the signage at the trailhead, I would’ve known that this was Shelter Rock Camp, ~2.6 miles in and sitting at 3650′.  We’d gained just over 1100′ in half the hike, which left ~2400′ of gain in the following 2.7 miles. We were oblivious to these facts, though—for better or for worse, I cannot say.

Trail, trees, mist.

At this point, the trail turns perpendicular to the river briefly, gaining elevation less gingerly. Here the nature of the trail changes. We looked out through trees draped with pale green moss into clouds that, no doubt, obscured views across the valley. At 16:50 the trail crossed talus slopes whose tops were out of view—after a glance at Green Trails Map #135, I made the assumption that the rocks were from Iron Mountain and our elevation was around 4800′. I really need an altimeter…

As the trail changed, I heard a strange sound, repeating frequently: Whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp. Over and over, always five sounds, a pause, and then five more, repeating. I couldn’t locate the source, and not knowing what it was was driving me crazy. My hypothesis: owl. Or ptarmigan. I have no idea, really. Do you? [Edit: grouse.]  We did see a bunny rabbit shortly after.

Our pace was slower and slower. We stopped often. My knee began to ache. Nicole’s back began to ache. We felt each pound of our 30-35 pound loads.

Wildflowers were spread about the open slopes above and below us: paintbrushes, phlox, and chocolate lilies. In the future, we’d see a small meadow of glacier lilies.

Flowers 1.

Flowers 2.

Sometime around 17:50 we approached Camp Mystery, at 5400′ and 4.6 miles in. Here there was snow. We saw a tent off the the right, and we continued on the trail, which at this point resembled a small stream. The area was wet! Nicole stopped to rest while I went ahead to find a campsite. By this time, we were pretty sure we’d just camp here, and head up to Marmot Pass in the morning or something.

A couple passed me on the way down and mentioned something about the summit being closed, and checking the website. I said, “Huh.” Maybe I was tired, but I really had no idea what they were talking about. I found a nice dry campsite to the right of the trail, with water out back, in addition to that across the trail. I went off to tell Nicole, whom I met almost immediately. She’d seen the same couple, who told her there was a good campsite near some white poop that they thought was bobcat scat. We turned around and went back up the trail, past the campsite I had seen (which Nicole liked) and found the droppings and a small trail that led to a spot suitable for a bivy, perhaps.

Here the trail hugged the right side of a meadow while snow hugged the left. In between were a fair number of yellow flowers: glacier lilies. At the end of the small meadow stood a rock wall and I hypothesized—as I tend to do—that the trail at that point turned up and made its final climb to Marmot Pass. Since it was by then 18:00, we were tired, and we didn’t have any idea what conditions/campsites were like up ahead, we returned to the aforementioned site and set up camp.

Somehow we managed to stay awake until nearly 22:00…

We awoke stiff and sore Sunday morning, but excited to see not clouds but rocks above us. It was clear! We left our packs behind us at 07:30 for a quick jaunt up to Marmot Pass. I envisioned mountains above clouds, and took little aside from my camera. The trail switchbacked through several short patches of snow, and there was ample evidence of post-holing. Luckily, we stayed atop the snow and turned frequently to admire the sun shining on the valley below us, which was filled with clouds. We saw bootprints both straight uphill and those that followed the trail, but it was easy to tell the difference.

Misty mountain crop.

Climbing snow to Marmot Pass.

Approaching the pass.

Suddenly the pass was in sight. I could see the sign in the distance. We arrived at 07:55, and spent the next ~10 minutes taking photographs and relaxing at 6000′.

Nicole relaxes while looking into the Olympic interior.

West over Marmot Pass. Click = embiggen.

We had been very close to the pass the night before, but I think it worked out for the best. We enjoyed our campsite, and the short morning excursion up to the pass. I had entertained ideas of summiting Buckhorn Mountain during the planning phase, but it’ll have to wait until another time.

As we descended, the warmth from the sun’s rays was raising clouds up like smoke signals.

Down to the clouds.

We broke camp at 09:00, dropped down into the clouds, and were in the Forester by 11:30. We stopped off to quell Nicole’s caffeine headache at a roadside espresso stand along WA-101 and were home at 14:45, with time to shower and rest before picking up Nicole’s dad and taking him to the airport.

This trip pushed us to work a little harder. We went up—not knowing how hard it’d be or what the weather had in store for us. I think the ~3500′ of elevation gain is the most we’ve accomplished while wearing full packs for the entire time. We had a good time, and managed to make Marmot Pass when it was clear. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Stats: ~10.6 miles from trailhead to Marmot Pass and back, with ~3500′ of elevation gain (and loss).
Day 1: ~4.8 miles and ~3000′ of elevation gain to our campsite below Marmot Pass.
Day 2: ~5.8 miles, ~500′ of elevation gain, and ~3500′ of elevation loss.

As always, a few more photos at Flickr.

When the weekend neared and Nicole brought home a recommendation of Spider Meadow, I immediately and enthusiastically agreed, having seen a number of trip reports earlier this summer about that very location.  A Sunday-night backpack it was.

Spider Meadow panorama.

Spider Meadow sits in the Phelps Creek basin some 25 miles north of Lake Wenatchee, within Glacier Peak Wilderness.  We planned on camping at the far end of the meadow, setting up a base camp, and–if energy permitted–exploring the area up to and including Spider Glacier and Spider Gap.  We took our time rolling out of bed on Sunday morning, and pulled out of West Seattle at 06:18.  Driving over to and along US-2 is approaching autopilot status, and before we knew it we were turning north towards Lake Wenatchee.  It’s just a few more miles before the turnoff up Chiwawa River Road, and then a long ~25 miles to the trailhead.  (We timed this portion of the drive on the way out, and it took ~45 minutes.)

On the way in, only a few miles down the road, we saw two backpackers on the side of the road, and picked up our first hitchhikers.  They were completing the Washington portion of the Pacific Crest Trail, which they’d had to abandon earlier due to injury.  We took them up to Trinity and the Buck Creek Pass trailhead, saving them a whole lot of road-walking.  (Though with the popularity of the trails in the area, they probably wouldn’t have had to wait long for another ride.)  After dropping them off, we turned around and drove up to our trailhead, which sits at the end of Road #6211.  It was 09:30 by that time, putting the drive time just over three hours (including a stop for gasoline and the hitchers).

There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, and some scattered along the road, but a perusal of the registration sheet seemed to indicate that most people would either be camping beyond Spider Gap, or on their way out that very day.  At 09:45, we headed past trailhead #1511: elevation: 3500’.

View west from the trailhead.

The trail starts off gently, undulating through forest interspersed with brushy bits, all the while with Phelps Creek off to your left, and below you.  The trail is in excellent condition, which is a pleasant surprise considering the amount of horse traffic it seems to receive.  That’s a veiled and polite way to say there’s a lot of horse poop on the trail.  We didn’t see any of the offending horses, however.  At 10:45, we entered Glacier Peak Wilderness, ~2.5 miles from the trailhead.  This was exciting, since it was our first time in this particular Wilderness–an area I’m especially enamored with, even if it’s only on paper (and the internet) so far.  At this point, and a few minutes further up the trail, there are several campsites off of the trail, which might be a good option for those who hit the trail late (very late) and are looking for somewhere to camp for an early, earnest start the following morning.

After a break for a snack, we continued on our way, covering another ~mile and crossing a rocky Leroy Creek at around 11:25.  The trail in this area seems like it’s been rerouted in recent years, probably due to flood damage; and just after the [easy] creek crossing, it looks like an avalanche has hit recently as well.  No matter, the trail is in excellent shape; and at 12:15, ~2.5 hours and ~5 miles into our hike, we came out of the trees (which had only provided obscured views west to Phelps Ridge) and were presented with a wonderful wide view of Spider Meadow.  At the height of wildflower season, I’m sure it’s incredible, but I found the September shades of yellow and orange pretty pleasing as well.  It’s here that my camera finally came out of its hiding place–permanently.  We took a quick look at a posted map, which noted all of the approved campsites–and the meadow has quite a few, all of which seemed deserted by the time we got there.  We spent fifteen minutes admiring the view, and while I was looking to the west, across the creek and over the horse-friendly campsites, I spotted movement in the rocks.  Turned out to be a pretty large coyote–probably on the prowl for the many squeaking pika in the area.  We were excited to see it, and after it disappeared into the trees at the south end of the meadow, we set off in the opposite direction.

Spider Meadow, with Red Mountain in the distance.

Beautiful meadow; poor choice for someone's campsite.

By 13:00, we’d crossed the meadow, and came to the crossing of Phelps Creek.  By this point we were hungry, and I was feeling the effects of ill-fated attempt to preempt blister formation with duct tape, so we stopped to eat and I removed my boots, socks, and duct tape.  We ate, filtered some water, and spent a good amount of time enjoying the beautiful day–I forgot to mention that the weather forecast promised a 75° Sunday and Monday!  Some ~40 minutes later we left lunch rock behind us and entered small section of forest with the first significant elevation gain of the day.  In ~10 minutes, we reached the Spider Gap/Phelps basin junction (6.5 miles & 5300’).

Lunch rock at Phelps Creek and the end of Spider Meadow.

We’d planned on camping either somewhere near the junction, or up near Spider Glacier, and since we were feeling pretty well, and it was still early (13:50), we decided to push on and work our way up to what I assumed were spectacular campsites, if they were unoccupied.  This meant that we had a lot of hard work ahead of us.  I knew that we’d be gaining elevation, since Spider Gap sits at 7100’, but I didn’t realize just how much we’d be gaining just to reach our campsite.  The map (Green Trails #113, Holden) goaded me on: a paltry 0.4 miles to go!  After leaving the junction, the trail turns rocky, dry, and steep.  And the sun was right above us, it being mid-afternoon by this point.  Progress was slow; footing was poor.  You know you’re in for it when you see this:

The wall looms large and the workout begins.

We worked our way up to the wall, stopping to listen to rattlesnakes that turned out to be grasshoppers.  If there’s one good thing about this portion of the trail, it’s the views out over Spider Meadow, and the entire U-shaped Phelps valley below.  The trail contours around the wall and keeps gaining through switchback after switchback, each one taking you higher and bringing more of the Entiat Mountains into view.  It isn’t long before Mt. Maude and Seven Fingered Jack are visible to the southeast.  By this time, I’m thinking, Yeah, 0.4 miles–as the crow flies!

Along the wall, north to Dumbell Mountain.

Seven Fingered Jack, Mt. Maude, and Spider Meadow far below.

The trail with September color on each side.

And just when all hope was nearly lost, the trail came around corner and revealed beautiful [empty] campsites, rushing water, and a sign that said “toilet”–all nestled on and around two large rock outcroppings below Red Mountain.  This was the “larch knob” I’d read about!  I yelled back to Nicole, “We did it!”  It took us over an hour to make the climb up, but it was worth it.  The sites were beautiful, and we had our pick of them.  Of course, our pick ended up being the very first one we came to.  At 15:00, we’d found our home for the evening.

West of camp: Red Mountain.

Quite the perch for a campsite.

The view's good from inside, too.

Now, let me just run some numbers.  The elevation at camp is ~6400’–a gain of 1100’ from the junction below.  If, indeed, the last portion of the trail is 0.4 miles, it gains something that works out to 2750’/mile.  That seems awfully steep.  It’s not a friendly grade.  But, as I said, don’t let it put you off!  It’s over soon enough.  Just soon enough.

After a brief rest, and a short argument, I set off solo for Spider Gap, sans water bottle, at 17:05.  Nicole was pretty beat, but I couldn’t be that close without making the climb up to the Gap to look down at Lyman Glacier, Lyman Lakes, and whatever else there was to see.  That, and I wanted the experience of traveling up Spider Glacier, which many these days are diminutively calling Spider Snowfield or Spider “Glacier.”  Hey, whatever: I wanted to climb up it, and I’m going to call it a glacier.  The base of the glacier is just a minute or two away from the camps.  I looked up, and it didn’t look too bad, so I started up the snow.  It was a bit slippery, but it wasn’t steep, and there were some tracks to follow–I was happy, again, to finally have trekking poles.

View up Spider Glacier–only the lower 2/3 is visible.

All along the way, I could see that more than one person had chosen to glissade almost the entire way down, and so I decided that I, too, would attempt my first-ever seated glissade on my return.  The picture above actually shows only the first 2/3 of the glacier.  Once you reach that crest, you’re treated to a short level portion, and then the final and steepest bit that takes you right up to Spider Gap.  Up the entire glacier, I was able to walk straight ahead, but at the top I chose to (that is, had to) follow some tracks that traversed it.

View from Spider Gap south over the top 1/3 of Spider Glacier.

At 17:45, I made the Gap:

First views north over Spider Gap.

Just over Spider Gap, with Lyman Lakes below.

Dome Peak and Cloudy Pass in the distance. Among others.

Looking down on Lyman Glacier. Hope to get closer someday.

I continued on the quite visible trail to the north so that I could see more of Lyman Glacier and enjoy the views.  Just up the trail I met a solo hiker setting up his tripod and settling in to spend the night and capture the sunset.  Turns out he was professional–something about putting pictures on mugs and the like.  We talked a little bit and I tried to have him confirm my guesses at distant peaks.  No such luck, but I had a good idea of them anyway.  I envied his ability to set up and await what would surely be a beautiful sunset on a beautiful location, but I had to get back to camp, apologize to Nicole, and help cook dinner.  By 18:15, I was back at the top of Spider Gap, collapsing my trekking poles, and trying to figure out the best way to slide down a Spider Glacier on my butt.  I figured collapsing my trekking poles would be a good thing to do.  I wondered if I should take off my backpack and hold it in front of me.  I wasn’t worried about stopping (“self-arrest”) at this point, since I’d naturally slow down and stop in the large flat area below the Gap.  Up here the glissade trail was nearly a glissade half-tube, so I settled in and pushed off.  In several exhilarating seconds I was at the bottom!  My first glissade was a success.  I kept my feet out of my way and managed to stay straight on the way down.  I got up and walked to the next downhill section and tried again.  Here, there wasn’t a nice half-tube to keep me on track–it was bumpy and meandering and the slope was gentle to the point that I’d peter out after only a short distance.  I stayed seated, used my poles to push off again, with similar results.  I kept at it, often spinning around and ending up with my head below my feet.  Eventually I got tired of trying and stood up and worked my way down the glacier on my feet, half-sliding and half-jogging.  I still made great time, and was back at camp at 18:35, just ~20 minutes from the point of my first half-assed (pun intended) glissade.

After dinner, the sun started to set behind Red Mountain and Seven Fingered Jack and Mt. Maude lit up across the meadow.  It was difficult to capture, but beautiful to watch.  I imagine the photographer above Lyman Lake was quite happy with the way the evening turned out.

Sundown over Spider Meadow.

Alpenglow on Seven Fingered Jack and Mt. Maude.

We stayed awake until the stars came out–the brightest thing in the southwest sky had us convinced it was a UFO, but it was just the mesh of the tent playing tricks with light.  No doubt, it was a planet.  Which one, I’ll have to investigate.  The night was pleasurably cold; we slept well.

The next morning we overslept dawn, but I managed to open my eyes a few times and see some beautiful color in the direction of Seven Fingered Jack.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t pull myself out of my sleeping bag.  At 08:25, we left camp.  Though we were dreading the descent, we made our way down the steep section and to the Spider Gap/Phelps Basin junction in ~25 minutes.  Huh: I guess maybe it really is only 0.4 miles!  Nicole’s knees held up like gangbusters down it, too.  An hour after leaving camp, Spider Meadow disappeared behind us, and we had ~5 miles of morning forest walk ahead of us.  As we neared the end, we slowed down considerably, since we were both pretty sore and Nicole’s knees reestablished themselves as forces of evil.  Still, we reached the trailhead again at 11:35, just over three hours after breaking camp.  By 15:00 we were back home, ready for food and Monday Night Football.

Great hike.  Could be an easy but rewarding if one sticks to Spider Meadow.  Great campsites all around.  Great views.  Great start or end to a trip of a few nights.

Distance: ~15+ miles round-trip to Spider Gap and back.  The gap was the high point for Jeremy, at ~7100’; Nicole hung out at ~6400’.  Our starting elevation was ~3500’, so we gained ~3600’ and ~2900’, respectively.  It took us ~2:30 to reach Spider Meadow, ~0:30 to cross the meadow, and another ~1:20 to reach the campsites at Larch Knob.  We took plenty of breaks, so our total time from trailhead to tent was ~5:15.  Jeremy’s side-trip from tent to Spider Gap and back: ~1:20.  The way out the following day: ~3:10.

As always, more photos at Flickr.

So far this summer Nicole and I have gone on six hikes together; the first three were all either one- or two-night backpacks; hikes four, five, and six were all day hikes.  So as the weekend approached and trip-planning began, like, for real, we knew we wanted to spend a night [tossing and turning within our sleeping bags].  Backpacking it would be, but since we only had Saturday night available, and I had to work Saturday morning, it couldn’t be a long drive or that long of a hike.  We also had to keep in mind that we’d probably be pitching our tent somewhere early Saturday evening, crux of the weekend populous.   I had my hands wrapped around a pair of Green Trails Maps (#175 & #176) and prior reports and pictures in my head.  Elimination claimed trails we hypothesized as too long, too difficult, too buggy, and too busy; those trips requiring off-trail travel were sadly stricken from the slate.

In the end, we decided to try our luck up the West Fork of the Foss River, along Trail #1064.  With four lakes sitting around the 4000’ mark, and all seemingly within reach from the 1600’ trailhead–the farthest being ~6.8 miles in–we were confident we’d find a place so settle down before the sun set.  This trail sits entirely within the Alpine Lakes Wilderness of Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, and is easily reached off of US-2 via the Foss River Road (Road 68/6835).  Don’t ask me how–actually, I think it’s because I already had map in hand and read a recent report and therefore felt like I knew what to expect–but I neglected to check the USFS site until just now.  It calls the trail “severely flood damaged,” characterizes the difficulty as “Easiest/Most Difficult,” and states that visitor use is “Extra Heavy.”  I’ll try to elaborate on all that throughout the rest of this trip report, but let me preemptively say it isn’t quite so bad as that.

Back to the past: our minds made up, a bit o’ new gear purchased, and my last massage of the week given, we left Seattle at 11:15 en route to the Skykomish area.  Almost exactly two hours later, at ~13:15, we opened the doors of the Explorer in the semi-crowded parking lot (~two dozen cars) and were greeted by some hungry bugs.  With boots on and DEET applied, we walked past the trailhead sign at 13:30.  The sign kindly reminded us that a bridge was out 0.5 miles in, informed us that the trail is no longer maintained, and invited us to hike at our own risk.  When aren’t we hiking at our own risk?

They were right about that no-longer-maintained thing.  The blow-downs begin almost immediately, with the trail underneath the trees composed of crushed gravel–if gravel was the size of softballs.  It isn’t long before the trail deviates from the rocky road, somewhat confusingly.  From there you’ll find yourself along the left side of the West Fork of the Foss River.  With the knowledge that the bridge is out, and logs down everywhere, one may be tempted to cross in many spots, but be patient and work your way down to where the trail ends and the cairns begin.  Unfortunately, there are cairns everywhere.  But some should lead you to the nice, big log pictured below, about ~20 minutes into the hike.  Crossing here puts you right back on the trail; if you crossed somewhere else, you’d have to work upriver or downriver to pick it up again.

Nicole crosses Log-Over-Foss.

After crossing the river, the trail pulls itself together a bit as it climbs ~500’ in the next mile, much of it along the west side of the river.  There’s a nice big tree, and a bit of washout along the edge of the river, and then the trail arrives at Trout Lake, 2100’ and 1.5 miles from the trailhead.  We took a breath and a picture or two; the time was 14:35.  Already we’d seen more than a few people on the trail, most on their way out.  The going was slow, what with the poor trail conditions and full packs.  I was hoping that the lower and upper portions of the trail would be easy going, since they were relatively level.  The middle portion of the trail is where most of the elevation gain occurs, and that’s what we were about to start.

One big tree. Regular-sized Nicole.

One of many, many blow-downs.

After passing Trout Lake, which didn’t impress us all that much–aside from the inlet end, as viewed from slightly above–the trail works its way westward, eventually within earshot of the rushing waters from above.  At 15:20 we stopped at a space with easy access to the water; we needed to filter some before the trail turned away from the water steeply.  It was such a nice spot that we stopped there on the way back down, too.

Water so nice, we stopped to filter it twice.

The middle portion of the trail gains ~1800’ in 2 miles–honestly, it didn’t even feel that steep to me.  Maybe it’s because we were moving so slowly.  More blow-downs, heavy packs, a stop for food.  Even if it didn’t feel steep, and Nicole may disagree with me there, it felt pretty exhausting.  After leaving our watering hole, the trail climbs through forest for a while before eventually breaking out into some brushy sections with beautiful views of Malachite Falls:

Malachite Falls.

Another shot of Malachite Falls.

Up and up we went, with the waterfall visible for much of the late afternoon.  By ~17:00 we were up near the top of the falls, and crossed over a damaged, but sturdy footbridge.  In fifteen minutes more we reached the junction of the main trail and the spur trail (#1064.1) to Lake Malachite.  Tired as we were, and with time elapsing more quickly than we’d anticipated, I ran up the trail solo to check out the lake and see if it was worth camping at.  The spur was short, steep, muddy, and hardly recognizable; I knew unless the lake was beautiful with a pleasant campsite, I wasn’t going to make Nicole climb up to it.  The trail dead-ends at the mucky end of the lake, with no discernable trails along either edge.  I admit: I only looked briefly, so there may be something there.  But I knew we weren’t going to be the ones to try to find it.  From what I’d heard from folks on the trail, Copper Lake seemed like the place to camp, and Copper Lake wasn’t far away.  (Before the hike, I’d held hopes to make it all the way up to Big Heart Lake to camp–but those hopes had been abandoned by this point.)

Nicole crosses the damaged bridge with care.

Small Falls near the top of the trail.

View at the end of the Lake Malachite spur.

I met Nicole back at the junction–it really only takes a few minutes to get up to Lake Malachite and take a look at it–and we returned to the main trail.  In fifteen minutes, we were crossing the outlet of Copper Lake via rock-hop, and in a few minutes more (17:45) we saw Copper Lake proper.

Crossing the Copper Lake outlet.

Copper Lake panorama, from the trail at its edge.

With sunlight settling below the cliffs to the west, all thoughts were now on finding a place to set up our tent.  A beautiful spot across the outlet was taken, another space that looked like it could hold a tent sat nearby, as did the toilet.  We marched onward, since I was certain there had to be something along the east side of the lake, between it and the trail.  Halfway down the lake there was a site, but on the uphill side of the trail with a bit of snow.  It would’ve done, but I wanted to keep looking.  At this point Nicole sat down, and I went off ahead of her, hoping to find us something.  I told her I’d blow my whistle three times if I found a site, and she should blow hers three times if she heard me.  At 18:15, just as I was about to turn around, and well past the end of Copper Lake, I found a site just off the trail, next to running water and among blooming beargrass.  I dropped my pack and gave three whistles, though I held back breath.  I thought I heard a reply, and moved down the trail to meet her.  Three more whistles, and I called her name.  Maybe I heard a reply?  Eventually I met her on the trail, she hadn’t heard me, but since I was gone so long she assumed I’d found something.  Back at camp, we set up, filtered water, cooked potatoes and couscous, swatted at merciless mosquitoes, and retreated to our tent well before 21:00.  I swear, one of these nights I’m going to stay up for the stars!

Beargrass between Copper Lake & Little Heart Lake.

We slept as well as we tend to, and were up to walk to Little Heart Lake by 07:00.  It was really only minutes away, which meant we’d hiked in ~5 miles to camp on Saturday.  Little Heart Lake was pretty, but I actually thought Copper Lake was more beautiful.  That said, I’m sure if we made it up to Big Heart Lake (or beyond) the terrain would’ve been even better.  Ah, well.

At 08:50 we broke camp, and we were back at the Explorer at 13:00 exactly.  Downhill wasn’t much different from uphill, just a bit harder on the knees.

A friendly reminder to remove the lens cap.

I’m not quite sure what to make of this trip.  At times, I was disappointed: the trail conditions were the worst we’ve seen this year, we didn’t cover a lot of distance, we didn’t score a lakeside campsite, the bugs drove us into our tent as we finished our dinner, and I didn’t take any outstanding photographs.  Still: we did manage over 10 miles round-trip of rough trails, river crossings, and blow-downs with an afternoon start; the scenery was more than adequate; and the exercise was first-rate, as our muscles and blisters testify.  It was an experience that satisfies.  I’d like to get up into the area and explore further, because I know there’s a lot more up there.  I think this hike would be a lot easier if you were heading up with a daypack.  If you leave with enough time, and plan on spending more than one night, with time to explore, it’s a decent backpacking trip, too.  We did see a fair number of people on both days, about half of whom seemed to be backpackers.  It wasn’t an overwhelming crowd, though.

Distance: ~10+ miles round-trip from the parking lot to Little Heart Lake and back.  We topped out at ~4200’ of elevation, gaining ~2600’+ along the way.  It took us ~4:15 to reach Copper Lake, with our full packs and a few stops along the way for water and food, and a similar amount of time going out the next day for around ~8 hours of total hiking time.

As always, there might be an extra picture or two at Flickr.

After a good week or so of searching guidebooks and websites for a high-altitude trail that maybe–just maybe–wasn’t completely covered in snow, I finally came across a few different references¹ of the Mt Aix trail. Most were at least a year old, and therefore the conditions they described weren’t really applicable to this Spring’s stubborn snows and late melt; but there was a trip report from the end of May at NWHikers.net that was quite detailed. I decided that a month’s worth of southwestern exposure–including the three or four 80-90° days leading up to the day(s) of our hike–would’ve had a significant impact on the snow level, and that if we were lucky, we’d be able to make it prett’ near to the top. With the weather clear and hot, we’d also be able to fully appreciate the views that everyone assured would be there if it weren’t for those darn clouds. So: good weather, good views, and a hike with a difficulty rating I’d have to hide from Nicole. I stopped at REI and bought myself the Bumping Lake #271 Green Trails Map.

Since this weekend was our first wedding anniversary, we decided to elongate the trip by car-camping somewhere near Bumping Lake on Saturday night.

I have to take time out here to mention that this was our first time driving along WA-410, and it definitely will not be the last. It’s a great drive with amazing views. At one point, just after entering Mount Rainier National Park, I believe, there’s a great reveal of The Mountain, which led Nicole to exclaim: “Mother of God!” I don’t think she was very far off.

Mt Rainier from WA-410.

Once off of Highway 410, there seemed to be dozens of side-of-the-road sites along Bumping River, but since it was a beautiful Saturday, almost all were occupied, and we didn’t even bother turning into the Forest Service pay-sites. Just before Bumping Lake there’s a no-fee Forest Service campground called Bumping River Crossing, and that’s where we pulled in for the evening. It had an outhouse and we brought two bottles of Cristalino that we weren’t going to carry up Mt Aix the next day, so it was more than adequate. The campground was populated, but still nearly half-empty, and we settled into a quiet site away from the river and collected twigs and branches for a small but necessary campfire–for the S’mores, of course.

The next morning we leisurely prepared our food and set off for the trailhead. There had been signs posted perpendicular to Bumping Lake Road that stated that roads 1800 & 1808 were closed at the junction, but we found them both open and the few miles up to the trailhead were snow-free and easily handled by the Explorer, and had we driven the Focus, I’m certain that we wouldn’t have had a problem either; our alley in West Seattle has worse potholes.

I forgot my watch at home in a drawer so we had to check our iPhones periodically to get the time. (After we got home and I imported my photos, I realized that the time signatures of my Nikon D40 would give me enough info to make reasonable estimates on travel times, etc.)

I snapped a photo of the trail marker at 09:04, and we were off.

For the first 30 minutes or so, the trail was pretty much a small gravel road, with a very gentle incline. In fact, I did notice some tire tracks, even though this trail is within the William O. Douglas Wilderness. They couldn’t have gone too far, though, because shortly after you enter the Wilderness, the trail narrows and enters the woods. Almost immediately there’s a creek crossing, and at 10 feet wide and only inches deep, even at this time of year, I’d recommend letting your boots get slightly wet instead of trying to maintain your balance with a 20-40 pound backpack across the downed log bridge. Nicole didn’t quite make it across, and on the return trip we both decided it’d be best if we tiptoed through it.

Then the trail begins in earnest, and there’s a few blow-downs to step over. From here on, it’s all switchbacks, some longer than others, and some steeper than others. At the southern end of some of these switchbacks, you’ll come within earshot of rushing water, and there are a few side trails that promise a glimpse of a waterfall, but don’t really deliver unless you feel like going a bit off trail. I could make out a bit of it through the trees, and it was running pretty strong, but I’m sure later in the season it’ll be considerably weaker–and quieter.

More switchbacks–many of which have noticeably been cut again and again by boots–please, stay on the trail! An hour or two in, we were passed by a group of three day hikers headed up to the summit. In maybe another 30 minutes, at 11:27, we ran into the first snow, a small amount alongside a stream that seemed like a great candidate to refill our water supply. We were making slow progress with our full packs, but those packs also meant we weren’t in any particular hurry. We’d been stopping pretty often for breathers and water, and though the trees weren’t completely thinned out yet, it was starting to get pretty warm.

Nicole at the first snow.

For the next 30-45 minutes, parts of the trail were covered with up to a few feet of snow, but in every case but one the trail was visible on the other side of the snow, and easily picked up. In one case, the snow covered the southern end of a switchback, so you started up snow in one direction, and then came back in the other. All were pretty easy, and there was less of this snow on the way back down the next day. It should all be gone in no time.

Jeremy, feeling the heat.

By noon the tree-cover was considerably less and we were well past starting to feel the heat and the weight of our packs. We hiked for another hour or so and came to a very nice campsite with great views of Mt Rainier and a water source. Corroborative reports indicate that this site is probably about 3.5 miles in and over 6000’ up. The boots were off, the tent was up, and Nicole was “resting” by 14:00. That’s ~5 hours since we’d left the trailhead, but we’d stopped for lunch, filtered water, and generally took as much time as we needed to get there. While I was snapping some photos, another day hiker passed us going up, and going up quickly. This hike is hard, but I’m sure it’s a lot less hard if you’re not carrying a full backpack.

Nicole, managing to rest in our oven–or tent.

You can ask Nicole more about that, because sometime between 15:00 and 16:00 we set off toward the top, me with a slightly less heavy pack and her entirely without one.

For most of this time, I’d incorrectly assumed that the highest peak I could see was our destination, Mt Aix. Yes, I had a map. (Later, I assumed that that same highest peak I could see was Bismark Peak; wrong again, it was only an unnamed high point that hid Bismark Peak from view.) Speaking of views, the views of Mt Rainier only got better, and Mt St. Helens and Mt Adams were easily recognizable in the distance, too. While looking at a snowfield on Fake Bismark Peak, I could make out the small speck of a mountain goat, and I got out the 200mm zoom lens for magnification and validation. This was pretty exciting because it’s the first mountain goat we’ve seen, even if it was quite far away.

Our very first Mountain Goat. Awww!

All this time we were making our way up towards Nelson Ridge, and there was much more snow here than at lower elevations. Luckily we had footsteps (though they’d faded from the heat of the sun) to follow, and the going was a little easier with our reduced weight. Still, we kept coming to more snow and at around 17:00 we crossed the most difficult stretch, a small but tall and sharply sloped bank that required kicking in some snow-stairs and more than a bit of balance. At this point, I said, “If there’s another one like that, we can turn around.” That was the last snow we came across until we we had the summit in sight, which actually wasn’t much longer.

Nicole eating snow. The snow would have its revenge.

Within 15 minutes of that last troublesome (for us) snow, we reached the intersection of the Nelson Ridge and Mt Aix trails. At 17:15, and 7200’ elevation, according to the map, it was a great place to stop and snap a few pictures, and maybe even set up a tent. The view to the north was Nelson Ridge, Eastern Washington descended in its logical direction, and to the south I could finally make out the true Bismark Peak and Mt Adams in the distance. West, of course, remained Rainier.

Jeremy at the ridge, with Mt. Rainier behind him.

For most average hikers, I’d say this is as good as it gets. Or as good as one really needs it to get. I’ll elaborate on this momentarily. After 15 minutes of taking it in, we set off along the Mt Aix trail–with Mt Aix still hidden by the high point to your left as you make your way south.

Mt Aix remains hidden behind this point for a few minutes more.

It’s at about this point that the trail becomes very narrow and rocky to the point of questionable footing, and since I still had a pretty large pack on, I wasn’t entirely confident that I wouldn’t slip, trip, or stumble off to the right, which is completely exposed and offers none of the false security of at least a tree to stop your fall. A long-dormant fear of heights took me by surprise, and I dropped to my knees for a few moments to pull myself together. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this hike, it’s where my limitations currently are! This portion of the trail is pretty short, and after a few minutes of watching myself place one foot in front of the other, we rounded the high point that obscured Mt Aix, which was now directly to the east.

The summit in view, and snow before us.

Here there was a nice patch of of snow, which thankfully didn’t slope too steeply to the edge of the Hindoo Creek basin. Still, the distance to the summit looked quite considerable, and the path visible directly on the opposite side of the snow didn’t look especially comforting, especially after my minor panic attack. To make our decision easier, Mt Adams was now covered by dark clouds, and we agreed that even though we gave up on the summit, we were satisfied with how far we’d come. Maybe we’ll come back some time with a bit more experience and make it to the top. This was actually our first attempt at any summit!

The retreat toward Nelson Ridge.

At 17:45 we started back down, with clouds slowly but steadily working their way north. While looking back at Fake Bismark Peak, I noticed a group of at least six mountain goats along its North-South ridge. I figured pulling out my camera wouldn’t result in anything near a super shot, so we just enjoyed the reward for a moment and continued down to camp, listening to the thunder get closer and closer. The snowbank that I mentioned earlier sent both Nicole and I down to its base on our backsides, one after another, which was definitely not our intention, and we were lucky to stop ourselves with our feet before we went into the trees. It was fun, once we knew we weren’t going to break any limbs.

By 19:30 we’d put on the rainfly and I took some decent pictures of the storm clouds rolling in over Rainier with the sun low in the sky. Then I had to retreat into the tent as the winds increased and the lightning approached. Thunder in the mountains seems to go on forever. For all the noise, the clouds didn’t drop a very large amount of rain–though it certainly did rain.

The storm around Rainier, as viewed from our camp.

Monday morning I was up at 05:15, intent on getting some use out of the tripod I’d carried in. I sat on a nice rock steps from our tent and took photos of Mt Rainier for about an hour. Then I saw a deer on the open slope to the north, but didn’t get any good pictures because I’d had the camera set up with a low ISO and, therefore, longer shutter speeds. By the time I realized what I was doing, the deer disappeared into the trees. Still, another good reason to get out of bed bright and early.

Mt Rainier, up close in A.M.

At 07:30 we were on our way downhill, and by 10:00 we had our boots off and the keys in the ignition.

Check out the full Flickr set here.

¹Mt Aix around the web, with stats and directions:

@SummitPost.
@Peakbagger.
@WTA.
@Attrition.
@NW Hikers.