Somehow, I found myself with an extended weekend at the very end of August; Nicole didn’t.  Thus, the table was set for my Second Annual Solo Backpacking Trip, a trip set to coincide with my twenty-ninth birthday.  Certain conditions were to be met.  The hike couldn’t be too high on our must-do list, because Nicole wouldn’t be along to enjoy it.  I also wanted something that would challenge me.  And why not make something that’s a little further away than our normal weekend overnighter?

In the end, I decided on Ice Lakes, via the Entiat River.  100 Hikes… put the round-trip mileage at ~28 and recommended allowing 3-5 days.  Ice Lakes were on my list, and the criterion fit.  I’d be carrying a heavy backpack (~45lbs) but reasoned that the elevation gain would be spread over so much mileage that it’d be no problem.  More training for the Canadian Rockies!  My itinerary was flexible: I’d leave Thursday, make the lakes Friday, spend Saturday exploring or summiting Mt. Maude, and return Sunday. Or, if the forecasted thunderstorms came to fruition, I might return Saturday instead.  Whatevs.

I left straight from work on Thursday around 12:30, and pulled into the trailhead parking lot at the end of Entiat River Road at 16:00.  The drive was nice, taking me past Leavenworth for the first time through Wenatchee and north along the Columbia River through an interesting landscape.  Though there were signs warning of big horn sheep crossings, I saw none.

I booted up and hit the trail at 16:20, setting a comfortably quick pace in order to put as many easy miles behind me as possible on the first day.  The trail starts off wide and dry, mixed-use as it is (hikers, horses, motorcycles).  The trees turn from somewhat unhealthy-looking to fully fire-scarred and destroyed as one makes progress down the Entiat River trail.

Evidence of a burn.

At 17:55, I entered Glacier Peak Wilderness, ~4.2 miles from the trailhead.  The trail narrowed.  Deer met me head-on on the trail.  The sun lowered behind the ridge to the west.  Every snap, crackle, and pop in the forest had me looking over my shoulder; I attributed each one to another deer, fearing a bear or cougar as the sounds stalked me along the trail.  I realized only later that the heat of the day had gone from the naked, burned trees.  And now they contracted in the shade like an old house in night’s silence.

I pressed on, coming to the intersection with the Ice Creek trail at 19:30, and crossing over Entiat River via logjam minutes later.  The crossing was fairly simple, and there were unoccupied campsites on either side of the river.  After crossing, I set up camp, ate banana chips and a pepperoni stick for dinner to avoid cooking, and went to bed an hour or so later.  The sky was clear and a beautiful half-moon hung visible through the trees.

I woke up Friday at 06:00 and stepped out of the tent.  My birthday!  I busied myself with breakfast and breaking down camp, which took nearly two hours without Nicole’s help.

Once again, the trail works through burn, gaining slightly more elevation than it had earlier.  Views improve, either across Ice Creek to the Entiat Mountains (including unnamed 8000′+ peaks I’d mistaken for Mt. Maude) or uphill through avalanche chutes toward the Spectacle Buttes.

Through more burn...

...to the base of the Buttes.

I crossed Ice Creek, high-stepping straight through it the first time and using a well-placed and well-cairned log the second time, working my way up through healthier forest and patchy meadows toward the head of the valley.  In one large meadow, the real Mt. Maude revealed herself.  At 09:50, I reached the end of the Ice Creek trail at a campsite below cliffs and waterfalls.  From here, the trail to Ice Lakes is unmaintained, but obviously well-travelled and easy to follow.  After resting and eating, I took off at 10:20 to climb the final mile to Lower Ice Lake.

A waterfall at the beginnings of Ice Creek.

And a climb it was.  Gaining some ~1500′, in such a short distance, without a single switchback, with a 45lb backpack, was quite difficult.  I had to watch every step, avoiding loose rock that sat on dry slopes ready to slide away beneath me.  I stopped every several steps, sat down dozens of times, sometimes right on the path.  Marmot’s whistles and pika squeals kept me company.  A weasel ran right behind me, startling me up from a spot I might still be sitting today otherwise.  Larch trees appeared sporadically amongst the others.  I could guess at the distance remaining above me.  On my final approach, my quadriceps nearly burst into spasm.

Down the Ice Creek valley.

Flowers before steepness.

A pika's perch.

At 12:40, over two hours since I’d left the valley floor, I took a few more ascending steps and Lower Ice Lake lay before me.  I gave thanks and dropped down along the lake, setting up camp on a picturesque peninsula after only a moment’s hesitation but several minutes of rest.

Lower Ice Lake, at last.

I napped, filtered water, ate, put on my tent’s rainfly.  Another person arrived at the lake—the first I’d seen, though he’d be joined by others in his party later.  I set aside any ideas I’d had for further exploration: exhausted as I was, I could only walk around Lower Ice Lake in my flip-flops, taking photographs.

Larch, lake, campsite, and Mt. Maude.

Larch along Lower Ice Lake.

It ain't October yet.

North Spectacle Butte.

The Spectacle Buttes from above Lower Ice Lake.

A moment of calm on Lower Ice Lake.

Clouds rolled in, the wind picked up.  I ate a homemade cinnamon roll for my birthday dinner and retreated into the tent to drink Glenrothers whisky and read Anna Karenina, which I’d insisted on carrying with me.  I wrestled with my plans: stay tomorrow night as well, or head out if the weather doesn’t cooperate?

The wind continued to strengthen as night fell.  I’d set up my tent to view Mt. Maude out my window, which ended up being broadside to the wind.  Gusts were strong enough to collapse the tent into me; I stuck my arm out of my sleeping bag to brace one of the poles several times.

Eventually I was able to sleep, only to wake up with a full bladder around 22:30 to an eerie calm.  I walked out into the night and came back relieved.  Not a few minutes later, the wind began again, this time accompanied by rain.

I decided that if it wasn’t sunny and clear the next morning, I’d hike all the way back out to the car, stop at McDonald’s for my yearly McNugget allotment, and be home Saturday evening.  I fell asleep sometime later.

Saturday morning I woke up again at 06:00.  It was quite cold and cloudy.  I looked up at Mt. Maude, her summit hidden in clouds, and set myself to breaking down camp.  I’d be heading all the way out today after all.

Mt. Maude in clouds.

At 08:00 I was on my way down through The Rockfield of 10,000 Pika.  I nearly hyperextended my knee, but made better time going down than up.  Though each step had to be watched, I wasn’t exhausted as I was while gaining the elevation.

By 09:30 I was back on the Ice Creek trail, and I crossed the Entiat River at 11:15.  I had ~8 miles to go.  Just keep moving, I told myself.  My feet were starting to bother me.  My shoulders were beginning to ache.

I kept moving, feeling blisters blossoming in strange places on the bottom of my feet.  I stopped to address them—unsuccessfully, as it turns out.  If I stopped moving, the pain upon re-starting would intensify.  I began to limp.

The last ~five miles were pretty terrible.  When I made it within ~two miles of the trailhead, I rolled my left ankle.  I sang songs over and over in my mind to pass the time, looking at my watch regularly, figuring out just when I would arrive at the parking lot.

14:44.  My backpack was off, and my boots weren’t far behind.  I ate some Advil with a shot of whisky.  My water bladder was empty.  It was my longest day on trail.  But I was heading home…

The way to Ice Lakes.

This trip was a challenge.  And it was a success.  My only disappointment is that the weather kept me from staying another day, making it to Upper Ice Lake and perhaps the summit of Mt. Maude.  Then again, that most likely would’ve made for an even more difficult day on the way out.

I guess I’m saving Upper Ice Lake and Mt. Maude for a later date.  I’ll definitely look in to taking the shorter approach, though.  One trip up to Ice Lakes via Entiat River and Ice Creek is enough for me!

Stats: ~26 miles round-trip from the Entiat River trailhead to Lower Ice Lake and back, spread over 3 days, with ~3800′+ of gain (and loss).  Also, some big blisters.

Day 1: ~8.1 miles to the Entiat River crossing, ~3:10 hiking time, ~1200′ gain.

Day 2: ~4.7 miles to Lower Ice Lake, ~4:50 hiking time, ~2600′ gain.

Day 3: ~12.8 miles to the trailhead, ~6:40 hiking time, 3800′ loss.

As always, more photos at Flickr.

The final weekend in September beckoned.  The weather looked to be fantastic.  Unfortunately, Nicole and one of her toenails were at odds with one another, so if anything were to be done, it would have to be done solo.  Somehow I decided that a mere dayhike wouldn’t suffice; this meant I’d be going on my very first all-alone backpack: two nights in Glacier Peak Wilderness.  I actually didn’t give it much thought at the time (that is, before I set up camp the first night in near-darkness and questioned every sound I thought I heard).  It just seemed like the natural progression of things, something that I knew I’d do eventually.

As I may have mentioned in the past, Glacier Peak Wilderness (hereafter, GPW) has held near-mythical status in my novice hiker mind.  Maybe it’s because Spring & Manning called it the last wild volcano.  I suppose that has something to do with it: unlike Mt. Baker or Mt. Rainier, you ain’t parking your Subaru on the side of Glacier Peak.  You gotta hike to get anywhere near it, man.  So when, a week or two prior, I saw a post on NWHikers about Sloan Creek Road re-opening, it stuck with me.  Sloan Creek Road (aka Road #49) had been closed for some time (forever, as far as it concerns me, since I wasn’t going anywhere near it before this summer) and it’s one of the nearest access points to GPW.  So it seemed predetermined that this trip would utilize the opportunity.

Old-growth along the Sauk River.

I decided I’d hike the North Fork Sauk River Trail (#649) on Sunday and spend the evening at or near Mackinaw Shelter, then get up Monday morning and hike until I reached the Pacific Crest Trail (#2000) and take that to Red Pass.  If I could, I’d investigate White Chuck Glacier or climb Portal Peak, spending the second night in the area.  Tuesday morning I’d hike all the way back out and get home sometime in the afternoon.  Since I was leaving the where-and-when with Nicole, I figured it best to stick as close to the plan as possible, and act conservatively.

Sunday morning’s departure was slightly postponed due to an uncooperative Green Bay Packers game.  Instead of putting it away early (or imploding immediately) they stretched the game out for nearly the entire four quarters.  At 13:15, I finally pulled out of West Seattle.  The drive went by quickly and I reached the trailhead two hours and thirty minutes later, the final ~20 minutes of which were spent on the Sloan Creek Road, which is in pretty great shape–pretty much any car should be able to make it.

At 15:55, I was on the trail, which starts out at 2100’.  The trailhead signs noted sites washed out at Mackinaw Shelter, but some spots open.  The register seemed to reinforce my hypothesis of solitude–it didn’t seem like anyone was going to be around for two nights, aside from a summit pair.  15:55 is a pretty late start for our short autumn days, so I was a bit anxious to make good time and get camp set up for the night.  I should note that my pack was heavy!  I was carrying everything that Nicole and I normally shared, 4 liters of water (even though I was hiking next to a river!) and more than enough food, as I found out later.  The trail parallels the North Fork Sauk River, through plenty of old growth forest.  This part of the trail is all trees and mushrooms, folks.  Some of those trees are in the way: there’s at least 6-7-8 blowdowns on the way to Mackinaw Shelter–some quite sizable, but none incredibly difficult.

Typical blowdown along the North Fork Sauk Trail.

After only a few minutes on the trail, I met some nice women picking mushrooms, and I have a suspicion now that they’re fellow posters on NWHikers.  They said they envied my trip, but I envied their ability to identify non-poisonous mushrooms.  I kept onward, forgoing photography for the sake of timeliness, but I did give some of the many mushrooms names in my mind: trumpet mushroom, sesame seed mushroom, and red bliss mushroom.  At 16:40, I was startled by what sounded like a large explosion.  Maybe it was a gun (but it sounded more like a canon) or perhaps it was an avalanche or a single, giant tree falling.  Whatever it was, it freaked me out.

At ~18:00, I came across that friendliest of trail signs, the one for a toilet.  I thought at first that this was been Mackinaw Shelter, but I hadn’t gone far enough and there was no shelter in sight…plenty of decent campsites, though…  After consulting my map I decided to push on, as the campsites at Mackinaw Shelter were probably only another mile or so away.  At about this time, I realized I lost my sunglasses.  I’d had a hate/hate relationship with those sunglasses.  I’d been really good at dropping them, and it finally happened for the last time.  Just after the campsites, the trail comes to a sizable creek.  This, and my Green Trails Map #112, gave a name to the campsites: Red Creek.  There was no immediately obvious place to ford for those unwilling to take off their boots, like me–there was a good amount of water, and the rocks were spaced and slippery.  I walked along the edge and took a picture or two of the water spilling over a log.  My lens cap fell from my fingers and began to roll toward the water.  I took a stab at it with my trekking pole, but missed.  Now I’d hike the entire time with my camera around my neck, sans lens cap.  Great.  And the pictures were blurry anyway, unsurprisingly.  With that, I set off from rock to rock, just downstream from the trail.  It took a bit of balance, and I decided that on the way back, I’d check upstream as well.

Shortly after Red Creek, the trail works its way down near the North Fork Sauk again, and there’s a small amount of storm damage.  The trail is easy enough to stay with, though.  At ~19:05, as it was just starting to get dark, I came upon Mackinaw Shelter, ~5.4 miles from the trailhead.  It’s an eerie little building in a spooky grove of trees.  At least, that was my immediate impression.  I walked around the area and looked for a campsite.  Apparently there had been some really nice campsites here, but I didn’t see ‘em.  I picked the flattest, noisiest spot I saw and quickly set up the tent with headlamp on.  Being alone was really starting to work on me.  I was hearing noises.  There was no way I was cooking at this point, so I settled for a quickly-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, clapping my hands intermittently and a shouting a few times for good measure.  By 19:40, I was in the tent taking deep, calming breaths.  I hadn’t worked hard enough to exhaust myself to sleep, however, and I ended up turning and tossing all night.  I wondered if solo backpacking was really for me.

I looked at my watch for the first time at 05:00 the next morning–I’d stubbornly refused to look at it any sooner, for fear that it’d tell me I had to stay hiding in my tent for another 4-5-6 hours.  At 06:10 the stars had faded from the sky above me, but I wasn’t up for good until 06:50.  I was in no hurry today, so I made myself mashed potatoes for breakfast and treated myself to hot chocolate.  At 08:45, I broke camp.

Site near Mackinaw Shelter in the morning.

Before and after Mackinaw Shelter, there are some pretty brushy sections, and if you’re going through them in the morning like I was, you’ll get some damp pants.  Once leaving the shelter, the trail turns away from the river and finally begins to gain some serious elevation through the trees for the next ~hour.  The trees start to thin out, providing views across the Sauk and it isn’t long before Sloan Peak is visible in the West.  At 10:00, you break out of the trees into a large avalanche swath.  With that, there’s a bunch of blowdown over the trail, which actually switchbacks through it, so you have to cross two sections of it, not just one.  While it is a bit tedious, it still only took me ~10 minutes to make it past, and you’re able to look uphill at vast meadows that, at this point, are pleasingly near.

Sloan Peak visible in the West.

The avalanche debris, and soon-to-be-visited meadows above it.

After crossing the avalanche debris, the trail continues up through sparser trees, with several blowdowns and increasing views.   It isn’t long before the grade lessens and the trail is out in the big open spaces that are typical of the rest of the trail.  Across the valley, the Monte Cristo peaks rise into sight.  The fall colors were beautiful, and the trail was pleasant.  I stopped at 11:00 to snack and enjoy the views for ~20 minutes or so.  It was around this time that the breeze really picked up.  It was quite gusty from here on up, until the sun started to go down.  Otherwise, the weather was perfect.

Once higher, the Monte Cristo complex comes into view.

Big autumnal colors in the meadows up high.

After my brief break, I reached the junction with the PCT at 11:35, 6000’.  To the right: White Pass and Indian Head Peak.  To the left: an out-of-sight Red Pass.  The White Pass area looked quite inviting, but since I’d gained ~3000’ in the ~3 miles since Mackinaw Shelter, at that moment I didn’t feel like walking a another mile or two to check it out.  I continued northwest on the PCT, picked a blueberry or two, met some wind-resistant marmots, and took pictures en route to Red Pass.

The Pacific Crest Trail.

Sloan Peak.

Looking back toward White Pass, with Indian Head Peak behind.

At 12:30, I reached the pass.  Just below it, there looked to be a pretty pleasant campsite, with some trees for some shelter from the wind.  I wandered around Red Pass and tried to figure out what to do.  I climbed up the small point opposite Portal Peak, which is 6636’ and has an easy trail to the top.  I couldn’t decide if I wanted to continue down over the pass and try to find a space to camp near White Chuck Cinder Cone or over toward the White Chuck Glacier.  It was plenty early in the day, but I was pretty exhausted from carrying the load and the elevation gain.  I also knew that whatever distance I covered today, I’d have to cover again on the way out tomorrow, when I’d have to go from camp to car.  Just returning from Red Pass would be ~10 miles, and I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to add on to that.

White Pass to Red Pass panorama.

Panorama north from Red Pass.

Closest I've been to Glacier Peak.

Glacier Peak and White Chuck from Red Pass.

So I dropped down on the south side of Red Pass to investigate the campsite.  There was one small snow patch, but water was scarce–actually, it had been nearly dry since leaving Mackinaw Shelter, so I’d carried up water.  The site sat quite a bit above what looked to be an upper branch of the Red Creek basin, and several side paths looked like they’d descend, but faded away not far from the campsite.  I finally decided that I’d set up camp, and possibly explore something later that afternoon.  By 13:20, the tent was up, staked in all over the place, and all of my gear (sans food) was in place to hold the tent down.  The wind was blowing.  I took off my boots and took a rest.  The boots would end up being off for the rest of the day.

I spent the afternoon snapping photos, wandering up to Red Pass to look at Portal Peak and Glacier Peak in my flip-flops, filling up pots with snow, and staring at my maps.  I didn’t bring a book because the book I started weights about four pounds.  I was a bit bored.

Wandering around the campsite.

The campsite, in its element.

Colors on the southwest slope of Portal Peak.

So they call this Red Pass, huh?

I made dinner early (~18:00) using a bit of the melted snow water for cooking, but it didn’t look good enough to drink.  I sat around waiting for the sun to set, which it did, right behind Sloan Peak.  Since I was carrying enough weight already (how much, I’d like to know), I left the tripod at home.  But it was beautiful to be up there all alone.

Sunset (1).

Sunset (2).

Sunset (3).

After seeing three people the first day, at the beginning of the trail, I’d seen three people the second day–two on their way down through the avalanche swath, and one person on the PCT above me as I was lying in my tent.  I went to bed much more comfortably then I did the night before.  It may only be in my mind, but camping in open, alpine spaces seems safer (re: bears) than camping amongst trees next to a river.  The stars came out and the Milky Way appeared above me as I drifted off to sleep.

Tuesday morning I was up at 06:15 and broke camp ~07:00.  On my way up the path to Red Pass, I spooked a Ptarmigan.  I’d had my head down, so I only saw it fly away, but it was still the first Ptarmigan I’ve seen.  At Red Pass, I watched the sun rise over the White Chuck, and then started back along the PCT the way I came.  By 07:40 I was back on the North Fork Sauk Trail; at 08:05 I left the meadows and the views of Monte Cristo behind; at 08:40 I passed through the avalanche swath, staying on the downhill side and stopping to finish the sandwich I’d started in the morning; at 09:25 I was back at the Mackinaw Shelter; at 10:05, I forded Red Creek via a small log upstream; at 11:20, I reached the Pilot Ridge junction, and shortly thereafter I spent ~10 minutes talking to a backpacker heading up for a White Pass/Pilot Ridge loop; at 12:20, about 5.5 hours after leaving Red Pass, I was back in the parking lot.

I made pretty good time, but I definitely had an eye out for the final hour or so for my lost sunglasses.  My memory card was filling up, but since I wasn’t stopping for pictures of mushrooms on the way in, I stopped for a few on the way out:

There were many mushrooms more exciting than these.

Like this one, for example.

This trip was a great experience for me, since it was my first time out solo.  Sure, I had a bit of the fear in me the first night, but that’s something that will just take some getting used to.  I was a bit bummed that I didn’t get closer to Glacier Peak, or scramble up Portal Peak, but I wanted to make sure I would make it back alive for Nicole.  I think I will be able to handle future solo trips, but when we can, we should keep it the two of us.  And Glacier Peak Wilderness is an area we need to get into deeper.

Leaving, for now.

Stats: ~20+ miles round-trip from Sloan Creek Campground to Red Pass and back, spread over 3 days, with ~4500’ of elevation gain (and loss).
Day 1: 5.4 miles to Mackinaw Shelter, ~3:00 hiking time, ~900’ gain.
Day 2: 4.5 miles to Red Pass, plus, ~4:00 hiking time, ~3600’ gain.
Day 3: 9.9 miles out, ~5:00 hiking time, ~4400’ loss.

As always, more photos at Flickr.

With late-August weather signaling the end of an already-abbreviated summer, and with the glaring omission of Mt. Rainier National Park (hereafter, MRNP) on our yearly itinerary thus far, we set our sights on Summerland.  Ever since we’d driven along the Sunrise side of Mt. Rainier en route to Mt. Aix earlier this year, we’ve been anxious to return to the area.  Since it was the weekend of Labor Day, we decided to forgo any backpacking plans, opting instead to wake up early in an attempt to beat out our fellow dayhikers.

We were out the door by 05:00 and driving in the dark down a road that I doubted.  Google Maps set me along a different road than I’d taken previously, but we ended up on WA-410 nevertheless.  Clouds hung heavy over the highway, and while I did my best to will them off, windshield wipers were necessary–briefly–on the east side of The Mountain.  I often forget just how close Mt. Rainier is to Seattle–we pulled into the Sunrise/White River entrance at 06:45.  Since it was, as previously stated, the first time this year inside MRNP, we added the $30 annual park pass to our credit card bill (7-day passes are $15, and we know we’ll be coming back more than once in the coming calendar year).   Unfortunately, our success in early arrival meant that no one was manning the entrance booths and instead of a flesh-and-blood annual pass, a machine spit out a receipt that could be exchanged for the real deal.  In the pocket it went, and up the road we drove.

In a few minutes, we crossed Fryingpan Creek and noted our trailhead and the positive parking situation along the road–we’d read the designated spots fill fast and the roadsides soon after, but there were plenty of spots for us.  We were heading up to White River Campground to empty our bladders before we hit the trail.  Though it was cold when we’d left Seattle, here in the park the Explorer returned a temperature of 39° at the campground.  At 07:10, we were back, and on the trail.

The trail to Summerland (alternately, Summer Land) and Panhandle Gap is actually a small portion of the ~95 mile Wonderland Trail, and it’s signed as such.  (We met a small group of very nice folks on day nine of the clockwise circuit on our way back down from Panhandle Gap.  Goal: I will do the Wonderland within the next five years.  I digress.)  The first mile or so of the trail is so wide, soft, and flat that it verges on qualifying as handicap accessible.  There wasn’t a word of complaint from either of us as we walked alongside Fryingpan Creek in the cool, quiet morning.   In no time at all, there were views of Tamanos Mountain (6790’), with its head in the clouds across the creek on the left.  At 07:50 the trail met up with the creek again, which was flowing through a beautiful gorge below, and then turned away to begin gaining elevation a bit more seriously.  But just a bit.

Tamanos Mountain from the lower Summerland trail.

The next ~two miles take you through more of the forest, crossing small streams occasionally and gaining elevation gradually, until it eventually bursts out of the forest to cross Fryingpan Creek via a small one-log bridge (w/ handrail).  As if to reward you, it’s shortly after the crossing that you get your first great views up the valley to Mt. Rainier and Little Tahoma.  We were extremely fortunate to have clear blue skies at this point: 08:45 and the best weather of the day–though we didn’t know that yet.

Mt. Rainier in the clear, blue distance.

All trails lead to Little Tahoma. Not literally.

We snapped a few photos and left Fryingpan Creek behind us as the trail turned uphill in the final ~1 mile to Summerland proper.  The only real switchbacks of the hike are sandwiched into this section of the trail, which is fairly steep but zigzags through some still-blooming patches of wildflowers and offers views across the creek to Goat Island Mountain’s green meadows.

Goat Island Mountain on the initial side of Fryingpan Creek.

By 09:25 we’d reached Summerland, the clouds had moved in, and it was quite cold without trees to shelter us.  It should be said that we saw zero people the entire hike up to Summerland.  At the camps we swung in to use the toilet, and then had to wait more than a few minutes for two backpackers ahead of us.  (Don’t hesitate to utilize this toilet–Nicole and I both marveled at its condition.)  We broke out the granola and crackers and eventually we were on our way again.    Summerland is a beautiful green meadow interspersed with rocks and streams.  Had the sky been clear, I’m sure the views would’ve been outstanding; unfortunately, the clouds kept on coming.  I held out hope that if we continued the ~1.4 miles to Panhandle Gap, the time would pass and we’d be blessed with better weather.  So onward we went.

Cold and lonely marmot sentinel.

The view back over Summerland.

The greens of Summerland quickly give way to the rocky, barren beauty of the Panhandle basin.  Just as the terrain changes there’s a nice waterfall, and shortly after, you’re crossing over the stream on another log bridge (sans handrail).    As I’ve previously said, it was cold–cold to the point of snow flurries.  Shortly after leaving Summerland camp, it had begun snowing lightly and intermittently (and would continue to do so until we dropped back down into the trees on our return).  Our hands and ears and faces were quite cold, so we’d collapsed our trekking poles so we could keep our hands in our pockets; Nicole pulled up her hood, while I stubbornly refused to do so…so far.  The trail isn’t difficult, so we didn’t miss the trekking poles, and we would’ve made excellent time if I weren’t stopping every moment or two to look over my shoulder and down the valley to assess the cloudcover.  In spite of the weather, it was a beautiful landscape.  I loved the variation in rock color.  There was also a picturesque turquoise tarn along the way.  Pictures, pictures, pictures–my camera was cold:

Waterfall at the end of summer.

Brrr.

Tarn along the trail in Panhandle basin, with Meany Crest in clouds.

A rainbow of rocks.

At the far end of the basin, the trail runs up to a wall of rock and turns up to traverse the slope to Panhandle Gap itself.  Here there were some small patches of snow that were easily handled, though we did see some evidence of post-holing (e.g. a footstep three feet deep).  At this point we had our trekking poles out again, which helped with stability.  Up and to the right, you’ll see the gentle saddle structure of the gap–having so visible a destination helped us push through to attain it.  Just before the gap there’s a very short section of the trail that crosses a very steep snowfield.  On the way back down from the gap, it took a bit of care to cross it.  At ~11:00 we stepped out onto Panhandle Gap, and were met with freezing gusts of wind followed by even more cloudcover.  Visibility dropped dramatically, and we turned tail to descend into what had been friendlier territory.

Up to the gap.

The clouds come rolling in.

Nicole retreats from the wind and cold of Panhandle Gap.

But stops for a cold pose near the steep snow.

On our way down from the gap, we met several groups heading up, but it wasn’t until we reached Summerland that the trail population began to expand exponentially, culminating in a group of at least a dozen down near Fryingpan Creek.  But back to Summerland: in addition to more humans, the marmot community must’ve been roused from their rest, as we must’ve seen ~20 of them on our way through the greenery.  Honestly, anywhere you looked, you could spot a marmot (or two, or three).  We stopped briefly to eat, and then left Summerland behind us at ~12:15.  By 14:15 we were back to the car, with the majority of the descent uneventful, aside from letting a family know that they probably had ~two miles to go until it would be possible to see Mt. Rainier, if the weather cooperated.

A bridge at the top.

The path down through Summerland.

And a bridge at the bottom.

With boots off, we decided to drive up the scenic road to Sunrise, since we hadn’t been there before.  We were thinking of restrooms and warm food.  Up the road the snow started again, sometimes surprisingly heavily.  No views.  At Sunrise the shopping-mall-sized parking lot was full of annoying people with annoying dogs.  I looked around at the trails that left from sidewalks and all the people on each one.  No doubt a beautiful area, but it may take me a while to stomach sharing a trail with so many, especially so many ignorant to courtesy and leave-no-trace principles.  But enough of that, we were there to use the bathroom, check out the restaurant, and ask someone if we could exchange our receipt for a genuine Mt. Rainier National Park annual pass.  Inside the visitor center, our request was met with a complete inability to understand what we were asking for.  “You’re in the park…”  Yes, I merely wanted to know if you could exchange this here receipt, which clearly states it can be exchanged for an annual pass, for said annual pass; or, if you’re unable to accomplish this personally, could you point me in the right direction?  We turned around and fled from the ineptitude and $2.50 hot chocolate and stinky toilets and barking poodles and were home enjoying the warmth of our home and the memories of a surprising amount of solitude on the trail to Summerland.

Overall, a great hike.  Wish the weather would’ve been better, but it was beautiful in any case, and I hope to see it again, perhaps as part of a larger trip around The Mountain.

Distance: ~11.4 miles round-trip from the trailhead to Panhandle Gap and back.  The gap was the high point, at ~6800’, while our starting elevation was ~3800’.  A quick bit of math and we’re at ~3000’ of elevation gain along the way.  It took us ~2:15 to reach Summerland, and another ~1:00 to reach Panhandle Gap.  Total time, car door-to-car door, with several long stops and a multitude of glances over the shoulder: ~7 hours.

As always, more photos at Flickr.

After a one-weekend hiking hiatus (which actually amounts to about fourteen days, and felt like every minute of it) we were determined to make the most of our common day off, and get out and hike.  Since we’re still left with just Sundays–a temporary situation, we hope–we weren’t looking for an overnighter, and it had to be something marginally nearby.  I’d seen a trip report or two for Lake Ingalls lately, so I kept that in my mind as Nicole and I set about our routine of searching websites and guidebooks for other possibilities.  I wouldn’t call it wasted time, but in the end, we decided on Lake Ingalls anyway.  I think I can speak for the both of us when I say that we’re glad we did.

Panorama at Lake Ingalls. Click if you care to embiggen.

Lake Ingalls sits just inside the Alpine Lake Wilderness boundary, in the Teanaway area of Washington State.  In years past, almost all of our hikes ended at an alpine–or, more likely, at that time, sub-alpine lake.  Mason Lake, Lake Valhalla, Rachel Lake, Watson Lakes…  We loved rewarding ourselves with a cool dip or cold plunge and some time spent resting before the return down.  This year, somehow, we’d yet to take a hike with a lake for a reward; the Pacific Ocean doesn’t count.  Lake Ingalls, which sits at an elevation of about 6500’, sounded perfect.

Late in the week, we’d toyed with the idea of driving up the North Fork of the Teanaway River Road late Saturday afternoon, hoping to find a place to pitch our tent for the night and an early start Sunday morning.  In the end, due to equal parts uncertainty and laziness, we decided to keep a day hike a day hike.  From all we’d heard (i.e., read), this was a very popular trail (overflowing trailhead, 75+ cars parked down the road, etc.) so in an attempt to avoid the crowds, I insisted upon a very early start.

I woke up at about 04:15, well before the alarm, and took the opportunity to make [fake] breakfast sausages, [real] scrambled eggs, and [white] toast.  I turned on the coffee and woke up Nicole just before the food was ready.  After some early-morning starts without a solid breakfast, I can say that this was probably the smartest thing I did the entire hike.  Good breakfasts make good neighbors.  Er, hikes.

We were in the car and on our way out of West Seattle at 05:15.  It almost can’t get any easier to find your way to the Teanaway area: I-90 to WA-970 to Teanaway Road.  The trailhead to Lake Ingalls (in addition to trailheads and/or access to Esmeralda Basin and Longs Pass) sits at the very end of the road, some 20 miles in.  About half of that is gravel, but it’s a very popular (and therefore, well-maintained) road.  Just watch out for wandering livestock.  Moo!  We reached the trailhead at 07:21, and found easily two-dozen cars scattered alongside the road and in the parking lot; most of them looked like the cars of overnighters.  There were still quite a few spots in the parking lot proper, so we pulled in, used the toilet, and hit the trail at 07:30.  That’s a door-to-trailhead time of about 2 hours and 15 minutes.  Only negative of the drive at that time of the day: sunrise in the east, and in the eyes.

No matter what your destination, if you’re leaving this parking lot on your own two feet, you’re starting up trail #1394, elevation 4200’.  The trail begins as a wide, dry path alongside a stream, pleasantly gaining elevation for the first 10-15 minutes.  At about that time (and 0.4 miles in) trail #1390–Ingalls Way–branches off to the right and heads up towards the ridge to the east.

When I’d glanced at the Green Trails Map #209 (Mount Stuart, WA) in the days before, I’d just assumed that the first half of the hike would be difficult, on account of the presence of switchbacks.  Nicole and I are both happy to report that this trail, end-to-end, is beautifully maintained, and graded perfectly.  At least for us.  It allows for a great pace to be set, and a steady gain of elevation, without being overly taxing.  Looking back, and looking into the faces of those we passed on our way down (i.e., those heading up in the heat of the afternoon), I’d say that the fact that we started early enough to be wearing our fleeces was an important factor in our comfort level, as well.

For 2 miles the trail works its way up the west side of what I’ll call the Ingalls-to-Iron ridge.  The trees are sparse, and so then is the shade, unless you’re early enough to be hiking in the shadow of the ridge itself, which we were.  Esmeralda Peak dominates the views to the west at the lower elevations, and there’s the beautiful red rocks of the ridge to the north.

Esmeralda Peak, as seen early on.

The red rocks of Ingalls-Iron ridge.

At 08:18, after about one hour and 2.4 miles of hiking, we reached the intersection with the Longs Pass trail (#1229).  The elevation at this point is 5600’, which put the gain so far at 1400’.  [It looks like Longs Pass is only 0.6 miles from this point, with another 700’ of gain.  In comparison, we had 3.0 miles to go and only 900’ more to gain.  That, at least, is according to the map.]

We’d been pleasantly surprised that we’d seen relatively few people so far.  Only two pairs of backpackers had passed us heading down, and we’d seen no one going up–yet.  For the next 1.5 miles the trail traverses the side of the ridge, still pleasantly, perhaps a bit rockier.  The rocky surroundings are beautiful, and wildflowers¬–though probably past their prime–still dot the landscape in purples, reds, and yellows.  It’s in this section that the trail gains enough elevation to reveal nice views over-and-through the Esmeralda Peaks to Mt. Rainier.  Mt. Adams is also visible in far distance.  You’ll see Mt. Adams before you’re rewarded with bigger and nearer Mt. Rainier.

With water near the trailhead and more in store, hydration shouldn’t be an issue if you’re carrying enough water for a few hours.  I had the inevitable 7 liters on my back, and we were hiking so well, with such cooperative weather, that we’d so far split only one liter between us to this point.  We realized–regardless of groove–we should be drinking water, and so at around 09:10 we stopped near a large rock to the left of the trail, refilled, and enjoyed the views, still to the west.

Mt. Adams, Esmeralda Peaks, and Mt. Rainier. I promise.

As tends to be the case, we stopped to do this just before reaching a landmark: at 09:25 we reached an unexpected intersection.  At this point (1.5 miles from the Longs Pass intersection), the trail splits into two: Ingalls Way #1390.1 and Ingalls Way Alternate #1390.2.  The Green Trails map doesn’t show this, but there’s a map posted at this point on the trail that shows the diverging trails and the ~10 designated campsites alongside them.  Camping is only allowed at these sites, which are scattered around Upper (#1390.1) and Lower (#1390.2) Headlight Basin.

We chose to take the main trail on the way in, leaving the alternate trail for the way back, should we want a change of scenery.  And I should say now that while we did choose to take the lower route on the way back, it wasn’t because the Upper Basin left us needing any more scenery.  Headlight Basin is gorgeous.  Just as you approach it, Mt. Stuart makes a grand entrance to the east.  Headlight Basin itself is an eastern-facing, downward-sloping crescent of rocks, snow, trees, and meadows.  At the north end stands Ingalls Peak, Lake Ingalls hidden at its base.

Nicole looks over a meadow in Upper Headlight Basin.

Nicole, Headlight Creek–I think, and Mt. Stuart.

We wandered slowly along in wonder, stopping often for the pictures above, below, and stored safely on my hard drive.  Note to self: buy an external hard drive.  Early on–the trail through the basin to Lake Ingalls is 1.5 miles long–I heard Nicole whisper my name as I stared out over the Ingalls Creek valley, which we’d hiked partway up earlier this year.  I could tell by her excited whisper that I could expect something special.  It was a mountain goat, standing on a rock just a dozen feet in front of us, oblivious to our existence–perhaps, and only briefly.  It spotted us, and walked behind rocks only to appear on the other side, with a kid in tow.

Mountain goats. Who would've thunk it?

As we worked our way through the basin, we passed a few groups of backpackers, some at their tents near the trail, others on their way out.  “Just more beautiful scenery ahead,” a particularly jovial pair warned us.

As we continued on, Nicole lamented the fact that’d we’d never seen a marmot.  And, not twenty minutes from when we’d seen the mountain goats.  Behold: marmots!  We saw a few right on the trail, and as we approached, it became clear that they were doing their own version of trail maintenance.  One of the marmots was industrious to the point of ignorance.  We walked within five or six feet of his burrow, but he continued to work.  He’d disappear down to the point where we could barely see his behind, reappear in a moment with a pretty sizeable rock in his mouth, drop it on the trail, and repeat.  We carefully tiptoed around the area, myself with a camera to capture and Nicole with trekking poles to defend, expecting an attack at any moment by this ferocious beast:

What's that you've got in your mouth, Mr. Marmot? A rock?!

As the trail approaches the northern end of Headlight Basin, it becomes rockier and difficult to follow from time to time; but a cairn is usually there to set you on the correct path.  Still, even with a cairn in sight, we sometimes put out a little more effort than we needed to, but nothing too difficult.  You will be using your hands once in a while, but there’s no exposure, and nothing scary.  At this end of the basin, you’ll begin gaining elevation, up through the rocks toward Ingalls Peak.

Working our way up out of the basin.

The view south across Headlight Basin, from near Lake Ingalls.

At 10:40 we climbed the last few feet up and saw our first of Lake Ingalls.  For years, I’ve been dying to reach a lake like this.  High in the mountains, surrounded by rock and ice.  I drool at pictures of the nearby Enchantments, but until I get us a permit (which must be done months in advance) and the time to do it, Lake Ingalls is not a poor substitute.

Down to the lake.

It took us just over 3 hours to cover the 5.4 miles and 2300’ of gain.  We hadn’t seen a bug the entire time.  But at the lake, the mosquitoes were horrendous.  We worked our way along the west side of the lake and got ourselves situated on a nice rock a bit back from the water, hoping to catch what breeze there was.  After applying the rest of our 100% DEET, which proved effective, we sat down to eat our lunch, which consisted of cheese sandwiches, trail mix, beef jerky, and an apple.  We were hungry!  The trail mix was good even though we didn’t make it, but the apple was blah–it had no flavor.

When we’d arrived, we saw several other people in the high rocks around the lake, but they were far enough away that it seemed like we had it all to ourselves.  We ate, drank, and snapped many many pictures.

Mt. Stuart reflected in Lake Ingalls. The first of many.

The waters of Ingalls.

Mt. Stuart, meet Lake Ingalls. You may notice a slight breeze.

Nicole had spotted a mountain goat across the lake; that mountain goat turned out to be ~10 mountain goats.  It was a large family with multiple kids, and as time went by they worked their way clockwise around the lake, passing nearby and through other groups of hikers.  By now there were a fair amount of people up at the lake, most of which were standing right at the trail’s end.  This, unfortunately, ended up being directly between the majority of the goat family and a lone, stranded kid.  The kid was crying and couldn’t find a way down from the rocks to its mother.  It was a pretty heartbreaking scene, and we were kicking ourselves for being intrusive humans.  But the other people didn’t seem to understand that they were, perhaps, making things more difficult for the kid by standing where they stood, and so the crying continued for quite a while.  Eventually, the kid found its way down and the crying stopped.  Meanwhile, other members of the family had made their way over to us…

This kid's got balance.

Nicole vs. Goat.

Having just witnessed the aforementioned scene, we were anxious to get out of the way of the goats, and so at 11:45 we snuck between the four or five surrounding us, and left Lake Ingalls behind us.  This gives me an opportunity to muse: why Lake Ingalls and not Ingalls Lake?

On the way back, we came again to the proverbial fork in the road.  That is, the Upper Headlight Basin trail (which we’d already taken) vs. the Lower Headlight Basin (which appeared to lose and regain a few hundred additional feet).  Nicole and I were both feeling our knees and feet, but I’d seen some photos at NWHikers.net of Mt. Stuart reflected in a small tarn, and since I hadn’t seen it along the upper trail, I hypothesized that the location was along the lower one.  And there was also this trip report to come home to.  So for the sake of completeness and photographic plagiarism, we took the low road.  Our knees graciously accept your thanks.

The low road (aka Ingalls Way Alternate #1390.2) does indeed take you down a few hundred feet, through a greener portion of the basin.  There are several amazing campsites off of the trail, with stellar views of Mt. Stuart.  There’s also a toilet in the area, and though we didn’t investigate, I hear even it has commanding views of the mountain.  In a short amount of time, we came across the small meadow tarn that held quite a nice reflection of Mt. Stuart.  I snapped only several photos, and then moved on; there were some bugs in this part of the basin, too.

Mt. Stuart from the Lower Basin perspective.

The Stuart-reflecting tarn has been found. Deploy cameras immediately.

At 12:45 we emerged from Lower Headlight Basin and found the intersection we’d seen on the way up.  It actually took us a little less time from lake to intersection via #1390.2 than it did from intersection to lake via #1390.1.  I think the lower route is slightly more direct, but there’s a bit more elevation change.  That said, we did stop for mountain goats, marmots, and more along the upper trail.  My advice: do what we did–you’ll want to see it all both ways.

Nicole emerges victoriously from Lower Headlight Basin.

From that point onward, it was all downhill, generally, gradually.  We made pretty good time, even though we both had a bit of knee pain.  The afternoon sunshine seemed to wake up the wildflowers.  We descended while conversing, and said Hello to all the hikers heading up.  At 14:30, we were at the trailhead.

Yes, I took the green out of this picture. I'd had enough!

I’d stopped right near the trailhead to take a few photos of the stream that ran alongside it, and Nicole went ahead to use the toilet.  A few minutes later, when I walked into the parking lot, I saw Nicole talking to someone.  It turned out to be a woman we knew.  She and her partner (we actually know them both) had just finished a hike up to Esmeralda Basin.  We laughed because Nicole and I knew that they were heading to the general area, but it was a pleasant surprise, and amazing timing, to run into them both then and there.  We talked for a few minutes and then retreated to our car to take off our boots and socks.

Nicole and I both agree that this is one of the best hikes we’ve been on.  The trail is in great shape, and engineered to our tastes.  The views are excellent the entire time.  Wildlife.  Beautiful campsites.  A lake that we’d love to dunk toes (or more!) in on a warmer day.  It’s an area we need to come back and spend some more time in.  A day hike just isn’t quite enough.  Highly recommended.

Distance: ~10.8 miles round-trip from the Ingalls Way trailhead to Lake Ingalls.  The lake itself sits at 6463’ and the trail gains 2300’+ en route.  It took us ~3:10 to reach the lake, and ~2:45 to get back down to the trailhead.  Including each and every photo op and a leisurely lunch below Ingalls Peak, this hike took a total of ~7 hours.  Pizza was delivered before 18:00 and we were in bed by 21:00 and 22:00, respectively.

As always, there’s more photos at Flickr; comments and questions are welcomed.