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.

After seeing friends’ photos from an overnight trip up Sahale Arm via Cascade Pass several years ago—even before we began hiking seriously—the trip has sat almost constantly atop our queue, waiting for the perfect window of time and weather to savor the experience.

This wouldn’t be that.

South and west from near Cascade Pass.

But it wasn’t half-bad, either.

After reading that the Cascade River Road would close September 1st and remain closed through much of October, I set aside the hope that this would be the year that we’d backpack up Sahale Arm and spend the night under starry skies and, instead, settled for a dayhike up to Cascade Pass, or perhaps a bit beyond.  If all I’d read was to be believed—i.e., that I’d run out of superlatives before reaching the pass—we’d be returning for that idealized evening on the Arm, anyway.

Knowing that the trail would be busy no matter what the time, and doing our best to get all of six hours of sleep after watching Inglourious Basterds the night before, we left West Seattle at 06:20.  After stopping in Marblemount in a thwarted attempt at a warm breakfast sandwich, we headed up the 23-mile Cascade River Road stuffing a quarter-pound of Costco muffin into each of our mouths.  Signs along the way warn that the road is primitive, but it’s actually an excellent road, with glimpses up and across the valley all along the way.  At 09:10, just less than three hours after leaving home, we pulled into a large, mostly-full parking lot.  I’d expected views at the parking lot, but I was impressed nevertheless by the dominating face of Johannesburg Mountain, even as seen through our cracked windshield.  Its upper reaches were shrouded in clouds.

Views from the parking lot.

Once booted up, we left the trailhead (3600′) behind us and set ourselves a speedy pace, putting space between us and a party of ~ten that seemed like it was almost ready to hit the trail as well.  The trail ascends numerous—but gentle—switchbacks, and though we heard voices below us from time-to-time, we were treated to a surprising quietness as we climbed.  Our pace stayed quick, slowing only as we glanced over our shoulders down the Cascade River valley (which came into view about forty minutes into the hike) or across to Johannesburg again.

Around 10:30, the trail—no longer switchbacking, now traversing—crosses a large rockfield; pika sounds abound.  Cascade Pass is in sight.

Nicole nearing Cascade Pass.

As we rose to the pass, so too did the voices of those who had stopped at the pass: admirers of the Stehekin Valley and the peaks on either side, climbers off to Eldorado, et al., and those content to take a seat on rock benches and eat their early lunches.  We sat down briefly among the eight—nine—ten there and added our quiet voices to the chorus.  It was 10:55; it had taken us just over an hour-and-a-half to make it the ~3.7 miles and 1800′ of gain to the pass (5400′).

East over Cascade Pass.

Though the views were nice when we reached the pass, in all honesty, the views toward the direction we’d come from (West) were better than those over the pass (East).  Since we’d made such good time, we set off again, toward Sahale Arm, intending to climb only as far as we felt like it, hoping to see Sahale Peak itself and Doubtful Lake below it.

The beginnings of Sahale Arm.

Your friendly neighborhood marmot.

The climb from Cascade Pass to Sahale Arm is by far steeper than the trail beforehand, but not overly difficult.  It is, however, quite rocky, and after ~thirty minutes and an encounter with a relaxed marmot, Nicole decided to turn around and wait for me at the pass.  Her ankle had been bothering her since the weekend before, when we’d backpacked up to and down from Gothic Basin.  Giving the ankle a rest was probably a good idea, as we have a lot of hiking to do in the next few weeks…

I continued up alone, reaching the ridge crest (6200′) and an intersection with a trail down to Doubtful Lake at 11:35.  Here, Sahale Peak and its Arm are visible, though the summit itself remained hidden in the clouds.  I continued several steps further.  Then the beautiful blue Doubtful Lake appeared below me.  I took pictures for a few minutes, turning often to look up the Arm, trying to see just where we’ll camp when we do do this as a backpack…

Sahale Peak in clouds.

Doubtful Lake below Sahale Peak.

Stehekin, or, The Way Through.

I met Nicole back at the pass at 12:10.  She’d been eating Combos, watching marmots, and layering up.  There was a cold wind at the pass.  I added a layer and we headed down at 12:20, stopping briefly to take someone’s photo, and again to take off a layer once out of the wind.

We coasted down the semi-busy trail, coming to a halt finally in the parking lot at 13:45 to use the restroom and take off our boots.  Shortly thereafter, we were off.  A fine day, aside from the parking lot known as southbound I-5.

Heading down from Cascade Pass.

Indeed, this is a wonderful hike with beauty straightaway.  I can see why it is one of the most popular trails in Washington, and I’m looking forward to spending the night up Sahale Arm, hopefully on a quiet, fall, non-weekend day.

Stats: ~9 miles round-trip from the trailhead (3600′) to Sahale Arm (6200′) and back—it’s ~7.2 round-trip to Cascade Pass.  There’s 1800′ of elevation gain en route to the pass, and another ~800′ up to my turnaround point, for a total gain/loss of 2600′—a few hundred feet less for Nicole.  It took us 1:35 to make the pass, it took me 1:10 to climb up the Arm and back, and it took us 1:25 to descend from Cascade Pass to the parking lot.  Hike time: 3:00 round-trip to the pass, 4:25 total.

As always, a few more photos at Flickr.

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.

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.

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 spending ten days with family in Wisconsin, and eating like one might imagine, I came back to Seattle nearly a-pound-per-day heavier and anxious to put the bratwurst behind me.  I decided that I’d take advantage of my Tuesday off and hike something nearby–solo, since Nicole would be working.  With the weather threatening rain and temperatures in the 60s, I wasn’t hiking for views.  After weighing all the factors, I came to the conclusion that if I were ever to hike Mt. Si, it would be now.

The Mt. Si trail is, from what I’ve read, one of the busiest trails known to man.  It’s only ~30 miles from Seattle on I-90, but at 8 miles round-trip with over 3000’ of elevation gain, it ain’t no cakewalk.  This combination keeps the trail consistently populated, with weekends being exceptionally busy.  Plus, it’s the first big piece of rock one sees as they drive up the Snoqualmie Valley–I can’t help but look at it every time by.

Mt Si from North Bend.

After making each of us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for our respective (but not respectable) lunches, I left West Seattle at about 10:35 and headed east on I-90.  Take exit 31 to North Bend, and take a right at the downtown stoplight past a place promising Twin Peaks Cherry Pie (North Bend Way).  Shortly after that there’ll be a sign alerting you to the Mount Si Road/432nd SE intersection.  Take a left and follow the road past the Little Si trailhead to the Mount Si trailhead ~2.5 miles down the road.  I pulled into the parking lot about 11:20–about 45 minutes after I’d left West Seattle.  Not bad, but even more exciting was the scene at the parking lot.  I think there were four (4!) other cars parked near the trailhead, with the majority of the vast parking lot completely empty.  Excellent.

With boots on, I hit the trail at 11:30.  There are large signs and a map at the trailhead–all posted by the managing Washington State DNR, which is different.  We’re almost always in National Forests or Parks.  Anyway: I believe that the trailhead elevation is ~500’.  (This is one trail I didn’t feel it necessary to buy a map for, but I normally have one for every hike we do.)  The trail starts off flat, but then begins ascending in a way that really never lets up the entire four miles.

Along the lower trail.

The trail is probably five to six feet wide the whole way up, and there are plenty of stairs along the way, with those at the lower elevations made of rock, and those that are a bit higher made of logs.  It’s definitely constructed like a popular trail.  It had that State Park trail feel to it.  No condition problems anywhere, though it’s obvious some people have been cutting switchbacks.

I started off fast, feeling like I needed the exercise and curious as to what kind of pace I could set going solo.  As normal, I had my backpack with a little weight in it; for a change, I used Nicole’s trekking poles.  At 12:10, I reached the 1.5 miles signpost, which also stated the elevation of 1940’.  By this point I’d passed maybe five people–all of them would pass me again as I neared the top.  Just before you reach this marker, you go through a large flat area full of felled trees.  There’s a bit of boardwalk, and some informational signs about a ~1910 forest fire on Mt. Si.  The area is, I learned on the way down, known as Snag Flats.  My knees loved this area.  And it was kind of pretty.

I didn’t take a picture on the way up, obsessed as I was with the act of hiking itself.  At 12:25, I reached 2 miles.  At 12:40, 2.5 miles and 2760’.  At 12:55, 3 miles and a short break to refill my water bottle.  Around this time, my pace slowed considerably, and people I’d passed on the way up made their way around me.  Sure, I was tired, but more importantly, I realized, I hadn’t eaten anything since my blueberry/banana smoothie that morning.  I was out of energy.  I slowly continued, hoping that I could make it to the top before I had to pull out my food.  At 13:30, I stopped near 3.5 miles and sat down to eat every last banana chip I had.  I was disappointed that I had to stop so near the end, but felt better as I got up to continue.

Just a few moments later, the first views opened up to the southeast.  That’s right, you’re in the trees without views for almost the entire hike.  At least you’re protected from the sun and/or rain…  When the trail turns rocky you know you’re near the top.  At 13:45 I reached what is signed the Snoqualmie Viewpoint, a large rocky area with many places to sit down and admire the view south and west, all the way to Seattle and Bellevue.  Also visible from this area is The Haystack, a scramble and the true summit of Mt. Si.  Since I was alone, and pretty tired, I opted to leave it be, and spend some time relaxing.  I believe the elevation of the Viewpoint area is ~3600’, and the Haystack is something like 4200’.

Snoqualmie Valley from the viewpoint. Seattle is visible.

The Haystack summit.

Mt Si.

I stayed up at the top for ~45 minutes, snapping a few pictures–some for others, giving water to a very nice dog that seemed without a master, and protecting my food from the birds that seem quite accustomed to free handouts.  I also spotted three mountain goats in the distance.  Eventually I deemed it time to leave, and even with my knee in a bit of pain, I made good time down the trail (and met very few people) and arrived back at the Explorer at ~16:00.

Overall, this was actually more than I’d hoped for.  I wanted a workout, and I got it.  I was also pleasantly surprised that the place wasn’t overrun with hikers.   Maybe I got lucky, but if it’s midweek and the weather’s crummy and you don’t want to drive more than 30-45 minutes to get to a trail, this might work out for you.  It’s popular for a reason, and if the timing’s right, you might even have a few minutes to yourself out there.

Distance: ~8 miles round-trip.  Max elevation at the viewpoint of ~3600’ with a gain of ~3100’ along the way.  There’s always The Haystack scramble if you want a bit more.  It took me ~2:15 to get to the top, with couple pretty decent breaks near the end, and ~1:30 to get back down.  Total time, with breaks, lunch, and a bum knee: ~4:30.

An extra picture or two at Flickr, but not many.

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.