Slow Dancing with Deadfall

What type of fun was this? Type 1, 2, or 3? Obviously not Type 1. No one heard me. Only my internal processing mulled that question. I bent down, crouched low, and placed my hands on the crystalline dirt, knees nearly touching the ground, as I tried to make myself small, and carefully scoot under the massive fallen log. I did not like it, but it was necessary, as the dead tree trunk was too high to climb over and too long to hike around in the thick brush. There was only one way, under.

I had to be mindful to avoid the sharp spiky stubs of long-since broken branches. I could get seriously cut up, or even worse, impaled by the damn things, and they were everywhere. To top it off, the bark was scorched black by the fire that had long ago killed and felled the magnificent trees before me. Just brushing against them left black marks that streaked across my clothes. And, this could not be avoided. Close encounters with crusty charcoal. Nice.

If it were only one of a small fallen group of trees, the inconvenience would be of no consequence. But there were hundreds of downed timbers scattered like matchsticks across an unmaintained trail that stretched over a half mile. That rough section would eventually come to an end at an unsigned, obscure, narrow trail. One that would lead us higher, much higher. That would come later. I steeled my patience for the present.

I observed my companion Roy fitfully forge ahead as he often paused, evaluated, sighed, and then decided on up and over or down and under. I took photos of his contortions while I waited for him to cross the obstacle of the moment. I thought our escapade would make for great stories, ripe for embellishment once we returned. The tales we later tell are always the best part of ‘Type 2 Fun,’ lovingly recounted once the hellish parts are over and done. Yes, I decided, this was definitely ‘Type 2 Fun.’ And although I observed his twisting body, it did not help me. My body was different from his, smaller and lighter, and my way through the thicket of deadfall was also different every time.

Surprisingly, I took no small amount of pleasure in the problem-solving event of the moment, both in my movement decisions and the physical gymnastics that followed. I found it akin to dancing as I embraced the opportunity to make my movements as simple and graceful as possible, using the bare minimum of energy to surmount the spiky trunks while I imagined myself hardly touching them at all. I found the burn zone a complex and convoluted outdoor dance studio complete with a dazzling array of required forms. As we puzzled our way ahead, I focused on making my traverse elegant. My way of embracing the difficult task.

Once over the last fallen tree we hardly realized it until we had gone more than twenty feet without another obstacle. While we were done with the burn zone, we knew there would shortly be more difficulty to come. As we continued past a small drainage that fed the boggy reed-filled meadows, the headwaters of Lake Stuart, we almost missed the turn to the hidden trail. Chalk it up to our fatigue and frustration. If not for a group of dead branches casually lying across the path ahead, we would have continued and perhaps become lost. Knowing of these helpful trailside markers, I paused and turned to my right. Was this the place where the trail turns up to a steep ascent that would take us to the shores of Horseshoe Lake?

I stepped forward like an animal picking up a scent, the visual scent of a path ahead. And suddenly, there it was, a narrow twisting path that snaked behind a trailside tree and headed up. There was no sign, other than the previously encountered scattered branches. I have since heard of a horseshoe nailed to a tree but we did not see it. The trailside vegetation was thick and brushy, cleaved with the twisty, rising path of loose dirt and rocks, and punctuated with dusty granite boulders, high angled rock slabs, the occasion spiky deadfall arch, and gnarly tree, both dead and alive, standing tall against a cerulean sky.

If our only purpose was to observe, we would have even more appreciated that we inhabited a rare place, one not often visited, a place of stunning beauty. In those moments we felt fortunate indeed. Nonetheless, we kept moving, focusing on every step. The trail climbed with a purpose and we perspired mightily. We gained over 1,200 feet in seven-tenths of a mile before arriving at the lake. I calculated that to be over 1,700 feet in a mile. Damn steep. And the route finding was often challenging. At times the way ahead seemed to disappear. So, I would stop, scan, and explore, looking for the hidden key, and once found, I would later notice a small rock cairn thoughtfully placed to guide others. There were several and, unlike the self-anointed cairn kickers on social media, I did not knock them over. I observed that although they did not actually help me find the route, they provided validation that I was on the right path. And I appreciated that.

In difficult places, I briefly wondered why I was there. Then stuffing that doubt, I continued up. The obstacles here were different than the burn zone, still requiring a deft balance and use of hands but also the rock climber’s use of friction and edging to surmount the large granite obstacles that at times blocked our upward path. Of course, in this late season, they were dusty. While easier to deal with than mud, the dusty earth still presented a slippery surface and I paid close attention. It would not only be embarrassing but painful to slip and fall off a dusty granite slab. Even a small fall could result in significant injury. Fortunately, I had old rock-climbing skills and knew what I could rely on, my sense of what would go and what would not.

The surrounding soil was not barren. Robust thickets of flowering subalpine plants stood shoulder to shoulder surrounding us and the stark rusticated trunks of the hardy trees. The high-angle meadows were dense with the bright colors of these native plants and the muted tones of rock and bark. We often stopped, not only from fatigue but to gaze in wonder at the diversity of color and texture. We savored the beauty of all that surrounded us as we twisted and pushed up the lonely trail.

Once past the steepest sections, we meandered up through high-angled sub-alpine meadows before the last push to the lake. The terrain steepened once again and we took the last section carefully as the trail was mostly fine loose dirt, a difficult surface with which to find purchase. I made a mental note, thinking about what this surface would require on our descent. And suddenly, we were there. The scene expanded and the waters of the tiny alpine lake sparkled in the bright sun. The pristine panorama held me transfixed, the shimmering lake waters surrounded by granite slabs and weathered trees, both alive and thriving in the thin soil and dead sentinels with cruelly twisted branches reaching awkwardly up towards the sky.

The late-season landscape was now staging an ephemeral transition, the soft needles of the alpine larches briefly turning a brilliant gold before gently falling. Rare twisted Whitebark pines stood beside them. We paused, each absorbing the wild terrain before us. And then, Roy and I separated, each on our own mission to explore and photograph the special place. I saw only one other person, a man we had encountered earlier on the steep trail. There were no selfie-takers posing by the lake. I smiled, acknowledging to myself that if this place was better known and easy to access it would be overrun with such people. I thanked the mountain gods that nearby Colchuck Lake and the Enchantments were the preeminent social media magnets that absorbed them all.

As I wandered the rocky slabs to a knoll above the lake the stark dark gray form of the North Ridge of Mount Stuart dominated the skyline. I paused. I had been there before. I had climbed the technical rock route in my 20s. At that time, the glacier was robust and expansive, a daunting field of snow and ice that we traversed to access the North Ridge. I found myself sad to view its now diminished state, a victim of the ravages of climate change. But I took heart in the beauty of the gnarly trees that stood tall along the granite slabs as they framed the mountain. I set up my tripod, leveled my camera, and took enough photographic images to create a spherical panorama.

Although exhausted by the arduous hike to the lake and the unseasonal heat of the early afternoon, I persevered and took enough images for four spherical panoramas. I knew that I might never return, and probably not again on such a fine day. We had found a rare weather window for our trip to Lake Stuart and Horseshoe Lake. That would be unlikely on any return, or so I thought. While the day was without wind there were also no clouds, my only disappointment. I always wished for clouds as they could provide an enchanting visual structure and sometimes add haunting drama to any landscape, often in the most surprising ways.

Time seemed to stand still as we wandered. And, then, once we reconnected it was time to go. We filled our water filter bottles for the hot retreat. As we turned to depart it was with a mix of regret, the regret of leaving, and measured caution for the descent ahead. While we had been intermittently separated on our ascent, I was more circumspect about our return. Considering the possibility of a fall, I suggested that we stay close together on the steep trail down to the burn zone. Though we both took hiking poles and used them often, we frequently used our hands in the scramble sections. While poles could be useful for providing extra balance, they could be risky on a slippery surface if relied on too much.

I cautioned both myself and Roy not to put too much weight on them going down, especially in sections with loose dirt. It was infinitely better to go slow, breaking any difficult part into small steps and only using the poles to provide the nuance of balance rather than leaning on them. One slip of a weighted pole could produce a nasty tumble. Again, I relied on the physicality of my slow dance to negotiate the way back down to the relative flats of the approach trail. To my relief, we both arrived without mishap.

Yes, the return across the burn zone was as frustrating as our first time through, perhaps more so as we were now tired. I found it interesting to encounter several sections of deadfall that I distinctly remembered crossing on the way in. Some could be navigated using the reverse of the path used on the approach but others required a completely different method as the forms encountered on the return presented new problems yet to be solved. And so, I continued my intently focused dancing.

And once back at camp, I asked myself, was it worth it? My answer came quickly. Yes, it was! And, I had Roy to thank. Though I have my list of mountain projects, Horseshoe Lake wasn’t on it. It had been on Roy’s for several years and I was merely the willing partner in the right place at the right time. He had attempted it a couple years earlier and his partner bagged out. I was glad that I had been able to help him make it happen. It is what we do for friends.

While we completed our journey without any serious injury, we discovered our legs freely bleeding from all the scrapes. I retrieved my first aid kit and broke out the Neosporin and Band-Aids. Given our cut-up shins, I rated the route a 2.5 on the fun scale at the time. I laughed. Was there such a thing as 2.5? That was cutting it fine I thought. I had been in far worse situations so it most definitely did not rate a 3.

Now, several days later, at home and having processed my photos I am wistfully romancing the place, the journey, and my memory of it. I have revised my score. No, it is not a 2.5. It was better than that. I now deem it ‘Type 2 Fun.’

Why did I back off from my earlier and harsher evaluation? Because now I already want to return. And that is a key part of the definition of ‘Type 2 Fun.’ You might be having a miserable time during all or parts of the experience but in retrospect, it does not seem so bad. With this passage of time, I find the magic of the hike and the lake now enhanced in my consciousness and the prospect of a return very compelling while the suffering parts of the terrain have now slowly receded in my memory, becoming more of a story than a reality.

I later reflected on the contrast between the fierce wildness of the terrain that led to Horseshoe Lake, a robust natural orchestra of twisted forms, with surfaces both hard and soft, and yet the subtle beauty of each plant, tree, and boulder that seemed to so zealously guard access to the pristine waters above. The rough, unruly, enchanted gardens arrayed before us were truly the gates to an alpine heaven.

PS: Here are links to two of the spherical panoramas I took on this hike. I find the images mesmerizing and I think you will too. They are available for viewing at 360Cities.net via the links below. For the most immersive experience, click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to savor the views.

Treasure Island, Horseshoe Lake, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/treasure-island-horseshoe-lake-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa

Mount Stuart, Horseshoe Lake Overlook, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/mount-stuart-horseshoe-lake-overlook-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa