Just the Way It Is

Every fall, in the Pacific Northwest, from late September through early October, the alpine hills and the social media posts are alive with a type of group obsessiveness that we know as ‘Larch Madness.’ Hikers flock in droves to the same best-known places. The annual mania now attracts theme park worthy crowds to areas that can ill afford the extra footsteps and unknowing wilderness abuse from many preoccupied hikers who feel they must be part of it all. Many are not explorers but followers who insatiably key in on what they notice posted on the Washington Hikers and Climbers Facebook page, presumably their favorite resource for outdoor beta.

Yes, I do understand the fascination with the iridescent golden needles that briefly set the alpine hills afire with an ethereal glow as a prelude to winter. To hike among the alpine larches before they drop their soft needles is to briefly commune with the magic of the natural world in a way that seems to surpass all the glories of other seasons. And, while I am annoyed by the persistent media clamor and the crowded places, I still venture forth on my own larch quests.

As I drove up Highway 20 past Marblemount, Newhalem, and then Ross Lake, the peaks of the North Cascades loomed even larger. Even on a Sunday in early October, I saw few cars on the road. As I approached Washington Pass, I noted no cars parked along the shoulder as I passed the turnoff to the Easy Pass Trailhead. Contrary to its name, Easy Pass is a difficult hike and I was not surprised by the lack of cars. So far so good I thought. Some miles later I noted a long stream of cars parked along both sides of the road. I slowed as I observed hikers milling about, talking, and hefting day packs.

Approaching the west side of the Rainy Pass Trailhead, I noted even more activity near the roads to the trailhead parking lots. And, a legion of parked cars also continued down the east side as well. I exhaled as I processed the enormity of it all. I estimated roughly 500 cars overflowing from the parking areas for Heather-Maple Pass and Cutthroat Pass, two of the most renowned larch hikes in the North Cascades. Having hiked the Heather-Maple Pass loop in early October, on two prior occasions, I knew the significant charm of the place. Both times I had arrived early on a weekday and found a parking spot close to the trail. As we hiked past the golden larches before Heather Pass we were mostly alone, with few others on the trail. As I observed the roadside masses gathered now, I doubted that we would ever experience those conditions again.

The challenge these days is to hike among the golden larches while avoiding the conga lines on the preeminent crowd magnets, Heather-Maple Pass, Cutthroat Pass, Lake Ingalls, Blue Lake, and the Enchantments. So, what to do? As a starting point, I searched and sifted through alternative trip reports on Washington Trails and the books and maps in my alpine-focused library. Having identified several alternate locations. I categorized their larch colonization and visual potential along with the logistical challenges. Some hikes have long and arduous approach roads that require a high clearance vehicle and driving nerves of steel. Some require off-trail navigation over rough, brushy, and boulder-strewn terrain. All require physical stamina as the trees live in the subalpine zone at high elevations on the rocky slopes of cirques and shoulders below towering granite peaks. We would most likely be ascending steep trails in our quest to walk among the magic trees.

I found what I thought to be a hidden gem, a far less traveled place, and suggested it to Peter, my designated hiking companion. I emailed a link to a two-year-old trip report for a climber’s trail that I had stumbled onto on Washington Trails. There was no hike listed with that name on the website. The trip report was an outlier, simply posted with a name given to it by the person who wrote it. I found it compelling and was not surprised that it also captured the imagination of my friend. The writer did not mince words about the unmaintained trail and the obstacles. Though it would be challenging, the dramatic photos sealed the deal. They demonstrated the presence of substantial groves of the remote and coveted trees.

Driving to the trailhead, I felt both a sense of apprehension and excitement that flip-flopped back and forth as we sped by rugged peaks that looked indifferently down at our tiny car. Once there, we were the first and only ones to park, an auspicious beginning. We felt the early morning chill as we layered up and shouldered our packs under steel gray skies. I set my GAIA GPS tracking app to record. There was no obvious trail from the parking area and so we plunged in, traversing a slope littered with rocks and small brush. We soon stopped and I examined the red map arrow on my cell phone. Already off track, right from the start, we turned our course to connect with what the map app suggested as the right way forward. Onward.

That happened frequently in the lower sections of the approach as we navigated through brush, densely packed trees, and clambered across corrugated rock and dirt ravines, and a series of sloping boulder fields. Our journey was a master class in terrain observation and route finding, looking for, and hiking between small rocks cairns left by previous travelers. Of course, the various cairns might not necessarily mark the best route.

They could be deceptive, simply indicating that someone, presumably climbers, had been in that place before and thought to stack a small pile of rocks on a large boulder to help others, and themselves on their return. Those travelers might be off the route as well. But without a GPS who could tell? There were many and we mostly trusted them for general direction. I thought of naming the place ’Hall of the Mountain Cairns.’ Just an inspiration of the moment. None of the cairns exhibited any artistic rock stacking intent and as such the small piles sometimes presented obscure and questionable messages.

“Is that a cairn or just a rock, or some rocks, that fell onto that boulder?”

The little rock piles were not enough. So, we combined technologies, both Stone Age and Space Age, using both rock cairns and satellite maps to guide us in our sometimes meandering, and at times maddening path. After a mile of some of the slowest hiking I had ever done, we exited the last of the lower boulder fields and found a rough, but distinct, trail. I gazed in wonder, “Who made this trail?” I would only later learn that the trail had once been longer and more visible but many sections had been covered by the scattered debris of massive rock slides, the densely tumbled boulders that we had slowly, carefully hiked across. I found the situation interesting to ponder. Nothing is static in the mountains. Everything is in a continuous state of transition. More than you might imagine.

Now that the path was more visible, our spirits lifted. The weather episodically cleared to present ephemeral glimpses of blue sky and the promise of warmth ahead. Shortly after, the trail shot up with a purpose, steep and loose sections punctuated with tree roots and rocky steps. Hard hiking in those sections. A lot of stop-and-go as we found our way. After some time, the incline finally backed off and we followed a circuitous path through golden groves of larches, often feeling their soft needles as we passed. I felt it a form of reverence to thoughtfully touch them.

We soon arrived at the small alpine tarn that I had envisioned as a potential reflecting pool for the golden trees that massed nearby. My vision was not to be. The tarn’s water had long since evaporated with the scorching heat of summer, leaving only a forlorn and empty bowl of gray rocks and weathered deadfall. There would be no shimmering liquid reflections of golden larches today. I felt the proverbial wind leave my sails as the gray clouds obscured the faint blue gaps in the sky. We stopped, sat on a flat boulder, snacked, pondered our situation, and waited for the skies to clear. I voiced the quintessential PNW question, “Do you think it will burn off? My hiking companion, Peter, replied, “I think so.” Not a convincing answer.

Even though we hiked for the joy of it, I had photographic ambitions and packed my tripod and heavier camera gear to create spherical panoramic images. The extra weight that I bore was always justified by the promise of sensational images ahead. And, without that, what was the purpose of the extra effort? It was always a gamble, mostly with the mercurial weather of the Pacific Northwest. As I felt my spirits sink under the shroud of the oppressive gray skies, an unseen hand of doubt tugged at me. “Should we just bag it?” I asked. Fortunately, Peter was game to continue. His unwavering resolve and the sudden appearance of a partially blue sky reenergized me. It was as if the sky gods had listened and decided to encourage us forward. Yes! We shouldered our packs.

The rough climber’s trail steepened once again and we continued, mindful of every foot placement. Even though I took and used my hiking poles, I found them both equally helpful and a hindrance depending on the situation. So, a draw. On a positive note, unlike thrashing through heavy brush, the steep trail was often open, affording sensational views as we paused to catch our breath, look back, and scan our surroundings. The larches were now prolific, artistically interspersed along the boulder-strewn slopes. The place just radiated pure magic. It seemed to me the finest larch hike that I had yet experienced.

And then, we arrived at our destination, a high mountain pass that gazed over another larch-filled alpine cirque just beyond. I turned off my electronic GPS tracking device, took off my pack, and scouted the area, wandering back and forth, visualizing, and weighing the photographic possibilities. And once I found the right vantage point, I set up my tripod. Now in my happy place, my creative zone, I started shooting. I eventually took images for three panoramas, two at different locations on each side of the pass and one further down on the return trail that crossed an intimate larch grove near the lonely empty tarn. Once satisfied, I repacked my photo gear. It would not do to carry a tripod and camera over a boulder field with often tippy rocks.

Despite the inconsistent weather, it had been a very good day. Reluctant to leave, we turned to descend the steep and often loose trail and then traverse the sometimes treacherous boulders back to the trailhead, all without injury. Tired now, we turned our attention once again to finding cairns. Vast boulder fields stretched before us, all without an obvious path, often terminating at a brushy grove of conifers. Even after a successful traverse, our next steps were usually hidden from sight. We would have to puzzle our way forward again as we thrashed through the dense woods.

So, it was no surprise that we managed to get off route on our return as well. We dutifully corrected our path each time by stopping and referencing my electronic device, the plan B tool. I was so glad to have it. I could not imagine attempting this hike in prior years without it. And even with it, our progress was slow.

With only 100 yards remaining we heard voices and soon encountered two young women playfully walking their dogs, the only hikers we had seen all day. I reflected that while the larch-seeking mobs had congregated at the better-known hikes, we had the joy of savoring this obscure and special place alone. We both felt no small amount of satisfaction in that.

Days before we embarked on our larch quest, Peter told his son-in-law Brian about our plans. Since Brian was an accomplished climber and familiar with the place, I expected to receive some valuable information. That didn't happen. He simply said, “There are better trails.” Not the kind of beta I had expected. Not very helpful at all. After returning to the trailhead, I joked with Peter about Brian’s earlier statement. Peter turned toward me, smiled, and replied. “He got it exactly right.” We both laughed.

As difficult as the hike was, I loved it and am already planning to return next year with Peter and another close friend. Even though I rarely repeat hikes these days, I found it an exceptional place, a standout that deserves a return visit. If you are wondering if I will be posting about it on the Washington Hikers and Climbers Facebook page, bragging about our accomplishment and the astounding beauty of the place, the answer is an unequivocal “NO.”

Will I write an online trip report for the Washington Trails Association like I usually do? Nope. Not going to happen. This environment would not suffer novices lightly. I shudder to imagine how many would get lost and quite possibly injured. Not a comforting thought, and it would not be half as enjoyable with so many others. It is best that they do not know.

You see, I like it just the way it is, remote, rough, challenging, and pristine. There are some places that are worth keeping under the radar. And, this is most emphatically one of them.