Trail Abandoned

They’re not often recommended. In fact, they’re often discouraged. It may be the small sign at the beginning, or preemptive statements on hiking information sites, that is when there is any mention at all. But some alpine aficionados find those cautions an intriguing alert to a tempting route they cannot resist. And, they seek them out.

The Teneriffe Falls page on WTA.org cautions hikers, “You may see people continuing up past the overlook of the falls on a boot path. This is a social trail that hikers have created, essentially making a straight, very steep shot to the summit of Mount Teneriffe. This is not an official trail, and hiker use will lead to erosion concerns. Please refrain from using this trail.” But that does little to stop those adventurous souls who wish to test their mettle, route-finding skills, and mountain stamina by taking the hard way up. I call it the ‘Mailbox Effect.’ But we’ll get back to that.

Other times, you’ll find nothing but a pile of scattered tree debris and brush at the entrance of what appears to be a trail. But the message is the same. Leave it be, do not tread. Most times, those in the know would prefer not to even speak of them. However, if you hike long enough, you will eventually discover them, often through some obscure blog post or secrets clandestinely shared by friends. You will hear them referred to as ad hoc trails, unmaintained trails, abandoned trails, climbers’ trails, boot paths, and such. The differences can be subtle, but what they have in common is that they are less travelled, and none are maintained. That means that over time, they revert to the wild.

Often, they are simply boot paths made by climbers, the approach to a given peak. And many of these receive little beta outside of conversations between climbers. That excludes most hikers. One that I discovered had no obvious trail from a pull-off by the road, so we just plunged in, traversing a slope littered with rocks and small brush. We soon stopped as I examined my pre-mapped GAIA route on my cell phone. Already off track right from the start, we revised our route to 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 rock 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.

Once past the rock slides, the trail shot up with a purpose, steep and loose in sections punctuated with tree roots and rocky steps. Hard hiking in those sections. With 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 was a form of reverence to thoughtfully touch them.

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. We had it all to ourselves as we saw no one else that day. It was a curious and satisfying accomplishment because it wasn’t that many miles away from some of the most popular larch hikes in the state, the ones with legions of fall ‘larch march’ hikers seeking the golden hues of the season.

Some abandoned routes were the first hiking trails, the ones that preceded the new, improved trails, like more recent sections of the Pacific Crest Trail. You may have heard of the Commonwealth Creek Trail, or perhaps not. This hidden treasure starts at Snoqualmie Pass and knocks almost a mile off the PCT route to the Kendall Katwalk. Yes, it's steeper and muddier with two creek substantial crossings, and while it is less known and less travelled, it remains wilder and more compelling to those who use it. Trails like the CCT drift into the mists of memory over time, and the only maintenance that they ever receive is the ad hoc, occasional, freelance, improvisational clearing of deadfall and other obstructions from those who use them.

The hike to Marten Lake is an interesting tale of two trails. It is what I call a Jekyll and Hyde route. The first section is on an old roadbed that follows the Taylor River. The path is wide enough to walk side by side and converse, to the accompaniment of cascading water, letting the cares of the world fall away. The gradient is easy, gaining approximately 600 feet in a distance of roughly three miles. Then everything changes. The strenuous trail to Marten Lake is not maintained. If it were, like the improved trail with cribbed steps to Lake Serene, the pristine lake would soon be overrun with hikers. This is different; to reach the pristine lake, one must struggle, persevere, and sweat.

The so-called trail to the lake is a semi-distinct meandering path. You are best served if you stop frequently to parse out the best way up, because the direction is up, steeply up. The terrain is challenging in places, steep, gnarly sections with a plethora of tree roots, rocks, deadfall, and muddy spots. The tendency will be to look down for the next secure boot placement, and you must, but the best approach is to pause frequently to look up and around. The path that looks most traveled is usually correct.

We encountered several gigantic deadfalls that we had to shimmy over. And, large boulders. The trail often presented an indistinct puzzle that frequently required deft gymnastic moves to surmount what seemed to be a never-ending cluster of obstacles. Some scrambling required. And, I thought the trail to Rachel Lake was challenging. Compared to this, it is nothing. The convoluted descent requires commensurate attention and balance as well, solving the puzzle in reverse. Oh, you may want to bring poles. While mine got hung up in the organic stuff from time to time, I found them invaluable on the steep trail.

While there are occasional views of the tumbling waters of Marten Creek, you will mostly be focused on the dense forested trail that hosts some truly gigantic old trees. This is a truly wild place. Yet, sublimely beautiful with the contrast of soft woodland decay, verdant mosses, wild mushrooms, and the arrival of tiny spring wildflowers. While the reward at the lake is the big view, the gifts of the trail are the many varied forms and textures of the mysterious woodland, slowly revealed step by step as the soft light of morning slowly brightens.

While most of these routes range from not well widely known to totally obscure, a few are wildly popular. Probably the most famous of such unmaintained trails is the old trail up Mailbox Peak. Mailbox Peak is now mobbed with hikers who want that selfie at the summit. It has become a rite of passage for many hikers and mountaineers. I had hiked Mailbox Peak on three occasions in the years before it exploded in popularity and then decided I was done. What is it about Mailbox, I asked myself.

For one, the old trail was a gnarly, incredibly steep, and somewhat featureless ascent through a dark, moist, densely wooded, root-ridden, improvised, and eroded boot path where it was all too easy to get lost, and we once did. Occasional trees sported small white sheet metal diamonds as the only trail markers. They were few, and you had to look up to see them, no easy task when most of your concentration was focused down, examining the terrain underfoot, figuring out your next best step to keep moving relentlessly up the dirty incline.

After a point, it all looked the same, an enigma of a hike, and once you got off trail, it took a while for your mental lightbulb to flick on. It was usually well after your errant turn, somewhere indistinguishable, and then you were left to question when and where you went wrong. You felt stupid, sheepish, and with way less of your trailblazing confidence. You could hardly admit that to your companion, if you had one, much less to yourself, so you pretended you had it covered. You stood there trying to puzzle it out, working backwards in increments, and once successful, left wondering how you could have blundered so. And then you resumed, continuing up the torturous so-called trail. It could be called a suffer fest. And, sometimes there is a value found in suffering, bragging rights. Most serious mountaineers wear their suffer fest badges proudly.

There was nothing picturesque about the terrain until you emerged onto the trail connector that merged with the new ’improved’ trail. Now out of the woods, you ascended a broad boulder field, a veritable granite staircase as the trail wound up a vast slope of fractured rock. I always found that section magnificent, my favorite part of the hike. Yes, not counting the mailbox at the summit. But unfortunately, the granite steps did not continue to the top. They abruptly ended, and the last push was up an exposed dirt and rock ravine with little redeeming qualities other than it led to the small summit pyramid, which featured a classic old-school metal mailbox. And, once you were there, the feeling was somewhat euphoric. You simply could not help yourself. You had arrived at the much-storied mailbox atop Mailbox Peak. The hike had already been memorably difficult, taxing in ways you had not previously imagined.

And yet, here you were, sometimes by yourself. The sturdy mailbox sat perched on a stout metal pole embedded in a small stone and mortar monument. Festooned with stickers, the colorful mailbox stood about chest high and beckoned. You felt like a child again, ready and eager to open the box and discover the mystery within. As if driven by a primal instinct, you reached out and pulled down the lid to peer inside. And then rummaging through the clutter, in a voyage of discovery, curiously examining the various articles strewn carelessly in the small interior. You found it a veritable treasure box.

And, if you were lucky, some kind soul had left a small bottle of whiskey, and as you quaffed the divine liquid, you felt the euphoria of the ephemeral moment, as you, godlike, became part of a time-honored ritual, about to make your own small contribution. Even a small outdoor product sticker pasted on the outside would be good enough. You may have wished that you had brought something more substantial, but you just did not know and wanted to travel light. It was not just the magic of the mailbox as an icon; it was also the mystery of what was inside. Once you understood the enigmatic box, you would do better next time. Now committed, you knew there would be a next time. The immediate and important thing was to indicate your presence. This was completely different from simply unfurling and signing a paper summit register. It was so much more joyously simple, quirky, and satisfying. That was the essence of the magic moment. And, you were now a part of it. It was so fucking cool!

And then you looked up, and if the sky was clear, you spun around and savored the commanding view of the nearby peaks. Mount Rainier would stand proud to the south. While arguably not nearly as dramatic as the spiky granite spires of the North Cascades, these peaks were yours today, and they were enough, more than enough. And as you were joined by upcoming hikers, you welcomed them, friendly new acquaintances, now members of the unspoken tribe. The atmosphere was convivial and celebratory, sharing stories of the varied hikes that all had once loved. What could have been better? Such was the magnetism of the mailbox summit. You would remember it long after your presence had become a mere whisper in the wind.

The Mailbox Peak backstory scrolls back to July 4, 1960, when a Seattle letter carrier named Carl Heine hauled the first mailbox to the summit. He intended it to serve as a summit register for teenagers at Valley Camp, where he was the spare-time head camp director. He thought to encourage them up the arduous trail to sign the register inside. The mailbox was brilliant, perhaps even more so than Carl had imagined. In that brief sliver of time, as one approached the mailbox, there was a return to childhood where the magic of discovery was so palpable.

Over the years, the ascent gained popularity due to the novelty of the summit mailbox as a place to leave and pick up mail and other small treasures. And, in the process, the local search and rescue was kept progressively busier as more hikers suffered mishaps or got lost on the rugged trail. In 2012, DNR planned a new trail to make the summit more accessible and thus reduce the number of rescues. The new trail, completed in 2014, reduced the angle of ascent from up to 60 degrees to a more doable 25 degrees, but still a workout with 4,000 feet of elevation gain. And yet hikers still flocked to the old trail. Why? It is a grisly affair all the way to the breakout, where the two trails merge below the boulder field. These committed hikers do it because it is not fun, because it is a frustrating and strenuous pain in the butt, and like anything exceedingly difficult, an achievement of passage, and a good story to tell.

Once you arrived at the top, you knew others would follow. You would later hear of the hardy firefighters who hauled a cast-iron fire hydrant to the summit, and the carefree crew who struggled up with a fiberglass river kayak for their wacky summit photo. Anyone might ask, why? The answer was obvious. To become part of the story, the legend. If for one moment in time, they could record themselves as heroes in a silly quest of their own invention and make their own story. It seemed so inexplicably worth it. Others showed up clad in dinosaur costumes, each party putting their creative stamp on the place. More costumes would follow. To the best of my knowledge, no weddings have yet taken place, but what do I know? Even though it would be a nightmare to cater, never say never.

Again, we can further probe for what inspires such behavior. It seems that we collectively crave to create a sense of the ridiculous to celebrate our otherwise normal pedestrian lives. Sometime during the pandemic, local interest in hiking surged, and Mailbox has since become exponentially more popular, a roaring success, and finally achieved iconic status! No small accomplishment!

Many others have been inspired by the wackiness, most notably a group of young men who, seeking comfortable seating, they said, decided to carry a living room couch, sedan chair style, with wood handles, to the summit of Cashmere Mountain, one of the highest peaks in the Leavenworth area, only a bit lower than the legendary Mount Stuart, Colchuck, and Dragontail Peaks. It was sophomoric and audacious to attempt, and no small feat to accomplish. Surprisingly, they nearly made it, only falling scantly short of the summit, finally thwarted by the ever-steepening granite. Of course, they made a YouTube video of their quest. It is a youthful, charming, and compelling Don Quixote story that records their naïve adventure. Anyone who has been seduced by the magnetism of Mailbox Peak would immediately understand their motivation, the why of it, the absurdity of their quest, and be heartily fist-pumping and cheering them on. The ubiquity of present-day social media has provided a highly effective platform with which to spread the joy. And many have tuned in and enthusiastically embraced it. Off the wall, risky exploits? Bring ‘em on! And, let’s make a video! The Cashmere Coach adventure suggests that there may be more mailboxes in the offing. Imagine if that were to happen. I can just hear the local cadre of ‘leave no trace cairn kickers’ now.

But fortunately, most of these rugged trails less traveled, have much smaller stories and sometimes almost none at all. And that’s because those who travel on and treasure them don’t want them to become more known, and God forbid, popular with the hoi polloi. Since they have no mailbox or other silly icon with which to take a selfie, their other attributes would likely hold little interest for the Instagram crowd. What they do provide is the magic of discovery and the remote, breathtaking natural beauty of places rarely visited. And that, for many of us, is absolutely golden!