August 24, 2020.

5.3 mi. | 1880′ ele. gain | 7:30 hr.

Photo album

The stats for this entire loop are misleading. Five and a half miles with less than two thousand feet of elevation gain? We should have been able to knock that out in no time. But I would soon learn of the obstacles in our path to a quick and easy finish.

We awoke to a foreboding gloom. Wildfire smoke filled the air and our lungs. It was hard to breathe while eating breakfast; I was not looking forward to charging uphill with a heavy pack with that air quality. But, we had no choice.

I watched as the red sun rose over the craggy ridge to the east. A pika scrambled around the rocks, squeaking arbitrarily as it hurried about its business. We packed up camp and walked along the user trail alongside the lake. At the lake’s inlet, the trail disappeared. I followed the rough path in my notes, hopping over little streamlets and crashing through brush. We ended up in a broad bowl beneath steep ridges. The terrain was a combination of running water, bare rock and vegetation. The skies above sprinkled down rain, threatening to unleash torrents at any moment. In light of that, we stuck to the vegetation instead of wet, slippery rock.

Fortunately, big rains never came. We slowly made progress to the upper lakes basin. I mistakenly took a detour up to a pile of rocks that we ended up having to downclimb. But, there was an unexpected benefit: more goats. We would not have seen them had we stayed on course. At least, that’s how I justified my navigation error!

With the wind picking up, smoke filling the air and mysterious clouds overhead, I felt like we were on a doomed mission. Something was bound to happen. At the lakes basin, we found a quiet spot to have a snack and assess our route up. Where should we go? I looked around and nothing looked good. I checked the GPS points on my phone and those just left me more confused. We have to go up there? I thought. It looked so steep and loose.

It occurred to me that all the people we passed on this loop were traveling in the opposite direction. The reason: this awful pass. It looked far easier and more straightforward from the other direction. It didn’t matter now, since we weren’t going to backtrack the route that took us 3 days of walking.

And then, the real challenges began

I led us up into the first gully that led to the ridge. I asked LeeAnn to stay out of my fall line because of loose rock. It was very difficult to make any progress without sending rocks hurtling down below my feet. My heavy and bulky pack made it difficult to move upward, and breathing heavy smoke didn’t help, either. Instead of focusing on all the things that I hated in that present moment, I kept looking up and searching for markers of progress. Little patches of colorful flowers served as intermediate goals.

Eventually, we abandoned the gully for somewhat more solid terrain on the left side. We clambered over large, stable boulders interspersed with patches of loose soil. It was just as fun as it sounds.

At last, I reached the ridge. Bright, yellow blooms welcomed me to the next chapter of the route-finding debacle. Standing atop a jagged ridge, it was impossible to tell how far we could get without reaching an impassable cliff. We paused here again to check in with each other, get some calories down, and make a plan.

For what felt like an eternity, our travels looked like this: walk along the ridge, reach a barrier, downclimb, traverse scree, bail back up to the ridge, repeat. It was an impossible choice: the rocks on the ridge were much more solid but often led to dead-ends, and the terrain below the ridge was extremely loose, cluttered and difficult to walk on. Every choice was the wrong choice. I regretted coming up too soon.

Nonetheless, we had to make it to Patterson Peak’s summit in order to cross into the Fourth of July Basin and complete the loop. Ultimately we did, but not without an inordinate amount of Type 2 Fun. At this point I wondered if LeeAnn would ever want to go hiking with me again.

The wind blew hard on top of the peak, and we both wanted to get the heck out of there. No time for celebrations, treats and rest, we had to descend. Every way down looked equally heinous. I did a double-take upon looking at the pre-recorded GPS points. “There’s no way we can follow that route!” I thought. Based on what we had just done, I had no intention of trying to follow another impossible ridge. “We’re going down,” I said.

The skies threatened to dump rain again. We moved as quickly as we could atop loose talus and scree. The temperature dropped and the wind picked up. I put on long john bottoms for warmth and gaiters to keep the rocks out of my shoes. Even with the extra protection, I had to dump them out a few times on the way down.

I threw myself down at the un-named lake that indicated we’d reached the trail again. At last! No more thinking, no more wondering, no more agony. We can mindlessly put one foot in front of the other again! With our shoes and packs off, we laid on top of a large boulder to let the stress of the day melt off. The mental energy required to navigate difficult terrain cannot be understated.

My phone battery was nearly dead and would not take a charge from my battery pack, so I stowed it away and didn’t take any more pictures. We chatted the whole way back, enjoying the easy walking. At the trailhead I snapped one last picture and my phone died…for good. Great, I thought, no more pictures for the rest of the trip. No more podcasts or navigation apps or anything. This happened to me on another roadtrip. Such bad luck.

Back at the car, we pulled out cold bubbly water and crunchy snacks to celebrate the completion of the first leg of our journey. Tomorrow, we decided, we’d have to head into town to deal with the phone. Plans always change on trips like these, and between the two of us, I knew we’d figure something out.

Lessons learned

Although I meticulously planned out my food for the 4-day trip, I vastly overestimated how much I would eat. I came back out of the woods with a lot of extra weight that I didn’t need to carry. The bear canister itself took up most of the inside of my pack, too, so I think in the future I’ll only carry one if I absolutely need to.

The solar charger I carried didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, but that was mostly because my phone wasn’t charging well. I should have used it only to charge the battery pack, a strategy I’d employ later on this trip.

I was baffled by how warm it stayed at night. I’m a cold sleeper, so I brought a warm bag, but I never really needed to zip it up. It doesn’t take up that much more space than a lighter bag, so I’m not sure I would have packed differently. I also never needed the hat and gloves I brought, but again I don’t think I would have felt better leaving them behind.

Despite our struggles on Day 4, I don’t think I would have planned the trip any other way. Before leaving home, I gathered just enough information to allow me to navigate the route. I wanted to have just enough mystery to allow me to challenge my skills in a new-to-me area. I never felt like we were in a perilous situation; being uncomfortable, working hard, getting frustrated and solving problems are all essential parts to any adventure (in my humble opinion. I do not like having everything sorted out for me.

August 23, 2020.

8.4 mi. | 2340′ ele. gain | 7:45 hr.

Photo album

Today’s objective: to visit as many lakes as we could to close the gap between our camp and the trailhead, so that the routefinding on day 4 could be minimized as much as possible. I knew we’d be tired from the previous day’s efforts, so I wasn’t too concerned about making crazy miles. I was excited to see the Boulder Chain Lakes and have several opportunities to get in the water and swim.

After a nice breakfast of dehydrated eggs and veggies, we left our glorious camp and hiked a boring 2.5 miles to the start of the Boulder Chain Lakes. Much of the trail was outside the wilderness and open to all kinds of uses. A parade of backpackers, horsepackers and dirt bike riders passed us, all traveling in the opposite direction. All men, too. It was a weird start to the day.

Once in the wilderness, we paused to admire each of the lakes. They were all beautiful, and all different. Many of the lakes had at least one group of campers staying there. We noticed how often the sites were very large and located right off the trail, not our style. Hoping to find a quiet spot away from people to enjoy our lunch break, we continued to Hourglass Lake before taking a real rest.

There we dropped our packs and changed into swimsuits. With overcast, breezy conditions, we didn’t stay in the water for very long. It was enough time to appreciate the clear water, the gnarled pine trees and the craggy peaks. Every step of the walk through the Boulder Chain was postcard-perfect. I could have spent days back there, finding all the best campsites and scrambling up to the highpoints on each ridgeline. All of the peaks in the area are over 10,000 feet tall and nearly all of them are nameless. But the lack of a name doesn’t make them any less impressive or scramble-worthy, as I would soon find out.

On the next leg of the journey, we walked past several more lakes, each one more impressive than the last. Hummock, Scoop, Headwall. As we climbed up and out of the basin, additional lakes came into view. Hidden, Lonesome. It was an extraordinary place. Among the large talus slopes, we heard the familiar “meep!” of pika. Hardy wildflowers sprouted up from between the boulders, too. I could place some of them into categories: asters, saxifrage, buckwheat, but could not identify them any more accurately than that. They were all delicate and pretty; a stark contrast between the inhospitable terrain we were in.

We climbed up the steep, rocky headwall to Windy Devil Pass. The trail was remarkably well-built. I questioned whether “Windy” was pronounced WIN-DEE or WINE-DEE, since either pronunciation would make sense. We scaled the switchbacks easily and found ourselves on the top of the pass in no time. I’d been eyeing a possible highpoint scramble from the pass. To our left, less than a quarter mile away, was point 10,296. It wasn’t much, but it was something. We carried our water bottles and fanny packs and headed up the jumbled rocks to the top.

As I crested the summit of the no-name peak, I was awestruck. Below me, I could see the entire Boulder Chain. The green-blue waters rippled and sparkled in the breeze. All around us, rugged ridgelines hemmed us in. I wanted to sit there for hours. We pulled out some celebratory snacks and sat, quietly, letting the views imprint in our memories. I sat near my favorite flowers, delicate yellow buckwheat specked with red. Its coloration told me that summer was coming to an end, and the flowers were preparing to go dormant for the long, hard winter.

From our perch, we returned to the saddle and loaded up for the remainder of the day’s travels. We descended from the pass along the trail to an unnamed lake in order to begin the off-trail portion of the loop. I thought that, since so many people hiked the loop, we’d be able to follow a use path for most of the way. But, I didn’t want to count on that. Fortunately, the expansive alpine terrain made it pretty easy to see what was ahead. Without any sign of a footpath from the lake, we dropped straight down the hillside towards the next two lakes.

With names like Scree and Shallow Lakes, I assumed these would not make nice places to camp, so I had my mind set on blowing past them and continuing to the next one. But when we arrived at Shallow Lake, I questioned my decision. It was gorgeous. Thick, green vegetation grew right up to the lakeshore on one side; gray boulders tumbled into the lake on the other. And in the distance, Merriam Peak and the Serrate Ridge shot straight up into the smoky skies. This, too, could be a postcard image. Scree Lake was much the same, surrounded by flowers, trees and a gentle rock slope. It also appeared to see many fewer campers than the other lakes we’d passed. Oh well, we had some more time to kill today and I had a feeling that our last day would be a hard one. We pressed on.

The outlet of Scree Lake dropped sharply down a series of cliffs and waterfalls. Quiet Lake was only a quarter mile away, but 300 feet down. I really didn’t want to guess my way down these cliff faces, so I poked around in search of a trail. Happily, I found a path and we took it through the more complex, densely vegetated and vertical terrain between the two lakes.

Upon arriving at Quiet Lake, we skirted its western shores in search of a campsite. Much of the lakeshore was a jumble of exposed, treeless talus, with hardly a flat spot to be seen. Up ahead we saw a small crew of backpackers who’d already set up camp, We found a pocket of trees on a flattish plateau that we decided to call home. There was enough distance between us that we could hardly tell they were there (until they started a campfire, unbelievably, despite the fire restriction and smoke actively covering the region and good judgment).

We settled in just after 4:30 pm, so we had plenty of daylight to relax and enjoy our home for the evening. LeeAnn jumped in the lake again, I laid my Thermarest pad on a boulder and read my book. We both watched the pika running around on the rocks adjacent to our camp. They were so entertaining and cute!

After dinner, I poked around the rockpile in search of colorful lichen and flowers to photograph, but what I found was quite unexpected: wild raspberries! They were ripe and falling off their stems. I waved LeeAnn over to share in my discovery. This was a great after dinner activity; we slowly crept across the boulder field foraging for dessert. What a treat!

In the evening, the smoky skies produced another disappointing sunset. We retired to bed and tried not to roll off our mats as we slept on the hillside.

August 22, 2020.

9.9 mi | 3600′ ele. gain | 9:45 hr.

Photo album

This was the day we tackled Castle Peak. By the numbers, it was hardly that impressive as far as mountains go: 2700′ of elevation gain, albeit in under 2 miles one way.

We packed up camp and trekked back to the main Chamberlain Lakes basin, where we’d keep a look out for a way up the formidable south face of the peak. Along the way, I heard some rockfall and turned to look up at the cliffs above the creek. I knew what I was looking for, but wasn’t sure if I’d catch them in time. Ahh, there: mountain goats! A small group of very muscular goats walked in a line along the clifftop. We stopped to watch them until the last one disappeared into the trees. What a treat!

Castle Peak looked impossible from our hike in the previous day, but there had to be a breach in the wall. We stashed our packs in a cluster of trees between the lakes and the base of the mountain. A rock gully filled with colorful flowers traveled from our hiding spot towards the hillside, so we decided to follow this towards our goal.

The delightful little gully led us right to some steeper climbing; we’d found the start of the route. Boulders gave way to slabby climbing, ledges and more boulders. Eventually the gully became a little too slick and vertical for our liking, so we stepped right on to some gravel-covered slabs. It was probably safer but it didn’t feel much better, so we moved through this section as quickly as we could. Above that, we had thousands of feet of boulder-hopping to get to the ridge.

I fought to breathe in the high-altitude air that was also filled with smoke. At one point, I started counting my steps to give myself periodic breaks. It helped me zone out and move a little more efficiently, as well as provide me some opportunities to stop and enjoy the flowers that seemed to burst out from behind each rockpile.

Progress was slow, but we were moving in the right direction. Until we weren’t.

Prior to the trip, I dropped some pins on my mapping app based on a GPS track I’d found online, hoping to give me some guidance along the route. When the gully started breaking up and going in several different directions, my gut told me to go one way while my mapping app told me to go another. I tried to resolve the differences in my head, then chose to try and follow where the pin point was telling me to go. I just assumed there was a reason to cut way left, otherwise why would the track go that way? Me not seeing the route make sense just means I was missing something. I trusted my research.

I asked LeeAnn to sit tight as I investigated the possibilities. After some scrambling around, I decided it was a no-go and retreated to my lower position. That lost us some time and some energy; I should have trusted my instinct.

From that point, we went where my eyes led me. Up and slightly left, around a blocky feature, then off to the right out of the gully. I found a handful of cairns, none of which you could see from the others (useless) but at least that told me someone had been there before!

“We’re less than a Pilot Butte from the top!” I yelled down to LeeAnn. It was a very sloggy mountain, so I tried to keep team morale up a bit.

Once we reached the ridge, it was easy rock-hopping across to the west summit. On our way there, we came across a team of three women who were also seeking the top of Castle Peak. They stumbled across the summit register right after seeing us, which I thought was quite curious. The actual summit was just a couple bumps over, to the east, but the register was here. When I scouted the traverse to the true summit, I understood why. It would take some real care and routefinding to make it there in one piece. I didn’t have the time or energy for that, so I returned to the mini celebration and dug into my snack bag.

Peanut butter cup brownie on a Pringle, oh heck yeah.

The descent was agonizingly slow and methodical as we clambered over all that loose rock again. We wanted to avoid the ball-bearing slab we ascended near the bottom, so I kept my eyes open for alternatives. Before reaching that awful section, I cut right onto the partly treed open slopes. Much to my surprise, I came across a climber’s trail and we took that basically all the way back to our backpacks.

We almost immediately retreated to the lake shore and jumped in the lake. It was the most refreshing dip of my lifetime. It was three in the afternoon.

With 6 more miles to cover, I knew we had to rally. Along the remaining hike, we’d have to climb up and over the shoulder of Castle Peak, another 800′ of vertical or so. I was not looking forward to it, but I felt energized by the chilly lake water. We put our heavy packs back on and started walking.

Again, we crossed paths with a few other groups but everyone was heading in the other direction. Are we just walking at the right speed to miss every traveler heading our way? Or does no one do the loop this way? These are some of the thoughts that bounced in my head as we marched up the hill.

The trail was well-switchbacked until we neared the top of the climb, then it pointed straight uphill. It was a slap in the face.

I counted my steps, gasping for air every so often, until I crested the top. LeeAnn was there waiting for me.

On the other side, indescribable beauty awaited us. Pink rocks tumbled down from the adjacent high point. Another side of Castle Peak showed herself, jagged ridges and streaks of color so different from the south side. I dropped over the ridge with mouth agape, just trying to take it all in. The hazy smoke made it difficult to capture the imagery with my phone, so I put it away and just kept walking. We enjoyed these views through several long switchbacks before being deposited into the trees for the remainder of the hike into camp.

I’d planned on making it to Baker Lake to spend the night, since that was the first lake we’d pass. It felt like it was just so far away. The hike was a grind; I had some sore spots on my back that kept rubbing against my pack with each step. My feet were achy enough that I stopped to switch into Crocs. I let LeeAnn go ahead and I walked at my own slow pace. My body hates carrying this much weight.

At the junction with Baker Lake Trail, I lamented that I’d stop at the very first campsite we found so I didn’t have to take another step. On the way in, we passed some cabin remains with a flat spot and a fire ring just behind it. “We could camp here?” LeeAnn said with an obvious question mark inflection. I knew she wasn’t that interested. “Let’s just go to the lake and see what’s there.”

When we got to the lake, we could tell that while people did camp there, it was not heavily trafficked. We climbed over several downed trees, crawled underneath one (not easy with a big pack and tired legs) and stopped many times in despair. She offered to drop her pack and run ahead to try and find something. I stood by and sulked, just wanting to be done with it for the day.

Somehow, magically, LeeAnn had found the most incredible campsite. It had a flat area for a tent, a custom wooden bench, running water to filter, a huckleberry patch and a short trail to the lake. And just like the night before, no one else was around. Huzzah! We made it!

By the time we made it to camp, it was far too late and cool to want to go for a swim, which worked out perfectly. The lake was marshy and encircled by grasses and reeds. But it provided a spectacular view of Castle Peak and the surrounding crags, a picture-perfect place to spend the night.

For dinner, I poured boiling water over the chili I made and dehydrated at home. We topped it with fresh tomatoes, cheese and crushed Pringles. At our mansion of a site, we dined on chili, sipped on backcountry cocktails and reveled in the big day we just had. I hoped to sleep well that night.

August 21, 2020.

10.3 mi. | 2350′ ele. gain | 5:30 hr.

Photo album

I’d read several articles and blogs describing the White Clouds Loop and it’s numerous variations. There is no way to loop around this wild mountain range on established trails; any way you looked at it, the route would be an adventure. The only thing I knew I had to change about the general loop was to add in a summit of Castle Peak. There was no way I’d hike all the way around the damn thing and not climb it. So, I decided on a counter-clockwise loop that put us in position to climb on day two. That would leave the easy trail hiking for the beginning and the potentially more challenging off-trail part for the end. But, I thought, we’d be oriented to this new place and warmed up by then.

At the Fourth of July Trailhead, we signed in to the quaint hiking log and then started up the trail. The skies were gloomy, as wildfire smoke was blowing in from as far away as Southern California. We just couldn’t avoid smoke on this trip.

The short hike in to Fourth of July Lake gave us time to acclimate to the weight on our backs. My partner carried the tent and the camp kitchen; I carried 4 days of food in a bear canister. Since we both like to eat real food on the trail, it was a heavy load. But I’d been preparing all summer for this. My body does not naturally like to carry weight for distance; I much prefer light and long dayhikes over heavy and short overnights. However, this loop would not be enjoyable (or possible!) for me in a day, so I took on the challenge to try something a little different.

From there, the trail descended past Washington Lake to the edge of a long- north-south mountain ridge and then climbed back up the other side. I’d read about a scramble passage up and over the ridge, but decided we’d stick to a longer hike on trail to have a saner day 1. Along the trail, we spotted numerous colorful wildflowers, which made the journey that much more interesting. I recognized some familiar favorites like buckwheat, cats-ear and paintbrush, but several other flowers were new to me. We paused occasionally to ooh and aah over the colors and stunning landscape. We had the whole day to get the camp and we were in no rush.

The toughest stretch of the day lay straight ahead, as we had to climb up and over a pass to get into the Chamberlain Basin. The burned forest offered little protection from the heat of the sun. I let my partner scurry ahead as I slowly plodded one foot in front of the other, lungs starved from oxygen due to the altitude and smoke. I sang some songs in my head and used some mental trickery to help me get up to the top of the pass. Along the way I made friends with a little ground squirrel, who sat and posed for me. I kept reminding myself that it was all downhill from the pass.

When we reached 9800 feet, we stopped to look down into the gorgeous lake basin. Castle Peak stood like a beastly white monument on the other side. I’d seen so many pictures of this mountain during my research, but it was something else to see the real thing in front of my eyes. Truly a majestic peak, Castle Mountain dominates the landscape with its sharp angles, changing textures and contrasting color palette. Breathlessly, I tried to soak it all in. And I knew I’d picked a great place to explore for the next few days.

We ambled down the switchbacks that led to several lakes. The first one we passed had no name, but it looked like a great catcher-of-people. We held out as we walked by one more magnet lake that was sure to attract the weekend backpacker crowd, because we were in search of some solitude. Fortunately there were many other options for camping that would take us away from the small crowds that would sure to gather in this delightful alpine basin.

At camp

The lakes and creeks provided more than adequate camping opportunities; there were many disturbed sites. We chose a large, flat site on a small plateau that met our needs. After a brief dip in the lake, we set up camp and proceeded to unpack all the gear we’d need for the night. Then, there was just one more thing; huckleberries. Those things weren’t going to pick themselves! We wandered back down the trail with small containers and then found the fullest patch we could. We plopped our butts right in the middle of the patch and started pulling the teeniest, tiniest berries off the delicate plants. Huckleberries come in a variety of sizes, and the only ones we found growing out there were the miniscule ones. It was a lot of work, but worth the effort. What else did we have to do, anyways?

Before the trip we divided up cooking responsibilities; that night, LeeAnn was tasked with making dinner. I wandered around looking for wildflowers and views while she cooked.

We feasted on yummy taco bowls topped with crunchy corn chips. Come on, why doesn’t everyone eat like this on backpacking trips!? Most people seem to do the freeze-dried meal thing, while others apparently still cook over wood fires in the backcountry. I was dismayed to find a massive fire pit at our campsite…with crumpled up aluminum foil inside. Garbage. Why do people insist on building big fires and then not picking up after themselves? Foil does not burn completely, it is trash left in the wilderness. I fished the foil out of the ashes and packed it out when we left the next morning. I am torn between wondering whether better education or better cultivation of a stewardship mindset is what will solve this problem. It’s hard to believe that the people who left their garbage behind just didn’t know that was not the right thing to do. It seems like they just didn’t care.

As the sun set, we snapped a few more photos and then disappeared into the tent. I prepared for a cold night, but was pleasantly surprised to find that I hardly needed to zip up my sleeping bag to find a comfortable temperature. I tossed and turned all night, anticipating the big climb in the morning.

August 20, 2020.

Photo album

I usually don’t write about the day before a trip starts, but there is a bit of a story here.

I’d spent months meticulously planning a trip to the Trinity Alps in Northern California, only to find out a week before that massive wildfires were threatening to smoke out my destination and ruin the entire plan. But I’d already arranged the time off and I had a travel partner ready to go with me. After a brief discussion, we decided to head towards Idaho’s Sawtooth mountains, and it was up to me to come up with a quick Plan B.

As much as I love to plan, I was sad to see this one go down the drain. But I snapped into action and ordered some books and maps online. I also reached out to my social media network to see if anyone had any suggestions for the area. My friend Matt reached out and recommended the White Clouds, a range of mountains right across the street from the more easily recognized Sawtooth Range. He sent me some photos and a GPX track of a loop through the range, encircling its highest peak. Intrigued, I did a little more internet sleuthing and used it as the centerpiece of my new Idaho itinerary. After exploring there, we’d check out the Sawtooths before heading back home.

It took the good part of the day to drive to our first destination, so LeeAnn and I hit the road early in order to find a place to camp before dark.

The drive across Oregon was more scenic than I’d remembered, and once we crossed into Idaho it was all new to me. We stopped at a riverside park to eat lunch and dangle our feet in the cool water. Then, I focused on driving straight through to the Fourth of July trailhead. I’d hoped to find camping along the road leading there.

Unfortunately, wildfire smoke from California had made its way into Idaho, obscuring clear views of most of the peaks. They stood mysteriously behind a wall of gray haze. As we drove up the gravel road towards tomorrow’s starting point, we saw many nice campsites, but most were already occupied.

Soon, the road entered a burnt out wasteland of charred trees and dust. We’d just about given up hope for a nice site when we discovered a little oasis of trees and greenery between the road and the creek. It ended up being the most glorious little campsite, with burbling water, pretty wildflowers, mountain views and perfect solitude. What’s the saying, when driving through hell, just keep going? Well, we did just that and landed a great place to spend the night.

With some time to kill before dinner, I crossed the creek, laid out on a beach towel and napped between reading portions of my book. I needed a little rest after all that driving. For dinner, we feasted on pork and soba noodle stir fry and ice cold beers. I was really excited to begin this grand adventure.