I wrote this piece in the summer of 2018 for Osprey Packs and I was excited about how it came out. You can read the original piece (including more photos) here.
I can feel the weight of the liquid sloshing around in its overstretched blister cavities with each agonizing step. At the ripe age of 27, I don’t yet understand that it’s possible for half-dollar sized blisters to form on the arch of each foot, but wearing ski boots with crampons for 22 miles will teach you a thing or two about life. We were warned about conditions, but went anyway. These painful protrusions are my penance.
Our trip starts out innocently enough. We leave Seattle eastbound toward Leavenworth for a late-morning start. We’re planning an easy 4-mile hike to Colchuck Lake where we’ll camp. The next morning climb to the col, ditch the skis, summit either Dragontail or Colchuck, ski down the Colchuck glacier, and hike out. All told our two-day trip is 4 miles to the lake, a few thousand vert plus a mile or so up and down from the summit, and 4 miles out. An easy 10+ miles round trip. No problem.
Only, we arrive to find Forest Service Road 7601 (aptly named Eightmile Rd) gated shut and completely covered in ice. Imagine a Zamboni driving down a dirt road, and you get the picture. Like Shackleton, it’s time to abandon ship.
But we are young, overzealous, and committed to the idea of our adventure and we go for it anyway! We put on crampons, shoulder our skis (only 2/5 of us are stupid enough to have brought them), and walk the additional four miles each way to the trailhead.
Hours and 1,400 vertical feet of climbing later, with the feeling of regret growing in our weary legs, we reach the actual trailhead. The sight of a dirt trail creeping slyly into the forest lifts our spirits. Emboldened by the beauty around us, we eat, remove our crampons, and start back on our way.
I take two steps before I hear it: a whirr. a yelp. a splat. One of my companions has fallen, and before I can figure out which one, another one bites the dust. Looking at my friends, I cannot comprehend why they would be on the ground. I make it two more steps before I share their fate.
Black ice.
Back on the crampons go. Like an avalanche beacon, we will wear these car-to-car.
Six and a half hours later, well after dark, we make camp. If you’ve ever hiked for half a day you know 8 miles should not take six hours, and this, my friends, is what I am thinking while shoving Mountain House in my mouth and drifting off into a dead, motionless sleep.
Sunday morning dawns gorgeous and clear. We leave the skis at camp.
What happens next is not important, suffice to say we survive a boulder field and an icy glacier and are rewarded with stunning views and no summit. We cross the frozen lake on our way back to camp, staring deep into its icy blue depths contemplating our future. Each one of us has blisters, and they’re all about to go from bad to worse.
We hike down. And down and down and down. The trail is not steep, but is…long. We finally make it to the road, and conditions are unchanged. We are wearing these crampons until we get to the car.
At this point, I’m torn between two conflicting agendas: walk fast to get this hike over with already, or walk slow, babying my little buddies in the hopes that they don’t pop.
In the outdoor community, we commonly talk about trips in terms of the Fun Scale. As a refresher, here’s the scale according to climber, writer, and self-proclaimed margarita specialist Kelly Cordes:
- Type I Fun – true fun, enjoyable while it’s happening. Good food, good sex, 5.8 hand cracks, sport climbing, powder skiing. Margaritas.
- Type II Fun – fun only in retrospect, hateful while it’s happening. Things like working out ’till you puke, and usually ice and alpine climbing. (Think a bad hangover that makes you swear you’ll never drink again).
- Type III Fun – not fun at all, not even in retrospect. As in, “What the hell was I thinking? If I ever even consider doing that again, somebody slap some sense into me.”
This trip to the Enchantments does not classify as Type 1 fun. In fact, it barely classifies as Type II. To add insult to injury, I can’t even count it a day of skiing! And yet, despite the unanticipated 8 miles, 1,400 extra feet of elevation gain, and never ending ice, the company on this trip was all time. Five years later I’m still talking about it. The feelings of wonder we shared staring into the deep blue ice. The sun warming our skin after a night in the cold. The way we mocked each other mercifully for making such a stupid decision. These are the memories you gain when you say yes to adventure and throw caution (and good decision-making) to the wind. My feet may never recover, but my soul is rejuvenated with every step.
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