under the weight of ice.

8 october 2008. Up at four AM with the alarm. Still dark. Should be asleep, but I have to try for a lottery permit and need to be in Leavenworth by quarter 'til eight this morning. Dozed a little then up. Out the door exactly on time at five. Still dark. Should be asleep. The neighborhood is still dark and quiet as I crept out with Oliver on our way. Past the twenty-four-hour coffee joint by my house. I'd stop in Cle Elum when I knew I'd make it in time. It was just under two-and-a-half hours to Leavenworth. Been there many times, this wonderful (although a bit kitsch) alpine town nestled in the eastern Cascades – my favourite place on earth. I was surprised at how much traffic there is gathered on the highways at five o'clock in the morning when by all rights I should still be curled up in bed under my down comforter asleep, my furnace about ready to kick on after a good night's rest. An hour to Snoqualmie. Half an hour to Cle Elum (and espresso). Another hour – about fifty minutes, actually – to Leavenworth. It was pouring rain in the dark at the Summit, but started to get light as I headed up Blewitt Pass and I could tell it was going to be a glorious day (as forecasted by NOAA). I marveled at the fruit farms (mostly apple, I think) on the way into Leavenworth. Was in time to stop at McDonald's across from the ranger station for some OJ and carbs before parking outside waiting for the appointed time. At a quarter before eight, a ranger (I actually recognized her as the same ranger from three years ago) opened the door and greeted me. 'You here for an Enchantments permit?' she asked under clear blue skies surrounded by mountains fresh with new snow the night before. 'Why yes,' I replied. Surprisingly – maybe not – I was the only one there. After an internal debate between going up via Colchuck Lake and Aasgard Pass or Snow Lakes, I opted for the latter because I never had gone that way but mostly because I had never really explored the lower basin towards Excaliber Rock or Lake Viviane and I surmised it would almost be as long going over Aasgard. So permit in hand for just a single night, which is all I could swing this time with my crazy schedule, I was at the Snow Lakes trailhead in no time. I changed out of cotton and grabbed for my pack half-full of Hasselblad gear, the other half a solo tent I was borrowing and only the bare essentials. It was at that point I realized something was missing. My tripod. Oh crap. I had a trekking pole but I wasn't immediately certain how that was going to work with a Hasselblad. I used to keep an old, beat-up spare tripod in my trunk for this very such occasion, but after a quick search I remembered I had sold it earlier in the summer at my attempt of a garage sale. Meaning that spare tripod was one of maybe twenty things I sold. I could have left the eleven pounds of assorted equipment behind but thought to bring it anyways. I'd improvise. Or so I told myself. So, shouldering my pack which didn't seem at all bad (probably just shy of thirty pounds with the camera gear), I was off up the canyon where Snow Creek tumbled from the outlet of Lake Viviane over a vertical mile above and ten miles to the south. It was chilly in the canyon, the sun hitting the west side leaving the trail on the east and me deep in shadow. I stopped after an hour to stretch and check my progress. I was moving quickly, having gained two thousand vertical feet and by my estimate about three of the six-and-a-half miles to Upper Snow Lake. Another hour and a half later found me stopping again, just past Upper Snow Lake after having passed Nada Lake now a mile behind me and a thousand feet below. At this point, in two-and-a-half hours I had gained forty-five hundred feet and by my guess about seven miles. From that point on, it was up over granite bedrock slick with ice from frozen water that had been trickling down before freezing the night before. Sitting on a rock in the sun just under Lake Viviane, I thought to myself how I should not take for granted the fact I could hike up six thousand feet over ten miles in under four hours. That someday, sadly, this won't be the case. It was this thought that changed my mind from not wanting to spoil this place by visiting it too often to making a solo pilgrimage here every year from now on until my legs can no longer carry me the distance. But that thought passing to the crash of water as Snow Creek cascaded down to Snow Lake and I moved on. Up the last bit to find myself face-to-face with Lake Viviane's deep blue waters, surrounded by golden alpine larch and rising starkly above – the jagged mass of granite that was The Temple and Prusik Peak, and across the lake from where I stood the swordlike bit of rock jutting into the lake's tranquil waters known as Excaliber Rock. I stopped to take it in, catching my breath at the same time the sunlight just coming over clouds to the east to light up the scene awash with mid-day sun brilliant and effervescent. I moved on, up the polished granite towards the next lake and a place to drop my pack and set up a small camp. This next lake was Leprechaun Lake. Walking a little ways around the lake I spotted a perfect site tucked amongst golden larches and subalpine fir off the trail a bit. It was half an hour past noon, four hours after bidding Oliver farewell and heading over Icicle Creek into Snow Creek canyon. After quickly setting up the solo tent I was borrowing, I crawled in for a quick nap, then a quicker lunch before not being able to contain my excitement any further. I stuffed my camera gear and a Clif Bar into my pack, shouldered it and off I went into the basins of this most incredible of places known simply as The Enchantments. The history and folklore of this place are as intriguing as the peaks and tarns and lakes and larches that make up this little corner of the Cascades considered part of the Lost World Plateau. It is credited to having been discovered by a topographer named A. H. Sylvester who in 1904 was exploring the area for the Forest Service and wrote after one such occassion ~

"I found five or six most beautiful small lakes grouped in a wonderful glacial valley all ringed with alpine larch. From the highest lake over an entrancing fall tumbled the water it received from a small glacier. It was an entrancing scene. I named the group 'Enchantment Lakes.'"

The glacier he was talking about was the Snow Creek Glacier, and at the time covered much of the basin. In the 1940s, climbers discovered the area and following that a couple from Leavenworth – Bill and Peg Stark – took it upon themselves, drawing from various mythologies, to naming most of the lakes and features. When they made their first visit in the fall of 1959, they were captivated by the golden splendor of the larch, the numerous lakes and tarns and jagged granite peaks towering above. It is by no coincidence not only they – but likely all that have followed to partake in this place (including me) – have been taken so aback and have had thoughts of fairy tales and of fantasies and folklore and mythologies and splendor impossible to describe and that are too good to be true. The couple used fairy names – Gnome Tarn, Troll Sink, Naiad Lake, Pixie Pond, Magic Meadow – and King Arthur legends in the lower basin because "the lower basin was not as austere as the upper basin." They used Norse names and mythology for features of the upper basin – Brynhild Lake, Lake Freya, Valhalla Cirque, Aasgard Pass, Dragontail Peak – because it felt "as if the Ice Age had just gone off." One description I read years ago that described the upper basin more perfectly than any other was simple – still forming. The sun was brilliant. The trail constantly disappeared over solid, polished bedrock and granite boulders dotted with cairns leading the way. There seemed to be a photo at every turn. Certainly a gasp. The Enchantments is a glacial-carved basin that rests between seven and eight thousand feet which can be further divided into three distinct basins tied together with one distinct, overpowering theme. Water. It was this observation that struck me the most profound of all and not sure how I missed it so the last time I was here three years ago? I think because I did not spend much time in the lower basin having come up and over Aasgard Pass – a powerful statement to the idea that the upper basin is still forming. Stout, golden larch dot the ascent up the pass while the impressive, sheer and jagged granite northeast face of Dragontail on one side and the Black Dwarves on the other protect its stony entrance into the upper basin like the dark towers of a medieval fortress. I always think of the climb as passing through "the stony gates of Aasgard" into another world entirely. But it is a desolate and barren landscape above treeline where the ice does not thaw. Ever. And in stark contrast to the lower basin, where streams crash and the sound of rushing water is everywhere. There is the constant sound of it. Under ice. Over ice. Over granite. Between granite. In all its forms. Ice. Snow. Seemingly innumerable lakes and tarns. I found that here the granite does not break the ice. The ice breaks the granite, splintering it into millions of shards that lay tumbled and tossed in every corner of every meadow. The power of water is so obvious it is impossible to ignore. I could not fathom, only appreciate. I could not pretend to understand the force it held captivating me as nothing ever has. I was at a loss for words. So the lower basin with all its lakes and its golden larches upon larches water wearing and crashing in between all of them finally over the edge in a crashing thunder down to Upper Snow Lake. I wandered up the trail, past small tarns, then Rune Lake and Talisman Lake (those were the Stark's names – the Forest Service has since renamed them Perfection and Inspiration, respectively) up towards the middle basin. Distinctly different than the lower and upper basins, this middle one flattens out and opens up, guarded on the south by the picturesque statue of Little Annapurna and on the north by the more rugged Enchantment Peak. Larch still abound but not nearly in the same density as lower down among the cascades of water. The lakes and meandering streams here are more gentle and looking west to a jumbled mess of granite boulders rising high above this basin beckons the weary explorer onward into the realm of the uppermost basin still forming under the weight of ice. The jagged skyline that is Witches Tower and Dragontail Peak rise sharply above the near-still waters of Lake Brynhild (renamed Isolation Lake by the Forest Service). While photographing there buttoned-up so-to-speak against a cold wind that whipped over Aasgard Pass not more than a quarter mile away, I watched four intrepid hikers come from the pass and work their way into the middle basin no doubt tired and ready to find a place to camp and rest. Here in the upper basin – above treeline – there are no larch. It is too inhospitable – only ice and granite survive here in an epic battle. As one makes their way upward they notice the larch becoming fewer and fewer until after being stunted and crippled they finally disappear completely. I spent a good while in the upper basin at nearly eight thousand feet before realizing I was out of time and needed to head back. The light faded gripping me with a slight panic as I knew my headlamp was tucked safely away in my tent back at camp and I would be hard-pressed to find my way back in the dark despite a nearly half-full moon. But soon after the sun fell beneath the clouds to the west, just above the granite horizons of Dragontail to light up Prusik Peak. I was obliged to photograph and in time knew I'd safely make it back to camp. I am now hunkered down inside my down bag listening to Brett Anderson writing this by headlamp because – although seemingly field-serviceable – without a small wrench it seems my Primus lantern is incapable of lighting. Bother. I would give anything now for its warm glow and warmth as the temperatures plummet outside. I wanted to photograph this tent beneath larches and Prusik Peak but it seems it wasn't meant to be. For some reason I'm tired despite it only being eight o'clock. Maybe it's P Marius. Maybe it's the fact I was up at four o'clock this morning after forcing myself to try to sleep at midnight the night before. Maybe it was the sixteen miles and 7,053' (according to my altimeter) of elevation gain I did today. I think I'll go to sleep or try listening to all the water around me cutting through time and granite seemingly impervious to all other forces but that of water. I will be hoping for a beautiful morning but won't be surprised to find a dusting of snow. Though warm wrapped in down I can tell it's bitingly cold. The moonlight is shining in my tent so no stars tonight. It is something else being surrounded by all this beauty alone but not lonely in it all. Something not entirely of this world. I am fortunate to have been allowed to sneak in and back out. I leave humbled and austere. After having spent the summer and fall wandering amongst the granite of the Sierras and the Winds, I tell myself now quietly – whispering – this is the most incredible place of all. I am overwhelmed by the power of the water. Too much to explain, so instead I'll try to sleep. I am at a loss.



9 october 2008. I woke up at seven with the first light. The tiny window of my tent was etched with frost and ice but after closer inspection the sky was clear and a pale blue. I stayed huddled in my bag to have some breakfast and wait for light and shadows to make their way to Leprechaun, fresh from the night with a thin layer of ice rimming the shore. In time, they did. And what a beautiful morning that was created! Invigorated despite the frigid cold, I quickly again gathered my cameras and headed back out into the lower basin to photograph some of the angles I couldn't the day before given the position of the sun yesterday afternoon. Again I was overwhelmed with all of the water. I stood on the precipice as the granite fell away beneath me to the Magic Meadow, water crashing all around and Prusik Peak rising above bathed in the pale early morning light and Moby's My Weakness in my head and emotions I cannot describe how I wanted to stay in the moment forever standing there awash in sunlight and freezing floating over granite and peaks and ice and waters from a million years ago crushed beneath it all. This place – this land of The Enchantments – is made of fantasies and I am lucky to be able to glimpse into it and witness all its beauty. I am forever at a loss.

Trip stats: 26 miles / 7,000+ feet elevation gain / 28 hours (a record – nearly twice as much mileage than when I climbed Rainier overnight, slightly less elevation)