Dreaming of a Getaway? So Are We

Traveling north from the Columbia River, the Cascades at some point transition from basaltic rock to white granite comparable, if not quite as brilliant, to Yosemite. In the Enchantments, these great white canines carve blue trails in gray clouds, and above 6,500 feet, the prototypical Douglas fir forest recedes, and with it most of the topsoil on which just about everything relies—except the larch.

Larch are one of the few conifers to shed their needles every fall. Against brilliant white granite, their needles turn gold before they fall to the ground, an entire alpine forest in full color, a gilded eyelid, Thoreau might say, to close around summer’s sapphire eyes to the sky.

The fall turn in the Enchantments. Photo by Rose Freeman.

In September of 2019, eyes were everywhere—not only the eyes of Colchuck, Viviane, Crystal, Leprauchaun, Sprite, and Isolation, lakes and tarns dispersed throughout the area’s granite domes, but the several hundred pairs of eyes that darted about one of Washington’s, if not the country’s, busiest permit areas.

In late summer, the Enchantments are a conga line. On a daily basis, hundreds visit the area and its resident herd of mountain goats, who are long inured to visitors and their whispers of awe. Some people wait years, like I did, before they strike an overnight trip in the permit lottery, but you don’t necessarily need to set up camp to enjoy the Enchantments, either. About 20 miles trailhead to trailhead, intrepid hikers and ultra runners can train their restless legs in one burly day to hike up and down about 6,600 net feet of elevation gain for a hard-earned burger and beer at one of Leavenworth’s many breweries and pubs. (You'll find me at The Loft.)

Overlooking Colchuck Lake. Photo by Rose Freeman.

I’m no stranger to intense physical ascents, but I was there with a few lucky others to set up camp and poke around world-class terrain for a day or two. In fading light, I hiked to a perch above Snow Lake within striking distance of Aasgard Pass, strung LED lights around my tent for ambiance (and, let’s be honest, navigation), and wandered off to find an especially ergonomic rock near the lakeshore. Jazz emanated from a little speaker at my feet. Bourbon flowed from a little flask in my hand. Dinner simmered over my Whisperlite, and darkened clouds lurked behind The Temple as day faded to dusk in an unremarkable sunset that I mostly imagined from my east-facing aerie.

It howled that night. Wind whipped and whistled through conifers, whitecaps churned over Snow Lakes, and I blissfully watched it all from the fuzzy warmth of my rain-battered tent.

Nada Lake on a turbulent morning descent. Photo by Jonathan Stull.

Now hundreds of miles, many months, and a social mandate away from that mundane weekend in the alpine, I wonder if there's anything more measurable than those moments lost.

It’s still too early, but the end of lockdown is on the horizon. It’s been announced that national parks will reopen soon, but who knows when. Stay-at-home orders will lapse in Texas on Thursday. Beaches reopened in Florida, but not without the specter of death (like, literally). It isn’t evidence-backed, but in some parts of the country we’re about to see just how much in our world has changed.

When the world opens up, there are murmurs that we’ll all hit the road. For my own part, I’m jittery with anticipation for those alpine retreats, the ribbons of asphalt that take me there, and the glasses that I'll raise when I emerge from the mountains, weary and wind-battered but altogether sated with a nourishment that, for many weeks now, has been off-limits.

Where will you go?