Heidi Walker
Autumn-touched larches kissed by morning sun blaze against the dark shadows of the mountain. Crystal-blue skies arch over our camp as Colchuck Lake glitters through the trees. I sit in my tent hugging my knees, crying.
My friend, Mary, had invited me and another friend, Anna May, on a private trip through the Enchantments. I jumped at the chance to finally see this fantasyland of white granite, blue lakes, and golden trees. But during the time between invitation and adventure, I lost my home, my marriage, and my dog. With the losses, my sense of self depleted. I passed the days feeling like I had cotton in my ears and warped glass over my eyes.
Now, the Enchantments hike has finally arrived, and I don't feel up to the task, or like being good hiking company for Mary and Anna May. I feel afraid I am going to let myself – and worse, my friends – down.
Larches can be found growing in very picturesque locations, like this group along the lake's edge.
Pushing my limits on Aasgard Pass
Outside my tent, I hear movement. I wipe away my tears and peek out to see Mary. We exchange good mornings and set about our routines as Anna May joins us for breakfast. If they notice my reddened eyes, they don’t say anything. While Anna May and Mary talk about the route, I look up the mountain toward Aasgard Pass and feel sick.
Anna May had previously expressed her own uncertainties about the trip, but Mary radiates confidence. Having hiked the Enchantments a few times, she encourages us both while explaining the trail up to the pass. Still apprehensive, I remind myself that Mary would never take me anywhere dangerous. I swallow my dread – as well as the last of my granola – and finish tearing down camp.
Mary’s instructions are clear as we begin our ascent. “Stay left of the cleft. Follow the trail markers. Past the cleft, there will be a decent trail. We’ll regroup occasionally to check in.” What we all knew but left unspoken: left of the cleft is safe. People have died right of the cleft.
Approaching Aasgard Pass is a constant confrontation with one over-sized boulder after another. My booted toes search for small ledges to help hoist myself and my pack. The sharp rock edges scrape my shins as I scramble. My muscles soon turn to rubber, and my brain grows tired as I push from one boulder to the next.
I feel a nagging fear that I’ve gone the wrong way and look behind me for my friends. Mary and Anna May are below, working their way through the boulder field. I turn forward again and see a cairn.
Evening light colors Dragontail Peak reflected in Colchuck Lake.
Often seen in deserts, tundra, and the alpine, cairns are used as waypoints in wilderness areas to mark trails that might be inconspicuous or non-existent for habitat protection. Nice. Some relief I’ve followed directions correctly, I think. Soon, I’ll be celebrating with my friends at the top of the pass.
Having spotted the first cairn, I figure I can follow them without having to think much about the route. I’ve followed cairns in a similar manner before and found it to be a fun game of hide-and-seek: stand at the cairn, and scan the landscape for the next.
Sometimes, people build extraneous cairns when none are needed, thinking it’s a challenge or a work of art to stack rocks. The extraneousness is unfortunate for the exact reason of what happened next…
I continue hiking from cairn to cairn and steadily climb upward. Loose rocks slip under my feet with each step, making me slide backward. I resort to clawing my way up the hill, until eventually, a cliff stops my progress.
I’m lost, unable to discern which direction to go as I tightly grip the scree to prevent myself from sliding further downhill. Shaking from exhaustion and fear, I find a sturdy rock to rest and discover that Mary and Anna May are no longer behind me.
Tears well up as I choke back sobs. The trail is far more dangerous than I had imagined. Why would anyone want to scramble up loose scree where one misplaced step could mean tumbling downward to severe injury or death? Had I gone the wrong way?
Just a year before, I believed I had been living my dream – married to a man as adventurous as I, in a comfortable home, playing in the mountains on weekends with the best trail dog a hiker could hope for. But like these cairns, I had followed the wrong path and the life I was pursuing slipped away. Where was I to go from here?
I look for a marker that might indicate I am on trail and quickly learn I’m not. To my left, I spot a stack of rocks resting beside a well-defined dirt path. I take a couple steadying breaths, then slowly shuffle my way across the scree to the trail, where I sit until my friends catch up.
Anna May (left) and Mary (right) pose for a triumphant photo after cresting Aasgard Pass.
Cresting ridges and befriending goats
We continue up the pass and scramble over more boulders when I begin to sense I’m being watched. I look up to see a little, white-furred face peering down at my progress. The young goat watches me struggle with my pack over a rock, then hops with ease to a new rock. “Show off,” I mumble.
As I crest the pass, I wait on a boulder and watch amused as the kid hops up and down the rocks. What I presume to be its mother rests on a knoll above. I breathe a relaxed sigh. Despite a harrowing ascent, I’ve finally made it into the core of the Enchantments. Maybe I am capable of more than I think, I reflect as I enjoy the view.
I pull out my bag of snacks and the crinkling inspires the nanny to stand, then hop down the knoll my way to investigate. Attuned to human activity, she knows the sound of a salty treat. We circle the boulder together, like a game of musical chairs - her licking her lips, me trying to keep the boulder between us – when Mary and Anna May crest the hill. Mary shouts at the goat, who retreats back to her hill as I join my friends to celebrate our accomplishment.
Our faces beam with smiles, but we don’t have much time to rest. The day’s end is approaching, and we still have a mile to hike over granite and steep, late-season snow before setting up camp.
We slowly make our way and marvel at the scenery: lakes reflecting clear skies, yellow larch needles contrasting beautifully against the celestial blue. Our camp is tucked next to a small, serene lake lined with larches at the base of a cliff. The site is perfect, but as the sky darkens and I settle into my tent, my fears from the previous night and this morning return. I had gotten myself lost today and could have gotten hurt. Will I be able to safely navigate my way out of the Enchantments?
Like the night before, I fall asleep with tears in my eyes.
As Mary drinks her morning coffee atop a boulder for the view, our nanny decides to check out the nearby vegetation.
Goat fluff can easily get entangled in the needles of larches.
A test of faith and friendship
I awake the next morning to the sound of mountain goats. The nanny and her kid had followed us to camp. They wait close by as we relieve ourselves after a night’s rest. To her, we are walking saltshakers, but our salt comes in liquid form. I love goats, but I have no interest in sharing. I try to shoo the nanny away, but she remains persistent and laps up my morning urine.
Our day is short as we skirt around a series of lakes with names like Inspiration, Perfection, and Leprechaun. First, we edge our way across a granite slab that rises above the lake where we slept. The cold, autumn weather had frozen seeped water across the surface of the granite in patches.
Mary leads the way. She steps onto the rock and suddenly slips, sliding down the ice so quickly I worry she’s about to plunge into the lake. I immediately start calculating her rescue – how I’d tolerate the frigid water and remove her pack from weighing her down – when she reaches out and grabs hold of a small tree growing next to the rock slab.
“Are you okay?” I call.
My heart races as I watch Mary find bare rock, then crawl back up along a different path.
“It’s just icy in that one spot,” she calls. “Once you get beyond that, you’ll be ok.”
My panic begins to rise. I look at the slab of rock in front of me and eye where the sun is beginning to warm the granite. I spot a bare patch, hold my breath, then step forward. Solid. I scan for another bare spot and step. After a few more movements, the ice disappears and I eventually reach Mary. I turn back to check on Anna May, who hasn’t moved.
“I’m going to go the other way around,” Anna May says.
“There is no other way around,” Mary replies.
Anna May looks at us, despondent, and I can tell that her fear is preventing our words from registering. Without a second thought, I gather my courage, drop my pack, and walk back across the icy rock.
Using my trekking pole as a pointer, I show Anna May where it’s safe to step. She lifts her foot, then puts it back down in the same place. I point at the bare spot again and say, “If you put your foot here, it’s safe.” She doesn’t move.
Like Anna May, I’m nervous one of us might slip down the mountain just as Mary did, but I don’t let it show. Finally, I get on my hands and knees and tell Anna May to give me her right foot. After some hesitation, she obliges. Gently, I guide her foot with my hands to the bare spot on the rock and hold it steady. Anna May cautiously transitions her weight. Then, I do the same with her left foot. After a few more guided movements, Anna May passes the icy section and I follow her off the rock.
View of Prusik Peak over the turquoise waters of Inspiration Lake.
Caution transformed to confidence
The rest of the day is thankfully uneventful as we stroll through golden forests of larches and blue lakes. Fallen needles create designs that dot the edges of the water. We reach our camp next to Lake Vivienne with time to explore the lakeshore and marvel at the view. We also notice our friend the goat and her kid resting on a hill near camp, but she affords us more privacy this evening.
As I tuck myself into my sleeping bag at night, I reflect on the events of the day. In spite of uncertainties, I was ready to jump into a lake to help Mary, and in spite of my fears, I helped Anna May across the icy rock. In the future, this trip will be what often comes to mind when I think about camaraderie and overcoming fear. Somewhere, I had found the strength to help my friend and help myself – a strength that would propel me forward with confident anticipation for whatever possibilities await.
I fall asleep content and happy, knowing that whatever presents itself tomorrow, or in life, I will be up for the task.
Speak up for the enchantments
Due to recent cuts to Forest Service staff this year, popular recreation destinations like The Enchantments are suffering. Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest staff are down to just one wilderness ranger for all of the Enchantments. As you recreate this fall, please follow responsible recreation practices and Leave No Trace principles. If you notice any changes to your recreation experience this season (such as overflowing trash cans, improper parking, or damaged trails), please consider sharing your experience with us so we can continue amplifying recreation impacts and advocating for increasing staffing and funding.
This article originally appeared in our fall 2025 issue of Mountaineer magazine. To view the original article in magazine form and read more stories from our publication, visit our magazine archive.
