This excursion did not place high on the Personal Epic Scale (PES), against which most of my adventures get evaluated. We all have such a reference, a near intuitive yardstick used to judge the interplay of all facets of a Trip. Depending on the individual, a grade 10 Trip can be a winter ascent of K2 or running out of water on the way down Mount Si.

For me the PES was established early on, when the experience level was in direct opposition to motivation and ambition, and almost every Trip was a tightrope walk above the abyss without safety line. Since the foundation of the PES was laid at such a time when extremely close calls and serious trauma were commonplace among my contemporaries, today's Trips rank pitifully low. Fine tuning my mountain sense has undoubtedly helped, as well as the fact that aging joints are less willing to undertake the more rigorous challenges. This probably suits me fine, and I believe my family also appreciate the steady decline in helicopter rescues over the years (in fact the airborne evacs dropped precipitously after I featured prominently in three of such in one year. Touched upon here).

Anyway, besides the unremarkable level of near fatal experiences on this November Trip, it was entirely memorable and altogether worthwhile. The premise was this: Jan (me) was getting restless. Winter was around the corner. The family, knowing the moods lurking under the surface, said: Go, Jan, go.

3 days seemed just right to clear the head of darkness, and the loop starting up Foggy Dew, branching off on the obscure Navarre Way Trail to the Chelan Crest, and returning down Merchant's Basin suited the time limit. The forecast for the period before Thanksgiving promised clear skies, cold temps and moderate wind. We, the dog and I, were off.

The snow conditions would determine the outcome. When I stepped out that morning, I found an inch of fresh snow. The short drive to the trail head yielded another. A mere 2 weeks earlier, on Bjorn's 9th birthday, we had hiked on dry ground up to nearby Horsehead Pass, fostering hopes of cruising thru only a dusting of beautiful fall snow. I even speculated that the Chelan side, being sunnier, would have blown bare along the crest. Well, there was a pair of MSR snowshoes strapped to my pack, since I occasionally listen to that inner cautious voice whose primary duty in life is to lower the PES factor.

Arriving at the the trail head I found the parking lot empty, nor had anybody been there in days judging from the untracked snow. The long walk up the gentle incline of Foggy Dew Creek unfolded with the magic of snow laden conifers and crisp frosty air, that allure of wintry sensations that can only happen in early season before the body and mind grow hard and weary.

When we reached the junction with the Navarre Way, at 6000', the trail was covered with 6-8" of light, powdery snow. It was too early for lunch, besides being very cold and shady, so we carried on. Immediately the conditions changed. The trail was now hard to follow and often barred by deadfall. It got steep, with complex topography and dense vegetation. The snow was deeper here in this north facing cul-de-sac, so the snowshoes came on. With this deterioration a mood change happened too. Instead of senselessly plodding along, with the mind a-wandering, I was now on guard with inner voices whispering of the perils involved with being alone in the mountains at this time of the year. The resulting sensations of exposure, vulnerability and focus are an addictive mix. Getting to this point every so often makes the daily humdrum of life almost bearable.

So, back to the story. Loosing the trail would waste precious energy, not to mention fueling the burgeoning anxiety. When trying to track a forested route in deep snow, I've found it helpful to look for trail work. A 60" log cut up in pieces is not likely to be far away from the beaten path. The same goes for trimming of branches or other scars, all of which are visible from some distance, even with a lots of snow. Well, this day it didn't work. In fact the reappearance of any man made path would be a long time coming.

On the crest finally, at 7400', we emerged into full sunshine and plopped down for lunch and general drying out. Here on this level, broad ridge, with the beautiful views from Lake Chelan to Rainier, after struggling nearly 7 miles and 4000' in the cold and snow, right here, in the lee of those stunted Whitebark Pines, would be the perfect camp. But no. Cursed as I am with impatience and nagging restlessness, conditions that especially flourish when alone in the backcountry, I heaved the load back on and aimed for the high summits above Sunrise Lake, thinking the worst was over. Admittedly, it looked to be awesome hiking in the sun on a high ridge, following the approximate run of the Summer Blossom trail, an easy, but rewarding stroll.

So it might be when the Summer Blossom trail is exactly that. But not on this trip. Up here the wind conditions, or some other freak of nature, had piled the snow deep with no base at all, but slick rotting grass. The crest itself was choked with dense, interlocking tangles of krummholz of the Whitebark variety, forcing me to weave in and out of the thickets on the steep, loaded south slope. Soon I was perspiring like a madman, with the pack and ski poles eternally caught on unbendable branches, while paddling around on smooth grass under 3' of steep snow, despite, or maybe because of the snowshoes on my boots. The only direction to travel with a reasonable amount of effort was down, precisely the heading I had to avoid at all cost.

Some suitable campsite was reached at sundown on the slopes high above Horse Thief Basin. The view was stupendous, what little I could see of it in the gathering dusk. It was 5 pm, and very cold. Because of the bottomless sugar snow I had to dig clear down to dirt to pitch the tent, which was fine. While winter camping one need some engrossing task to fill the long hours of darkness. Fewer chores were available for the poor dog, who simply shivered on her pad tightly wrapped in a blanket, waiting for tent time. A splendid day, but we covered too much ground, went too far, and now were faced with the entirely feasible, yet strangely disappointing option of completing the trip tomorrow. At 7pm all was quiet.

12 hours on the ground is challenging. It felt good to be on the move in the clear, sunny morning, with low clouds blanketing the lake basin below me, and every peak from Lago to Stuart chiseled out in amazing clarity. Ever since I reached the crest the day before I had been surrounded by the tracks of snowshoe hare. Not just one set here and then another a little ways on. No, everywhere, going to and fro in seemingly endless business, mile after mile. The industrious population did not dwindle today, but despite this myriad of evidence, we never saw one. The meandering trench left by a lone goat completed the wildlife experience of the still, frozen peaks.

And so the day progressed, like every beautiful, rewarding day spent in the mountains does. A peak was ascended, some pass reached and traversed, then a lonely valley and a steep climb. Eventually we sat on the ridge above Merchant's Basin, with nothing but 8 miles of downhill hiking between us and a return to civilization. Despite a rather lengthy break, complete with a hot brew and massive caloric intake, it was becoming clear that we would not spend another night in the backcountry. Alas.

It is difficult to write at length about backpacking without loosing the reader at some point. Possibly I've already gone too far, so suffice it to say that we made it out in fine form, albeit a bit tired, in the early evening of the second day?