The last time we'd visited this particular location, we left calling the hike here the "Best Hike Ever," so I hoped that all the amazing experiences we've had since wouldn't taint our impression on this, our second visit, 15 years later.
In fact, I'd hoped to make it all the way to the trailhead without @mrs.turbodb knowing where we were, but she awoke from her afternoon nap just as I turned off of WA-20 onto dirt. Then, within about ten seconds - I have no idea how she even got her bearings in that time - the first words out of her mouth were, "Are we hiking Sahale Arm?"
So much for the surprise. 
"We are," I replied, as I looked over at her and smiled. "Now we just need to find somewhere to camp." The last time we'd visited, we'd never really been off-road in the Tacoma, but we'd found an amazing spot, even if it'd been right along the road. We probably should have occupied the same location on our second visit - if for no other reason than tradition - but instead we plunged through the forest on an abandoned logging road until we found its terminus along the banks of the Cascade River. Nestled into the trees, it was time for a nap. And then dinner. And then more sleeping.
The following morning...
We were up bright and early the next morning - before it was even bright outside - getting the wet (dewy) tent packed away and sandwiches assembled for what would ultimately be one of the more strenuous hikes we'd tackled in recent memory. Then, we bombed up the last few miles of road to the trailhead, just as the sun was illuminating the ridgelines in a brilliant yellow band.
If we'd thought the trailhead the previous day at Yellow Aster Butte had been packed, the Cascade Pass - Sahale Arm lot left no doubt in our minds that we needed to recalibrate our bar. It wasn't yet 8:00am and there were more than 100 vehicles slotted into every last available space; several dozen lined the road leading to the entrance. It did suggest that our memories of this being an epic hike were probably still reasonably relevant, but it was certainly busier than we'd generally prefer.
Still, we set about gathering our gear, and soon we were traipsing through the woods along a well-traveled trail.
Thirty-seven switchbacks later, we finally began to break out of the trees. We weren't - by a longshot - at the treeline, but as the foliage around us became shorter and less dense, we were immediately immersed in spectacular views.
As we stood there admiring the view - along with another couple we'd just passed on the trail - an incessant chirping echoed from a few dozen feet away. We'd clearly interrupted the peaceful morning of a local pika named Pete, and he wasn't shy in letting us know that we should keep moving along.
It'd been only 90 minutes, but through the glory of switchbacks, we'd gained 1,800 feet and covered 4.7 miles - though probably only a mile as the crow flies - by the time we reached Cascade Pass. Though many would turn around here, many - like us - would continue up. And up. And up some more. Over the next two miles, the trail to Sahale Arm would climb another 2,200 feet. But the views were already a reminder of just how worth it that effort would be.
One of the great things about the human brain - at least, I assume this to be true given how the next several hours unfolded - is that it compartmentalizes traumatic experiences. I say this because we remembered the Sahale Arm trail being long and steep, but I don't think either of us recalled exactly how long and steep it actually was.
Because certainly, most definitely, and without a doubt, our now-half-century-old-joints played no role in this ascent being any different than the last.
What we remembered were the views. And those views just kept getting better - and more colorful - with every switchback we encountered.
A third of the way - as measured by elevation - between Cascade Pass and Sahale Arm, the trail crests a ridge. Views that only steps before stretched nearly 180 degrees suddenly wrap entirely around anyone lucky enough to find themselves huffing and puffing their way up the mountain. I can't imagine that anyone passes this point without a little bit of amazement.
)
It was also here that - as we were admiring the view - we noticed two anomalies in the landscape. The first was obvious. In the distance - where the glassy surface of Lake Chelan may have been visible on a clear day - smoke was rapidly pushing its way up the valley. Its progress was startling, and I commented to my hiking companion that we really needed to get a move on if we wanted to experience the most amazing views from the top.
The second - and much less obvious anomaly - was right under our noses. Earlier in the morning, @mrs.turbodb had wondered aloud about the original intent of the trail we now found ourselves enjoying, and here, at 6,400 feet, we had our answer: gold!
After spending a few minutes to catch our breath - from the views, obviously; definitely not due to exertion - we pushed on. As if the trail hadn't been steep previously, every step seemed steeper than the last, the top no closer than it'd been when we were "way down there."
Unsurprisingly, the higher we went, the more often we were stopped - again, let me stress that this was for the views - to catch our breath. Frankly, had we gone any faster - perhaps with younger lungs - it would have been a shame.
It was nearly 1:00pm when we finally reached the snowy toe of the glacier. By then, we'd stopped along the way for a turkey sandwich recharge, so it hadn't taken the full five hours to cover the 5.9 miles and gain 4,100 feet of elevation, but it'd most definitely been one of the harder hikes we've done over the course of the summer! And then, as we marveled at the views from the rocky moraines, we were afforded a visit from a familiar face.
We had run into Gary - or at least, a Gary imposter - the last time we'd climbed this same mountain, and while we'd both hoped that the white wonder would make an appearance this time, we hadn't talked about it much for fear of jinxing the entire situation.
We needn't have been worried. This guy was right at home in the endless crowd of more than 100 folks he must see every day. To him, we were no more interesting than rocks.
In fact, to Gary, the rocks were, technically, significantly more interesting.
Gary wasn't without a sense of humor about the whole thing though. As we stood there looking at each other through the camera, he got a good kick out of how ridiculous I looked. Or at least, that's what his demeanor suggested.
All the joking around got Gary's blood pumping, so after a few minutes, he wandered over to the toe of the glacier for a bit of a cooldown. That was my hint to bugger off, which was just fine with me given everything else to enjoy up here.
After spending about 45 minutes at the top - me running around from place to place, @mrs.turbodb actually just enjoying the view - it was time for the most difficult part of the hike: the descent. It might seem that gravity would assist this half of the journey - and it does - but by the end, even with the added stability provided by our hiking poles, the bottoms of our feet would be ready for a rest. For now though, one final shot of the way trail ahead.
As we set off down the upper scree field, ultimately transitioning to the high mountain meadows, the sun - having moved a good way across the sky over the course of the day - turned the entire situation into a gleaming, golden panorama, and in the distance, Mt. Baker peeked out above it all.
And then, as we reached the ridge where we'd eaten lunch, a couple hikers on their way up flagged us down. "There's a bear over there," they said, gesturing to the west.
I suppose that to most, this would have been a warning, but to me, it was a directive: we should immediately head in that direction. Toward the bear!
The bear - a golden brown, but of the black bear family - was making much better time up the mountain than we had. As we watched it climb, only a hundred feet or so from a dozen unsuspecting hikers along the trail, it was a great way to cap off an already glorious day.
With that, we purposefully picked up our pace, our conversation turning to where we should spend the night. I'd planned for us to head a few hours east - past Mazama to a fire lookout that I hoped would offer the never-ending views that we love, but with the smoke we'd seen filtering in all afternoon from Chelan, we were concerned that the fire lookout might be a little more fire than lookout.
Plus, I had half a mind to camp at the roadside spot we'd enjoyed our last time here; it was, after all, reasonably spectacular except for the fact that we'd be ten feet from any traffic.
But these were decisions that could wait. For now, being in the present was perfect.
As we reentered the forest on the lower half of the trail, our feet were already screaming. With 37 switchbacks to go, the decreased pitch of the trail was both a blessing and a curse as we wound our way through the woods. As had been the case in the morning, there wasn't much to see along this section of trail, good news for anyone hoping to get back more quickly.
Back to the Tacoma some nine hours after we'd left, the parking lot was still nearly full. A perpetual state of being for this trailhead these days, it seems.
As we rested our weary legs and luxuriated in the heated seats, we reconfirmed the obvious. Fifteen years hadn't changed a thing; this was still one of the best hikes ever!
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