Stevens Pass, Pacific Crest

I ducked under the I-90, stepping into the cool shadow of the underpass before the trail began its steady climb. The next 7mi (11km) would take me up 2,600ft (792m) to the ridge; by now, my body was used to the rhythm of the climb. The initial burn in my legs had dulled to a steady ache, a constant reminder that my muscles were still working hard with every step. It wasn’t as sharp as it once was, more like a deep, familiar hum that ran through my legs, telling me that they were still carrying me forward. My core, too, felt stronger; I had come to rely on the stability it offered me on the uneven terrain. Without a doubt, my fitness had improved, perhaps even matching the fatigue that always seemed to creep in after a while.

At Kendall Katwalk, the view was everything I’d hoped for. Alaska Lake spread out below, its waters gleaming under the midday sun. The trail curved around the ridge, crossing over to another crest. As I trekked along, the trail wove through the southern and eastern slopes of Huckleberry Mountain, its peak looming ahead, sharp and imposing. To the east, Chikawee Mountain’s peak rose slightly above its neighbour, Four Brothers. These peaks were all part of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, a vast, 394,000-acre haven of towering firs, cedar, pine, and hemlock, where meadows stretched out interspersed with more than 700 lakes.

Crossing over a crest, the trail dipped into a wide valley before I started the steep climb of tight switchbacks. The trail zig-zagged upward, then descended just as sharply, gaining and losing about 2,297ft (700m) before finally levelling out on a straight stretch toward Waptus Lake.

Heading into a canyon, the sound of rushing water filled the air. Spinola Creek surged towards Deep Lake, its powerful flow cutting through the rocks. As the path began to climb again, I pushed up a series of switchbacks, the effort making me focus on each step. Continuing across the ridge, the landscape unfolded with each turn. Once at the top, I could see the land stretching in every direction for miles. From here, the trail dipped and rose again as I hiked toward Stevens Pass.

Stevens Pass, now a popular ski resort, hides a tragic past marked by the deadliest avalanche in U.S. history. In 1910, Wellington, a small town at the pass, was hit by a relentless nine-day blizzard. Snow piled up at an astonishing rate, with up to a foot (30cm) an hour. On the worst day, 11ft (3.4m) fell. Trapped in the depot were two trains, one carrying passengers and crew. A lightning strike triggered a massive avalanche—10ft (3m) high, half a mile (800m) long, and a quarter-mile (400m) wide. With nothing to stop it, the snow tumbled down the mountain, slamming into the trains and throwing them 150ft (45m) downhill. Of the 119 people on board, only 23 survived. The town was renamed Tye to move past the tragedy, but it was eventually abandoned when the Cascade Tunnel opened in 1929, leaving only the echoes of the disaster behind.