Last year, the Autumn monsoons closed down the mountains earlier than I had bargained. Not so this year. For my annual farewell to the hinterlands, I picked a decent weather window and revisited Enchanted Valley. From Lake Quinault, the South Shore Road and the Graves Creek Road were muddy, but not under water. Here and there, hunter’s trucks were parked in nooks before the National Park boundary; after that, no one.

Consistent with predictions, clouds and some drizzle were the course for the day. Notwithstanding the gloom, the bridge at Graves Creek was a welcome relief from the years when a thigh high fording was required. After the bridge, the old road marches up to a weathered picnic table, and the trail drops down to the rapids and Pony Bridge at 3 miles. A bit past Pony Bridge, the path hugs the edge of the Quinault, but then pulls away from the river’s bank for the next several miles. About five muddy miles in, I surprised a herd of a hundred or more elk, who slowly cleared the trail as though they were obliged to make space at a lunch counter. Route finding wasn’t a question until the waterside maple grove near No Name Creek. Here, moss enveloped the naked trees and leaves covered the ground: the path lies below the dip in the leaves. Further upstream, before and beyond Pyrites Creek, white stands of alder haunt the river and alder leaves obscured the way.

The log bridge at Pyrites approximately serves the 10 mile mark. For some reason, the final 3.5 miles to Enchanted Valley, gaining only 800 feet, always take a toll. Even still, the river just gets more magical. Halfway from Pyrites, the broken sign at Lamata Creek, where I’ve never seen water, could have come from the woods in the Wizard of Oz. Further up, stands of scrub alder allow glimpses of the peaks beyond. Evenually, you reach the old wooden gate to Enchanted Valley. A sign says to close the gate on passing through, presumably to bar creatures from escaping. In years past, you had to continue straight and wade across the Quinault, but now a short way past the gate, it’s a right turn, a downhill, and the new narrow foot bridge high over the river. Once across, the old trail deadends at a collapsed bank, so you have to cut down left, step stones through a side stream, follow the stone bed beside the stream, and then recross to rejoin the old trail. A few hundred yards further, the valley opens up at the 80 year old chalet.

It was cold and gray and rainy when I arrived in the valley, and it took a change of shirts and a bit of time to warm up. Despite the drizzle, the 3000 foot walls and waterfalls and chasms of the Burke range were awesome. After filtering water, I took an evening stroll a mile up the valley, and even the mists couldn’t hide its wonder. Another cold and wet hiker arrived at dusk for a one night stay, and we shared stories at dinner before the big night rains came.

Sunday morning brought hints of blue, but try as I might, I didn’t get started on my day hike towards O’Neill Pass till about nine, even accounting for the switch from daylight savings. I bade my regards to the outbound hiker and travelled up the valley, with clearing skies and improving view to Anderson and its glaciers. About 3.5 miles up, at an unmarked junction, I turned right on the O’Neill Pass Trail, rather than continuing straight to Anderson Pass. My route threaded through pretty hillsides of scrub alder, up through pines to the lonely snow-patched White Creek Basin. The path here isn’t all that clear, but crosses the two stony beds of White Creek before it cuts right and traverses the East-facing slope on mostly snow-crusted trail. Half a mile later, I disturbed a small group of elk who had been working trail maintenance by making tracks in the mud and snow. Shortly thereafter, just before the brief switchbacks, there’s a quartermile stretch with about eight enormous blowdowns, necessitating backpacker gymnastics.

Beyond the switchbacks, it’s a supreme high country route, 800 feet beneath ridgeline, alternating though trees, and meadows and clearings with views North to Anderson, down to the Quinault, across to Chimney and Crystal, and further West. Much of the trail was under 6-12 inches of crusty snow, but the terrain doesn’t offer many alternatives, and elk tracks punctuated the way. Sadly, I hit my turnaround time a mile or so below O’Neill Pass, but a wave of clouds rolled over the mountains, helping me rationalize the disappointment; and most of the way down the views were local. Near dusk, at the upper edge of the valley, another hiker’s tent took the form of a dome-shaped boulder down by the stones of the river. Half an hour later, I was back at camp and the skies were clearing.

All the stars emerged on Sunday night. We toasted the time change in Enchanted Valley, and the footsteps left behind. When Monday arrived, the sun was sparkling and the air was crisp, sending me signs I was leaving too soon. It’s always that way.