Gothic Basin, North Cascades

SummaryA hike to the mysterious, hidden Gothic Basin of the North Cascades.
OwnerIan Tracy
Creation Date2010-08-11 15:46:52 UTC-0400
DescriptionI wake up on a Sunday morning at around 10 in the morning near Seattle, WA thinking hmmm, it's Sunday. I have zero plans for the day (I know, I'm cool), and I have this nifty, orange, recently inherited Northwest Park pass and I'm not exactly sure what to do with it. All I remember about the treachery of the previous day is that I attempted to do the North Cascades Gothic Basin hike--9 mi. roundtrip, 2840 ft. elevation gain to an alpine lake situated at 5200 ft. Unfortunately, the keyword there is attempted, since for the simple reason that I can’t read signs, I found myself on a flagrantly misleading (and incorrect) trail within 1.5 miles of my journey. Although in my morning wake-up trance I recall this alternative hike to Glacier Falls having been fantastic for a variety of reasons, I realize that I had not been able to accomplish the mission I had set out to accomplish! So that made things pretty easy decision-wise, and I would have at it in yet another (second) attempt to conquer Gothic Basin. All I had to do was retrace my steps back to the scene of the incident and reconcile my mishap so that I could live a normal life once again. Out by 11, and at the Barlow Pass/Gothic Basin trailhead by 12:45.

Just as I decide that I'm prepared to set off into the wild blue/hazy yonder, I notice this lonely white, size 5 soccer ball sitting calmly in the back of my car. "What should I do with you?," I asked. Just then I remembered a conversation I had with myself on the previous day describing how much cooler my journey along the flats could have been with an inflatable ball in my pack. Eh, size 5 works just the same right? Wrong. Little did I know how humiliating that ball would become.

As I actually head off this time, I notice that it’s much cloudier than it was yesterday, and that I can only make out intermittent glimpses of what were patches of forest hugging the sides of the nearby mountains. This however, is where my ball served its purpose well. I was able to get it a pretty decent soccer routine during the first (flat) mile all the way up to the Twin Forks log crossing. I realized then that I had no plans for that over-sized, 4-pound, ball any longer. I would have to carry it up the remaining 3.5 miles.

I thought that would be easy to tell you the truth. But the ensuing 1 mile stretch of hell for which I hadn’t mentally prepared gave me a real run for my money…and kick in the butt at that. Switchbacks galore, felt like a 45 degree slope the entire way up with no break, resulting in a steaming, sweat-drenched body emerging rather un-victoriously at the top. It didn't help that the entire portion of the hike was in dark and gloomy forest, which conveniently retained all kinds of humidity (which generously helped facilitate exorbitant amounts of perspiration) and darling little mosquitos. I downed over a liter on that stretch alone, and there were zero potential water supplies along the way. What a workout. Although I don’t typically give myself credit for much, I must admit that I was racing to the top in an attempt to pass as many people as possible. Little did I know how silly an idea that was…

After that section, the woods magically opened up to what was a much clearer skyline than what I had seen at the bottom of the mountain. By now, I was at least a thousand feet up and the neighboring mountains started to seem like neighbors, and not just really big, looming guardians. I could make out more of what each of these neighbors had to offer (view-wise), but the sun was still shrouded by plenty of cloud cover.

The next mile consisted of a beautiful, open trail that winded along the side of the mountain and passed through several waterfall crossings. A few were tricky to navigate, but the views up and down the mountain along these streams was fantastic. Cloud cover still predominant, however.

At this point, my soccer ball had become an instant celebrity. The five people who had passed me (or had been passed to be more accurate) on their way down almost all asked pretty much the exact same question: "Is that a soccer ball?," to which I responded "Sure is!," to which they replied "Why'd you bring that?" And each time I'd explain that I wanted to have some fun on the flat trail at the base, and that I would look for a nice place to practice my mad skills (minus the mad skills) at the top. And they all finished their remarks with a quiet, reluctant murmur whose sound resembled the patronizing phrase "Good luck...." Now what I cannot do justice to in conveying are the attitudes with which each of these seemingly pleasant hikers greeted me. They began so sweet and cheerful until they noticed my ball. They then transformed their demeanors into full-on confusion and were almost offended at my attempt to integrate the serene act of hiking with the supremely badass pastime that is the greatest sport in the history of the universe.

Not gonna lie, I got a little annoyed by that. I felt increasingly dumber after each person’s sly comments, and then decided that I would free myself of this oppression once and for all! From then on, anytime after that (which happened to be often) I would claim that I was holding the soccer ball equivalent of Wilson—the volleyball from Castaway. I think I succeeded in making it seem like he was my best friend, that I likely had no other friends, and that I was a soon-to-be-stranded loner...or something along those lines. Although that may seem to you like a strange thing have done given my position, I very much rather preferred eliciting the light chuckling and halfhearted smiling from hikers by doing something silly over welcoming open ridicule by giving the same boring explanation each time. Yeah, Wilson was awesome.

I've been writing a lot I now realize, and it is thus time for me to skip a few chapters. Now we're at the part when I hit a large field of snow up an incline: my first real exposure to the cold, white, slushy substance along the hike. After riding that slope up a hundred feet or so, nature suddenly opened its glistening wings to the magnificent dominion that is Gothic Basin. It truly did catch me off-guard. Trees were completely nonexistent at this point, with only light shrubbery sprinkled around the marshy plain that was encompassed by very jagged, harsh, rock formations that formed a bowl around this lush area. It closely resembled an "oasis," or meadow of wildflowers lining a slow, trickling stream that I had encountered the previous day, though this expansive of wild vegetation was infinitely larger and slightly less colorful given the lack of blossoming wild flowers.

To be completely honest, I was entirely under the impression that this was it. I thought I would just wind around one of the many barely trodden, black paths with Wilson quietly tucked in between my arm and chest to find the alpine Foggy Lake a few hundred feet ahead. To my surprise, and (quite frankly) frustration, the majestic Foggy Lake was absolutely nowhere to be found. To make matters considerably worse, a small, teaser lake was plopped right where the trail ended. I was now off to fend for myself in pursuit of the eluding and alleged body of water so appropriately named Foggy Lake. What amazed me the most, however, was not that I had absolutely no clue as to the whereabouts of the lake. It was the degree to which mother nature set up phony ponds/lakes and other barriers to make the lives of humans SO much more miserable than they have to be.

As I crossed the gorgeous marshy basin, I was met on one side with a really steep cliff. This thing easily plummeted unmercifully down 300 feet onto large, sharp rocks. At the base I noticed a large, beautiful lake formed by the bowl carved out of THAT basin...which was not THIS (Gothic) basin. Vaguely recalling pictures of Foggy, I fall fully under the impression that that must be it. Believe me, there was striking resemblance between Foggy Lake and this mystery lake both before and after I realized my error. They must have been twins. Foolishly, I did not consult my guide book at that point for further guidance, and attempted to follow barely worn trails down into THAT basin and to THAT lake. My book would have told me that Foggy is the highest point on this trail, and that I would never have to descend in order to find it. I also should've suspected that since those trails were so barely used, there's was no way that anything down there could've been what I was looking for. I ended up following one of these trails halfway down until it came to an abrupt halt. I found myself stuck to a platform with the main(er) trail leading back up behind me, and a shear drop-off and large lake down below me. I decide to take a different small, rocky trail emanating from a waterfall to my right. This was the narrowest, most dangerous trail I've ever taken, especially with a soccer ball under one of my arms. It could not have been two feet wide, was flanked by an unforgiving drop to the left and a gripless rock face to the right. I still somehow decided to press onward until I arrived at an underpass beneath the waterfall. The view was simply incredible. I was underneath thrashing water and could see a lake below. However, there was no more trail beyond those falls, and I was forced to turn back.

This wasted about 35-45 minutes of my journey. I was furious, I was hungry, and I was sweating buckets. I told myself not to eat until I reached Foggy, but at this point, I'd had enough, I returned to Lake Phony back at the end of the trail and sat down to consume my sandwich, bars, fruits and vegetables. I then decided to whip out my guidebook and compare it's directions to what my compass had to say. I swear: that phony lower basin was in a completely opposite direction from where Foggy was supposed to have been. But as I gazed into the direction of Foggy, all I could see were wild, jagged rocks with no sign of trails or human occupation. The guide book didn't have anything useful to say to me, and I sat there pondering my options for a while.

Then I got lucky. As I sat there alone next to Phony, instead of being greeted by the occasional "Wha, a soccer ball?"-sayer, I was met with two gung-ho guys who seemed to know the terrain inside-out. I proceeded to ask: "Hey! Any idea where I can find Lake Foggy?!" And they just had at it. Laughing that is. They saw this poor guy (yours truly), sweat drenched, finishing his cute little sandwich, and nearly defeated by the confusing basin, and just cracked up. It's all good though. You see, they actually admitted that it was indeed a good question and that they too had been "puzzled" by the lack of lake. So they generously clued me in on the secret: go straight through these rocks until you hit another small pond. There, turn right and follow the wider band of snow until you hit a water outflow. Then cross the stream until you hit another wide band of snow and follow that up until you can see water flowing at the top of the incline. Finally, follow the outflow as much as you can until you reach the lake. There I had it. The simple yet elegant solution to all my life problems. Laid out in a matter of seconds.

As you can tell, it wasn't easy, it wasn't marked, and very few people had actually made it to Foggy Lake...probably ever. You see, there were soooo many phonies around that, literally, everyone I asked swore that this or that was Foggy Lake. They were all wrong, and will have to repeat this trek and actually find this hidden gem in order to legitimately claim that they have done this hike.

Lake Foggy itself was grand and it was serene. It was void of human presence for several miles. There wasn't a noise but a few gusts of wind here and there. It was so incredibly satisfying to have finally found Foggy. I considered swimming in it, but decided not to since I was alone and since half of it was still covered with ice. Not to mention, I was still quite angry with the lake and didn't feel like getting intimate with it. So I would just take its picture several times from many angles, bid farewell, and head back in high hopes of being able to play with Wilson again at the bottom.

The return trip was much clearer. The sun was out; I was nice and warm. That’s when I found myself taking most of my pictures of the hike. I'm actually kind of glad that I missed the turn that would've led us up to Gothic on the previous day. This time around was significantly more demanding and much less sunny. Those aspects coupled with the frustration I experienced made for a much less physically pleasant experience, and would have put quite a damper on my initial impressions of the North Cascades. Not to say it wasn’t fun. It just could have been much sweeter.

Overall, not a bad hike.

Hope you've enjoyed my recollection of Gothic.