Lake Ingalls

Mt. Stuart above Lake Ingalls

9 miles round trip, 2500 feet elevation gain
Difficulty: Moderate-strenuous
Access: Bumpy gravel road to trailhead, Northwest Forest Pass required

I decided when I moved to Seattle about a year ago that I wouldn't blog about my hikes in Washington state. This was for good reason: there was a plethora of information about hiking in Washington already and I wasn't nearly as familiar with the area as I am with Virginia because, well, I didn't grow up nearby. I've reneged on that decision (somewhat); I'll be posting write-ups of hikes that I've found most rewarding since moving here and I'm a little too lazy to start a new blog altogether. Since I'll just be posting highlights rather than all my trips and I occasionally do return to Virginia, I anticipate a healthy future mix of relevant (Appalachian) and non-relevant hikes and fairly regular updates.

I couldn't not write about Lake Ingalls; it was much too good of a hike, with the trail from Ingalls Pass to the lake through Headlight Basin delivering some of the most jaw-dropping scenery and fiery fall color one could experience. The hike is perhaps a moderate-strenuous by Virginia standards; it's generally not too difficult but the trail is rocky and sometimes wet in parts and a minor bit of scrambling is required during the last quarter-mile before the lake. The rewards are ample starting from Ingalls Pass, 3 miles into the hike: the last third of the hike passes through the beautiful larch forest in Headlight Basin, offers unparalleled views of Mt. Stuart, and ends at the stark, rocky basin of the lake.

The hike is in the Teanaway, a region on the eastern (drier) side of the Cascades. The trailhead is a nearly two-and-a-half hour drive from Seattle, quite an endeavour- and the dirt road leading to the trailhead is potholed, rough, and long. It's a full day excursion from Seattle, but it's undoubtedly worth it in early to mid October, when the larches of Headlight Basin shine a golden autumnal light. On any nice weekend, the parking lot overflows with hikers from Seattle; consider a fall weekday. For the most current information on the trail, check for the latest trip reports on the hike on the Washington Trails Association website. You'll probably won't want to do this hike any earlier than July if you want to avoid large amounts of snow.

I headed to Lake Ingalls with two friends on an October weekend with overcast Seattle skies. We encountered rain on the way through Snoqulamie Pass on I-90, raising worries about the weather in the Teanaway, but we relaxed on seeing blue skies in Cle Elum. We arrived at the trailhead around 1 PM to slightly grey skies but decided to go ahead anyway. The early parts of the hike were uneventful; the trail started out by ascending alongside the North Fork Teanaway River, which here was nothing more than a stream. Within a third of a mile, we came to a junction with the Esmeralda Basin Trail; here we took the right fork uphill, towards Long Pass and Ingalls Way.

North Fork Teanaway

The trail proceeded to ascend at a moderate slope through the dry pine forests of the Teanaway. At about 1.5 miles in, the trail reached a junction with the Longs Pass Trail; we continued on Ingalls Way. At this point, many views of Esmeralda Basin opened up. The trail itself narrowed considerably, hugging the side of the mountain on open, exposed slopes and crossing a recent rockslide area.

Esmeralda Basin

After traversing the open mountain slope, we began the ascent up to Ingalls Pass. This was the more strenuous portion of the hike, with a steady uphill through an open forest to the pass itself. Arriving at Ingalls Pass brought a very sudden change in scenery: standing at the pass, Esmeralda Basin and the familiar peaks of the Teanaway were behind us, while in front us rose the incredible massif of Mt. Stuart, one of the tallest peaks in a state with some very tall mountains. Here, we first saw the golden larches; ahead of us was even more, a subalpine basin decorated with yellow foliage at the foot of rocky Ingalls Peak.

Headlight Basin and Ingalls Peak

The trail dropped slightly from the pass down into Headlight Basin, an extraordinary cirque filled with larches, fluorescent moss, a meandering stream, and head-on views of Mt. Stuart. From this viewpoint, Stuart is tremendous, a great granite prow culminating in the pinnacle of the second highest non-volcanic peak in the state. As we hiked further into the basin, we also had a unique vantage point down the deep canyon of Ingalls Creek, with the peaks of the Enchantments rising to one side and the Teanaway rising on the other.

Mt. Stuart and the larches of Headlight Basin

Larches at the headwaters of Ingalls Creek

The larches of Headlight Basin are a fascinating species- they have somehow managed to qualify as being both deciduous and coniferous. More simply, they're conifers that shed their needles in the winter; in the autumn, they put on quite a color show. Larches are quite common in the northern Cascades and Rockies; Headlight Basin is in the southern part of their range. When backlit by sunlight, the golden needles of fall larch almost seem to glow.

Larches of Headlight Basin

After meandering through the basin and enjoying its remarkable scenery, we made our way through the last half mile to the lake. This portion of the trail was poorly marked and extraordinarily rocky, making it the most difficult part of the hike. Before the hike, we had read trip reports suggesting we might see mountain goats at the lake; on our way through this rocky scramble portion, one of my friends mused whether we were expected to see goats on this hike, or just become goats. A final steep scramble up to a low rocky ridge brought us to the lake basin.

The lake was surprisingly stark and exceedingly beautiful. With the exception of some grass, the lake's environs were barren; the bare granite of the surrounding mountains reinforced that feel. From the lakeside, we could see Mt. Stuart tower over, along with the other peaks of the Stuart Range. Clouds played around Stuart's summit, casting occasional shadows over the lake.

Lake Ingalls

Due to our late start, we had to return at a brisk pace. We recrossed Ingalls Pass just before sunset and saw a stunning interplay of light, clouds, and mountain in Esmeralda Basin; after stopping briefly to admire it, we hurried the rest of the way back to the trailhead.

Sunset over Esmeralda Basin

This was a highly enjoyable and scenic hike. It's a little far from Seattle, but the trail from Ingalls Pass to the lake is beyond stunning and certainly a must-hike in autumn.

Franconia Ridge

Fall foliage on Mt. Lafayette and Mt. Lincoln

8.9 miles loop, 3800 feet elevation gain
Difficulty: Strenuous
Access: Paved road to trailhead, no fee required

The Franconia Ridge Loop ascends from a dramatic, deep pass in the White Mountains up to the stark alpine world of some of the tallest peaks in the northern Appalachians. It's a tough and rocky day hike, but it's also outlandishly scenic. The scenery along the hike is also greatly varied: in just under 9 miles, the loop visits a beautiful northern hardwood forest, a set of cascading falls, and a sub-alpine forest of spruce and fir; then, a glorious 2-mile stretch of alpine tundra along the crest of Franconia Ridge with never-ending views, before a descent to an Appalachian Mountain Club overnight hut and finally a ridgeline hike with views from outcrops during the descent to the trailhead. While this hike has great rewards, it also involves a fairly large chunk of elevation gain as well as some harsh terrain and weather; please be aware of your abilities before you attempt it.

As many readers know, I've sadly moved from Virginia (thus the paucity of recent updates); but I still miss the Appalachians dearly, especially during the fall! So when I found myself in Boston at the end of September, I couldn't pass the opportunity to see a part of the Appalachians- albeit the unfamiliar White Mountains, rather than my home Blue Ridge- during peak fall foliage. The Internet (and the folks over at Virginia Trail Guide) suggested that my best bet for a day in the White Mountains would be the Franconia Ridge Loop, which was just a tad over 2 hours driving from Boston, so I decided to hike the loop and see what the White Mountains were all about.

The hike ascends from a parking lot off I-93 opposite the Lafayette Campground on the Falling Waters Trail, then follows the Appalachian Trail from the summit of Little Haystack to Mt. Lafayette, descends via the Greenleaf Trail to the AMC Greenleaf Hut and then returns to the trailhead on the Old Bridle Path. I highly recommend doing the loop in this direction rather than the other way around, as the Falling Waters Trail is very steep and rocky and is better done uphill than down.

I arrived at the trailhead very early in the morning on an overcast Tuesday, slightly worried about whether there'd be any views; it was raining in Boston and the forecast indicated a slight chance of rain in the Whites as well. I quickly started up the trail leading behind the bathrooms, which soon split at a bridge; I crossed the bridge on the Falling Waters Trail (I would later return via the other fork on the Old Bridle Path). The trail stayed fairly flat or climbed just slightly for the next few tenths of a mile until it came to the oddly named Dry Brook, which it began to follow uphill.

In the next mile, the trail crossed the stream multiple times, passing many beautiful cascades as well. The stream level was fairly low; typical for an Appalachian stream at the beginning of fall. This made stream crossings quite easy (these were all rock hops- no bridges), but also meant that the waterfalls all fell on the drier side. They were still very beautiful and were well complemented by the colors of maple and oak and the low light caused by the clouds above. The most spectacular of these falls was Cloudland Falls, a 70 or 80 foot cascade that fanned out as it tumbled down a rock face.

Waterfall on Falling Waters Trail

Cloudland Falls

The trail here was often rocky and a little wet, with some areas requiring some mild scrambling. In wetter times, descending this trail is potentially hazardous, so I'd recommend going up and not down this trail if doing the loop on the ridge.

Past the falls, the trail climbed steadily, though never too steeply, up the west side of Little Haystack Mountain. Soon after passing Cloudland Falls, I entered into the clouds themselves; the vegetation changed from deciduous to coniferous. Soon, I found myself above the clouds: I was still in the trees, with limited views, but above the sky was blue and behind me I could faintly make out the outline of Cannon Mountain. Hoping to get to the ridgeline and its views quickly, I sped up my pace, skipping the turnoff to Shining Rock and emerging into a forest of six-foot tall conifers at three miles and two hours from the trailhead. A final push brought me to the alpine summit of Little Haystack, where I could see over a sea of clouds to Cannon Mountain and the cloud-shrouded summit of Mt. Lincoln and the brilliant fall colors of the valley directly to the east.

At the top of Little Haystack, the Falling Waters Trail intersected the white blazes of the Appalachian Trail. Here, I turned left, taking the AT north along the spine of Franconia Ridge. Unfortunately for me, clouds rolled in almost immediately after I reached the ridge, fogging out the views of the rocky Mount Lincoln and of Mounts Liberty and Flume to the south. The clouds moved quickly though, allowing occasional views that would slip away as quickly as they had come. At various points, I caught sight of Kinsman Mountain to the west and Garfield Mountain to the north; however, the summits of Lincoln and Lafayette remained largely hidden. The ascent from Little Haystack to the top of Lincoln was fairly straightforward: in spots, there was a bit of a scrambling, but the trail was generally wide and easy to follow. Although the spine of Franconia Ridge was dramatic, it also wasn't the knife edge that you'd find on peaks in the West, making it feel fairly safe.

From the top of Lincoln, standing at the second-highest point on Franconia Ridge, I still had no views; fog enveloped the ridge from all sides. Atop Mt. Lincoln, I was passed by a northbound thru-hiker- which blew my mind for just the slightest second because I was so used to the AT in Virginia, where thru-hikers were long gone by the fall. I gazed out into the fog a bit and then continued along the ridge down the north side of the peak.

At this point, the ever-mobile clouds suddenly rolled off the top of the ridge, clearing a view of the spine of Franconia Ridge and beyond that, the peak of Mt. Lafayette. Blue skies appeared: to the northwest, I could peek just slightly into the valley beyond Franconia Notch, and in front of me was the wind-swept alpine tundra of Franconia Ridge, one of the largest alpine zones in the eastern US (only the alpine zones in the Presidentials and on Katahdin are larger).

Appalachian Trail on Mt. Lincoln

I hiked a little further to a bump between the summits of Lafayette and Lincoln. The pyramidal summit of Lafayette rose directly ahead, a stunning, lordly crown of rock and tundra rising above a forest of miniature conifers.

Mount Lafayette

The summit seemed hard to gain from this vantage point, but the trail was fairly straightforward and a quick, short ascent put me atop the sixth highest peak of the Whites and the highest outside the Presidentials. The summit was a broad, rocky area with what seemed to be the stone foundations of a former building and the junction between the Greenleaf Trail and the AT. I ate my lunch at the summit, enjoying the blue sky that just hours before I had been afraid would not appear.

The views to the east remained in the clouds, but the view of the ridge and the surounding landscape was stunning and easily worth the effort needed to gain the ridge. Higher peaks remained green from the conifers; halfway down, the spruce and fir faded to golden and orange deciduous trees. In the distance, Kinsman Mountain and other peaks of the Whites floated above the low cloud layer over the Notch. Looking back south along the trail I had come, I could see the clouds dancing around the Appalachian Trail as it snaked along the ridgeline to the rocky massif of Mt. Lincoln.

Kinsman and Cannon Mountain above the clouds

View from Mt. Lafayette to Mt. Lincoln

I was unfortunately on a time crunch that afternoon to return to Boston, so I left the summit before noon and began my descent down the Greenleaf Trail. The beginning of the descent was extraordinarily scenic, with a sweeping view out towards Franconia and the valley north of the Notch. Most notably, the clouds that had accumulated at the southern end of the Notch had begun to pour through the Notch, creating a massive cloudfall at the foot of Cannon Mountain. It was a remarkable scene and it was a big pity I was somewhat rushed and couldn't spend as much time admiring it.

Cloudfall

After a good part of a mile of descending, I exited the alpine zone and returned to the conifer forests; a few hundred more yards of rocky descent and a slight uphill brought me to the Appalachian Mountain Club Greenleaf Hut, which overlooked Eagle Lake with a sweeping view of Franconia Ridge. The hut is one of the many in the White Mountains that allow for hut-to-hut hiking through the highest peaks of the range. I popped inside for a quick look and found what seemed to be comfortable looking bunks in dorm-style rooms, a big kitchen, and some reading material and maps. I also started running into many more hikers than I had previously- apparently the hike is a popular day-hike destination from the Notch.

Eagle Lake

AMC Greenleaf Hut

From the hut, I started my descent to the parking lot on the Old Bridle Path, which follows Agony Ridge. I was expecting a forested, straightforward path back down, but was pleasantly surprised by the many views along the descent. I was even more pleasantly surprised when I emerged on a rock outcrop and saw that the low clouds that had earlier filled the Notch had dispersed and that the valleys below were ablaze with fall color. And what color! The lower flanks of both Lafayette and Lincoln had been painted orange and gold. Above, the slopes turned green again, covered with conifers; even further up, the bare, rocky peaks of Franconia Ridge towered over the valley. To the south was a view of layers of mountains fading out to flatter terrain and to the west I could see the massive stone face of Cannon Mountain. I enjoyed this scenery as I descended Agony Ridge, stopping at each of the many rock outcrops.

Lincoln from the Old Bridle Path

But I had limited time and had to get back to the car; so I eventually tore myself away from the views and continued downhill at a quick pace. The rest of the trail was fairly uneventful: there were no views and no wildlife but the forest had plenty of vibrant fall color. After a long descent, the trail flattened out for a stretch and then rejoined the Falling Waters Trail. Less than an hour after I left the viewpoints on Agony Ridge, I was back in the car and on the way south to Boston.

I enjoyed my first trip to the Whites very much, enough so that I highly look forward to returning. The Franconia Ridge Loop was one of the highlights of my hiking experiences in the Appalachians: in many ways, it is quintessentially Appalachian (the rocky outcrops of Agony Ridge, the tumbling streams along the Falling Waters Trail) while in other ways, it is quite unique (the barren alpine zone along the ridge). These qualities make the hike both a summation of the Appalachian experience and an exception from it. If you're in good shape, decently experienced, and in New Hampshire during good weather, this hike is not to be missed.

Taiwan's Wuling Quadruple (武陵四秀)

View of the Central Mountain Range from the Wuling Quadruple

(I know this is supposed to be a Shenandoah hiking blog- but I'm taking two diversions to introduce two interesting international hikes that you might not have heard of.)

The first afternoon was bad. It didn't take me long to realize that I wouldn't be able to dry out my soaking sleeping bag while the torrential downpour continued just outside the shelter. The floors were nice hardwood, but at this point they had become a little muddy and wet from ten people's clothes hung up to dry in a two-hundred square foot space. The first night bordered on slightly miserable in a soggy sleeping bag at five degrees Celsius. At least two inches of rain fell between eleven AM, when we were halfway up the Chiyou Shan Trail, and early that evening.

Twenty minutes of high-altitude, low-latitude sun on the second afternoon at Taoshan Shelter was all it took to dry out my sleeping bag. Only twenty-four hours had passed, and I had gone from exhausted, hungry, and miserable to exhausted, hungry, and borderline ecstatic. Just the previous night I wasn't sure whether I would be able to summit any of this set of Taiwan's Hundred Peaks; that second night, I was tired but satisfied that I was just one last peak away from completing the quadruple.

After my sleeping bag finished drying, I walked the final couple hundred meters uphill to the open meadows at the windy summit of Taoshan. The wind bit and tugged at me as it pushed clouds into the two-mile deep valley below my feet. To the west, the setting sun's rays created a dazzling silhouette of the sharp peak of Dabajianshan. To the south and the east was the grandest sweep of mountains imaginable: from this 3325-meter high vantage point, I could see down the length of Taiwan's Central Mountain Range, from the great Nanhuda Shan in the north to the south at Yushan, the highest mountain in northeast Asia. Hours later, in the middle of the night, I woke up to see a bucket of stars splashed onto the dark canvas of the sky.

Sea of clouds below Nanhuda Shan and Zhongyangjian Shan

Taiwan is not the first place most people think of when they think mountains. Yet when I think of Taiwan, it is hard for me to think of anything but mountains: after all, over two-thirds of the island is mountainous. Spend a day in the western coastal plain of Taiwan, at Ximending in Taipei or at the docks in Kaohsiung, and it's hard to imagine there's anything remotely close to wilderness on this side of the strait. Mid-day smog fills the skyscrapper-littered basins of Taipei and Taichung, honking motor scooter traffic crowds the streets, and the direct beams of June sun shine down into the humid, heavy air of the lowlands. But hop in a car or on a scooter and head east onto the roads that narrow into a thread and before long, civilization evaporates and the mountains envelop everything.

The urban face of Taiwan: Taipei's Xinyi District

Taiwan may be a small island, but its mountains are certainly outsized. Formed by the subduction of the Philippines Plate under Eurasia, Taiwan boasts many parallel ranges of mountains, of which two, the Zhongyang Mountain Range (or the Central Mountain Range) and the Xueshan Range (or the Snow Mountain Range), have peaks that reach over 3,000 meters high (10,000 feet). The mountains top out at Yushan, which is just shy of 4,000 meters high- a height comparable to that of America's Rockies. Yet unlike the Rockies, which rise from the mile-high Plains west of Denver, the Central Mountain Range and the Snow Mountain Range both rise straight from the sea. The east coast of Taiwan is a rare place where nearly 10,000-foot high peaks stand just a longer stone's throw from the ocean. The mountains are thus incredibly sheer and steep, making for dramatic scenery and challenging hiking.

The great supply of incredible hiking and climbing has led to a great supply of local hikers in Taiwan, eager to tackle the list of Taiwan's Hundred Peaks (Baiyue). Compiled by a set of Taiwanese mountaineers in the mid-twentieth century, the list contains slightly less than half of Taiwan's over 200 peaks that are taller than 3,000 meters. Peaks were chosen either for their scenery, history, or merely for the extreme challenge; completing the list has become a mark of highest accomplishment in Taiwan's hiking community. Some of the most popular climbs in Taiwan, including the Wuling Quadruple (Wuling Sixiu, 武陵四秀), have well-constructed hiking shelters high on the mountain that make multi-day peakbagging a bit easier and more comfortable.

Dawn light on Xueshan, the second highest mountain in Taiwan

During a summer visit to Taiwan, I decided to knock off four of the Hundred Peaks by attempting the Wuling Quadruple: a set of four challenging peaks along a ridgeline high above the Wuling Valley in the Snow Mountain Range. While these peaks are nowhere near the highest in Taiwan, they were located in the heart of one of the most famously scenic regions of the Snow Mountain Range. While the Wuling Quadruple is quite well known to Taiwan's hikers, it's often overshadowed by its more famous neighbors: Xueshan, or Snow Mountain, which is the second highest peak in Taiwan, and Dabajianshan, a distinct barrel-shaped sharp peak featured on the back of the five-hundred New Taiwan Dollar note. The most celebrated high-mountain route in Taiwan links these two summits: the Holy Ridge. This line of 3,000-meter high peaks has some of Taiwan's most beautiful mountains and most difficult hiking, with roped descents of the Sumida cliffs and trails on the ridge's narrow spine north of Xueshan. The Wuling Quadruple is set perpendicular to the Holy Ridge and is the perfect location to study the ridge's great peaks.

The full Holy Ridge from Kalahei: Xueshan on the left and Dabajianshan on the right

The three-day-long hike began the evening before we hit the trail, at the train station in the small city of Fengyuan. Our guide, who told us to call him A-liang, picked us up at 7 PM that Thursday evening. The group was me and a handful of weekend warriors from all around Taiwan: a software engineer from Hsinchu, a couple from Tainan, a woman from Muzha who had just climbed Nanhuda Shan a few months earlier and fallen for hiking in the island's highest mountains. Each carried a 30-pound pack of gear and clothes that they would have to lug up two vertical miles in the coming days. The drive to Wuling was long and uncomfortable. Although Wuling Valley is in Taichung County, the same county as Fengyuan, the easiest and least dangerous way to get to it was to go around the entire north end of the island and loop down. The mountains in Taiwan are so steep and the geological events in Taiwan are so extreme that many of the routes leading into the deep mountains have been severed: earthquakes and torrential typhoon rains bring massive landslides that pull down the slopes of many mountains. The safest route in the mountains was thus one that stuck to the coast for hours before a final two-hour winding ascent to the valley. By the time we pulled out our sleeping bags for the night's rest, it was already 2 AM.

The next morning, we began our three-day adventure. At the trailhead, the path we were about to take seemed tauntingly simple: a steep climb from the valley bottom up to the ridge and an overnight at Xinda Shelter the first night, summit the westernmost two peaks the second day and come to Taoshan Shelter, just short of Taoshan's summit, on the second day, and hike out to the easternmost summit, Kalahei, on the morning of the third day before descending back to the trailhead that afternoon. On paper, it sounded incredibly straightforward. And for the first hour, it was very straightforward: we followed a broad, paved, gentle hiking trail up towards the Taoshan Waterfall. But just before reaching the waterfall, we left the beaten path and started our way up a narrow trail through the Wuling forest up Chiyou Shan's north ridge. The trail was very direct: in the next three kilometers, we climbed a thousand meters, an incredible average 20-degree grade.

The slopes of Chiyou Shan

As we climbed, views began opening behind us on occasion. The jagged peak of Zhongyangjian Shan stuck out above the clouds at first. But as the day progressed, the mountains began gathering the clouds, and by shortly before noon, the sky was looking ominous. Just after we transitioned from hiking in a subtropical rain forest to hiking in a subalpine hemlock forest, the rain arrived: gentle at first, then downpours. We picked up the pace to cover the rest of the distance to Xinda Shelter as quickly as possible. The trail became a mudpit laced with slippery roots and unstable rock ledges. I stumbled forward through the ridgetop fields of cane until arriving at the shelter. Waterproof gear was almost useless against the two-inch downpour that had just occurred: everything I had brought was soaked.

Yet just before the sunset, the sky very suddenly cleared. Nanhudashan and Zhongyangjian Shan, two of the most impressive members of the northern Central Mountain Range, rose across the valley from us above a small cloud sea.

The view from Xinda Shelter

Mountaineering in Taiwan always means early mornings. We were on the trail before 4 AM the next morning, heading towards the summit of Pintian Shan. The second day did not start well: I didn't sleep well because my sleeping bag was soaked and I was beginning to feel the altitude, since Xinda Shelter was at over 10,000 feet in elevation. When we hit the trail in headlamps, I wasn't sure at all that I would have enough energy to summit any of the four peaks. I found myself wondering what I had gotten myself into: I was cold, a little wet, very tired, quite out of breath, and going further still up a mountain.

But as dawn approached, I started to feel better, and as we reached the meadows high on the slopes of Pintian Shan, it finally became light enough for me to appreciate the view. And what a view! We stopped right before the Pintian U-shaped cliffs to watch the sun rise over an endless array of mountains. Pintian Shan was just across a small chasm and behind Pintian Shan was the incredible chain of peaks of the Holy Ridge, bathed in a fiery red dawn light. The sight was both beautiful and encouraging; my mild altitude sickness began to fade a little and summiting Pintian didn't seem so crazy after all.

Sunrise at Pintian Shan

The summit of Pintian Shan in morning light

Pintian U-shaped cliffs

Well, it didn't seem so crazy until I looked down. The Pintian U-shaped cliffs are exactly what they sound like: the ridgeline of the Wuling Quadruple makes a steep drop just before the summit of Pintian that takes the shape of a U. Reaching the summit involved descending a crumbling shale face by rope and then ascending another cliff of loose scree to reach the summit. A very narrow saddle connected the two sides of the U and on both sides of the saddle, there were deep, thousand-foot drop-offs. I would have to navigate this last obstacle just to summit my first peak of the set.

Descending the Pintian cliffs

It didn't end up being as bad as it sounded. Twenty minutes later, I had scrambled to the very highest of Pintian's many layers of sedimentary rock and I stood a full vertical mile above the bottom of Wuling Valley. The 360-view was a mindblowing set of endless peaks, including both Xueshan, Taiwan's second highest peak, Yushan, its highest peak, and Dabajianshan, its most interestingly shaped mountain. The early morning light scattered bits of gold throughout the mountainscape. With the exception of a few white and red specks that were high mountain shelters, there was no sign of human civilization anywhere. Even an island with a population density greater than Dallas, Texas can have vast expanses of wilderness.

View of Zhongyangjian from Pintian Shan

The view eastward

Mutebulu, one of the great peaks of the Holy Ridge

We arrived back at Xinda Shelter at 8 in the morning- just in time for lunch. After a brief lunch, we hiked to the summit of Chiyou Shan, the second of the quadruple. This summit was easily attained and featured superb views of Dabajianshan and Xueshan, as well as the sedimentary layers of Pintian Shan, where we had been earlier in the day. The top of the mountain was littered with rhododendrons: we had come just in time to see the most beautiful of Taiwan's high mountain wildflowers bloom.

Dabajianshan from Chiyou Shan

Rhododendrons and Pintian Shan

What passed for a trail

As if the hike hadn't been physically demanding enough up to that point, the trail leaving Chiyou Shan plunged down into a deep saddle before climbing back uphill to Taoshan Shelter, our destination for the second day. On paper, it looked manageable: a little over a thousand feet of descent in a kilometer, followed by a little over a thousand feet of uphill in less than a kilometer to reach the shelter. It approached living hell.

The 1.9-km stretch of trail between Chiyou Shan and Taoshan had some of the roughest terrain of the entire hike. The ridgeline between the peaks was not a straightforward descent and ascent; instead, it involved numerous rocky humps requiring treacherous scrambling and descents down wet, slippery rock slopes interlaced with tree roots at angles greater than 45 degrees. It took one hour and two tumbles to descend to the saddle; afterward, we just had to do the same thing again, only uphill. As we did, the clouds began to roll in, raising the threat of rain.

With an extra dose of luck, we did reach the shelter before any rain hit, arriving at just after noon. Instead of raining, the sky ended up clearing a little, letting in enough intense sun for me to dry out my gear.

Dying rays of the sun from Taoshan

We were up again at 3 AM the next morning, stumbling in the dark up to the summit of Taoshan and then down the incredibly steep trail on the northeast face of the mountain. The trail from Taoshan to Kalahei is a story of roots, roots, blowdown, rocks, and more roots on long stretches of descent. Kalahei is the lowest of the quadruple and thus climbing this mountain meant going downhill.

The Wuling Quadruple trail is not impressive in length: it is a 3-day hike that covers less than 20 miles. But those three days involved about 10,000 feet of elevation gain across extremely rough terrain. The rewards were incredible, but the effort required was also incredible. It remains one of the most difficult hikes I've done. Yet at some point when I stood on Kalahei, looking out over a sea of clouds on the Lanyang Plain and then back at the rugged mountains of the Holy Ridge, I felt a wave of contentment settle in and that the post-descent creaky knees, slipping and falling on the rocky Kalahei terrain, endless ascents, even longer descents, spending a night in a wet sleeping bag, altitude-induced discomfort- all of that was worth this one moment.

Dawn over a sea of clouds at Kalahei

Views of the Central Mountain Range from Kalahei

On our way back from Kalahei, we all reveled in the incredible scenery and our newly minted bond from the shared struggle of finishing the quadruple. The sky was bluer than ever. Our guide, A-liang turned to us and joked, "The weather is getting better each day we hike! Let's not go back today and just keep hiking, then it will only get better."

He was right. The mountains in Taiwan are a challenge for any hiker. But if you put up with the difficulty of getting to the trailhead, lugging a pack up a vertical mile in slippery terrain, and a torrential downpour, it will only get better. And the inspiring views were only enhanced when I realized what I had to go through to get there.

The descent back to Wuling

Want to go? You'll need a mountain-entry police permit and a Shei-Pa National Park permit to hike up. And if it's your first time hiking in Taiwan, don't think about going without a guide. Wa-ha Mountain Friends leads decent Chinese-language guided hikes, while Taiwan Adventures has English-speaking guides. I have not hiked with Taiwan Adventures before; this is for your reference and not a recommendation.

The Tour du Mont Blanc

Ascending the wildflower meadows to Grand Col Ferret in the shadow of Mont Dolent

We could hear the soft roar of a nearby stream tumbling down the the meadowed slopes. An artist's palette of colors were splattered onto the open alpine meadows: rhododendron, lilies, and golden cinquefoil were everywhere. "This is my office," Francoise joked. "If you call me, I will pick up here and say 'Hallo! I am in my office right now.'"

She turned around and we resumed our ascent, following a small, "secret" trail through the most colorful wildflower gardens imaginable to the human mind. Overhead, great glaciers spilled down the slopes of Mont Dolent, the sharp peak that sat astride the borders of France, Switzerland, and Italy. After two hours of substantial huffing and puffing, passing by the Rifugio Elena, the steady uphill flattened out to a grand grassy saddle. The Grand Combin's heavily glaciated massif floated high across the Swiss Val Ferret as we stood atop the Grand Col Ferret, with one foot in Switzerland and one in Italy.

Francoise, our guide, beckoned us to a meadow just above the pass with a view straight down the Italian Val Ferret to the snowy patches at Col de la Seigne, where we had lunched just two days before. Right before us rose the Petit Jorasses: despite its name, it was a most impressive granite spire, with nearly vertical cliffs dropping to the floor of the upper Dora Baltea watershed. The scene was a sensory overload: where should I look? But that is even more beautiful! Oh look, we were there a day ago! Are those more cows? Overwhelmed by my senses and weighed down by lunch, I was swept by a wave of pleasant drowsiness and napped a half-hour in the meadows under the sun. I was barely distinguishable from a marmot.

My mother went glissading for the first time after lunch. The path down the north side of the pass was still covered in snow, so Francoise proposed a simple way downhill: by butt. The idea seemed disagreeable with my mom. She had taken me sledding a couple of times when I was much younger and it snowed in Virginia- but not until we stood atop the Grand Col Ferret did I realize that she had only watched me go sledding and had never bothered to sled with me. But when she finally plucked up the courage to sit down on the snow and let go, she found it exhilirating and was disappointed when we ran into no more snow patches that day. Above us, we saw Swiss children who were in summer camp slide down the snow banks at the Col and later heard them sing as they hiked downhill through the wildflower meadows and grazing cows.

Yet, as Francoise explained, this landscape had not always been so idyllic. For many Italians in Mussolini's state, this was one of the few escapes to neutral Switzerland. And to the refugees of the most devestating world war, clear days like that day at the pass would have meant a hail of fire from Italian forces at the border. Most refugees traveled in thick fog, when the zero visibility protected them from bullets but made the many cliff edges and snow banks so much more dangerous.

My feet were sore at the end of the day, having hiked over 50 miles of the nearly 100-mile, ten-day trek. Luckily, the end of each day came with a shower and bed and the end of this particular day came with a serving of raclette- boiled potatoes smothered in a burnt local cheese- in the Swiss hamlet of La Fouly.

Chamonix-Mont-Blanc, nestled in the Valley of the Arve

Six days earlier, we set out from Chamonix, the French resort town, on a ten-day, hundred-mile, three-country hike, with a total elevation gain equal to the height of the Himalayas, that circled Mont Blanc, Monte Bianco, the White Mountain, the tallest peak in the Alps and in Europe outside the Caucasus. Having never hiked in Europe, we chose to do the loop with a guide. This was a very wise decision- Francoise, a guide from the Chamonix Guides' Company, not only knew the route and some secret, scenic detours, but was an encyclopedia of the Alps. She introduced us to the French cheesemakers of the Alpage Beaufort, helped us identify and pick chantarelles in the forests above Val Montjoie, pointed out the edelweiss growing by the memorial to Courmayeur Guides, recounted the area's history from the Romans to Mussolini to the Mont Blanc Tunnel, and jokingly reminded us that although the Tour visited three countries, Mont Blanc was most certainly French.

The Tour du Mont Blanc was a tour of seven valleys: the Chamonix Valley, or the Valley of the Arve, a great Alpine river, was our start point. From there, we progressed over the forested slopes near the Col de Voza into the Val Montjoie and Les Contamines; then over the backbone of the Alps themselves on a lengthy day over Col du Bonhomme and Col de la Croix du Bonhomme to the Vallee des Glaciers. Crossing Col de la Seigne brought us into Italy, Val Veni, and Courmayeur. Our stay in Italy was short, ending as we left the Italian Val Ferret via Grand Col Ferret into the Swiss Val Ferret. From the resort town of Champex above the Swiss Val Ferret, the tour climbs through the Bovine and down to Vallee du Trient and Col de la Forclaz. A final climb brought us to Col de Balme, the triumphant return into France and the Chamonix Valley.

Some long-distance treks are about losing oneself in a vast wilderness. Some treks are pilgrimage routes that touch on human history and culture. The Tour du Mont Blanc is neither and both at the same time. The views from Col du Bonhomme or the Lacs des Chersey seem stunningly wild. Yet almost every night of the trek ended at a village with a small church, a centuries-old bread oven, and a local cheese unique to its particular mountain valley.

The view from the Vallee des Glaciers cheese factory

Beaufort cheese wheels in the cave

For certainly one reason to hike the Tour du Mont Blanc is for the cheese- perhaps it should be called the Tour du fromage du Mont Blanc (pardon my poor French). Early in the hike, the focus was the Reblochon of Les Contamines, a charming town with a beautiful church down the valley from Col du Bonhomme. The day after enjoying the creamy, rich flavor of the Reblochon, we hiked passed beautiful brown cows grazing on the flowers below either side of Col de la Croix du Bonhomme and spent most of the day in close proximity to the low clangs of their cowbells. That night, before dinner at our auberge, we accompanied other hikers from our group to the chevrerie of Les Chapieux. This local cheese store promised us the king of cheeses- the Alpage Beaufort, a cheese made from raw milk of the cows who grazed in the high mountains of Savoy, perhaps the very cows we had passed on our hike that day. The firm, almost sharp cheese lived up to its billing. The very next morning, before beginning our ascent to Col de la Seigne, Francoise brought us to meet her friends at the cheese factory in Vallee des Glaciers. The smell of aging dairy was as impressive as the many wheels of alpage Beaufort in the factory's cave. One of our group remarked at how industrialized our mindsets had become: we would never have pictured a cheese factory as an operation occupying only two small stone houses, run by a handful of cheerful Savoyards using milk collected fresh from the mountain meadows up the trail.

Cows grazing beneath dolomite cliffs in upper Val Montjoie

Entering Italy meant many things, but mainly it meant Fontina. During our night at the Rifugio Bonatti, high above the Italian Val Ferret, we had our vegetable soup with a thick slice of Fontina, the semi-soft cheese of the Val d'Aosta. The next night was La Fouly and Swiss raclette. The dinner following that was even more eye-opening: rosti, the ultimate Swiss comfort food. Think hash browns, with plenty of butter and even more cheese and an egg on top. Continental dinner might have even outdone American breakfast. I was glad we hiked enough each day to justify the rich meals we enjoyed each evening.

The sound of the Tour is the sound of cowbells. During our second day, we heard the low clang of brass bells in the breeze for the first time at Le Truc, a plateau above the Miage Valley. At the time, we were all fascinated by the sound, but by day eight, during our traverse of the Bovine, everyone but me had concluded that cowbells were more or less a nuisance. The Bovine Route is appropriately named: the path between Champex and Col du Tricot passed by countless cows on endless meadows walled off by electric fencing. Francoise informed us that each cow had a slightly different bell with a slightly different tone and that both herders and cows could recognize other cows by their bell tone. The bells are thus not only useful for herders when their cows wander off in the fog, but may also help some grazing cows find their friends.

View over the Rhone Valley

The Bovine was the northernmost reach of our hike. It was also one of our closest brushes with the world outside the Alpine paradise of the Tour. Here, the trail followed a high Alpine balcony above the valley of the Rhone River. Looking into the valley below, we could see the heart of Switzerland's Valais canton: the town of Martigny, Swiss farmland, and even Lac Leman (or Lake Geneva) in the distance. Yet the view was marred slightly by smog over Lake Geneva that obscured the hills of the Jura in the far distance. Even in the Alps, it's hard to escape air pollution.

The Swiss Val Ferret

Just the day before, we had hiked along the Swiss Val Ferret from La Fouly to Issert and then climbed out of the charming valley to the beautiful lakeside resort town of Champex. The incredible scenery was expected; the aging signs of Switzerland's intense militarization were less expected. The morning was idyllic as we hiked from town to town in the valley, passing by gardens populated with gnomes. The afternoon gave reminder that even this landscape felt the pressure of the twentieth century's major political struggles. High above the valley near the Swiss town of Orsieres, we passed a set of abandoned Swiss military bunkers. At the height of the Cold War, Switzerland built batteries into its mountains, placing artillery above its own towns, apparently so that they would be able to shell their own towns were they ever to fall into unfriendly hands. In a highly polarized era of world history, Switzerland took drastic steps to ensure its neutrality and its independence.

Lily and the Domes de Miage

We discovered the rhododendrons on the first day of the hike, as we followed the Grand Balcon Sud above Chamonix, but we did not stumble upon the first of the true wildflower meadows until we finished the steep ascent into the Miage Valley on the second day of the Tour. The flowers appeared in patches at first: some here, some a little further along; but as we hiked closer towards the glaciated face of the Domes de Miage, the flower density grew. Even on that cloudy day, with no sun in sight, we found a rainbow among the Alpine meadow grasses.

Edelweiss at the Guides' memroial in Courmayeur

Wildflower meadows above the Vallee des Glaciers

View of the Mer de Glace and rhododendrons along the Grand Balcon Sud

One flower we had particularly hoped to see was edelweiss, the Alpine flower that Captain Von Trapp sat and sang about to an Austrian audience during the climax of The Sound of Music. Francoise told us that we were still a bit early for seeing edelweiss bloom, but we did chance upon it in Courmayeur. Next to a memorial to the mountain guides fallen in their line of work, we found a small clump of white flowers. They were agreeably small and white, but I'm not so sure about the clean and bright part; they were a much less traditional-looking wildflower than I imagined.

The wildflowers of the Grand Balcon Nord

The wildflowers, we soon found, were contagious. It seemed that an epidemic of brightly colored flowers of every kind had settled on the Alps, but we didn't mind and I don't think the cows did, either. Every day, the wildflowers seemed more plentiful than the day before. We found some of the most spectacular displays in Italy, as we hiked along the Grand Balcon Nord, a high mountain balcony opposite the sheer faces of the greatest peaks of the Alps.

The Grand Balcon Nord was perhaps the most dramatic leg of the entire hike. The morning of the fifth day was a steep, long, nearly 3000-foot climb from Courmayeur up the side of Mont de la Saxe to the balcony trail. The forested uphill trail did not level out until it reached Rifugio Bertone, but when it did pause, the reward was jaw-dropping. The Italian balcony afforded a view across the deep Val Ferret to a great wall of Alpine peaks. Among these included Pointe Helbronner, the Grandes Jorasses, and, of course, Mont Blanc. The great Brenva Glacier flowed down the white mountain's southeastern slope, but ended well short of where its rocky terminal moraine marked its former reach, just above the valley floor. Even all this beauty was tinged with a note of sadness: Francoise had recounted the day before how all the great glaciers of the Alps were in fast retreat, and how the Tre-la-Tete Glacier, which now lies high above Val Veni, was once close enough to the Tour itself that many guides would hike up to it.

Mont Blanc and the moraine of the great Brenva Glacier

The afternoon was filled with easy hiking along the mountainside meadows. We stopped for lunch at a small flat meadow high on the balcony, directly opposite the Grandes Jorasses. While we enjoyed a lunch of fresh bread and cheese, cornishons, and salad that we had packed that morning in Courmayeur, we were joined by a friendly dog looking for handouts. Of course, Francoise knew him as well; apparently, he was a farmer's dog, who often ran up to Tour route, hoping that an overwhelming ambush of cuteness would result in a piece of pate. Like Francoise, he had an enviable office.

A friendly encounter on the Grand Balcon Nord

The day almost exactly mirrored Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. After a morning and a bit of afternoon hiking the gorgeous meadows imaginable, the fourth movement arrived just after we arrived at the Rifugio Bonatti, our one night in the mountains.

A storm arrives- the Alps fade

The blue sky and white cumulus quickly turned into a dark pile of cumulonimbus. The jagged teeth of the granite peaks across the valley captured the clouds, stacking them one atop the other until the weight was too much. A crack, a flash was followed by a rolling, resounding boom. Few things sound more authoritative, more commanding than the endless echo of thunder among the mountains of the Alps. We stayed (perhaps unwisely) out on the porch of the refuge, gazing at the sublimity of the lightning bolts that danced atop the roof of Europe. Seconds later, I saw dust arising from high on the Grandes Jorasses- the storm had triggered a rockfall. The mountains, far from everlasting, seemed like they would crumble any moment in the violence of the storm. The rain set in afterwards, driving us indoors to the picture books of Walter Bonatti and warm vegetable soup with Fontina.

The Alpine air was crisp and cold before the next morning's sunrise. As the full moon began to drop towards the horizon, the first rays of pink light began to paint the snows at the summit of Mont Blanc. The pink creeped slowly down the mountain, illuminating just a little more of the mountain's vertical southeast face, until it turned suddenly into a deep gold that basked not only the highest peak of the Alps, but also the Grandes Jorasses and the rest of the Italian Alpine ramparts. But even among this most impressive wall of mountains, Mont Blanc rose clearly as the monarch of the Alps.

Sunrise on Mont Blanc at Rifugio Bonatti

The summit of Mont Blanc is a dizzying 4810 meters above sea level- nearly 16,000 feet high. The mountain rises two and a half vertical miles from the towns of Chamonix and Courmayeur on either side. The cheese, cows, and wildflowers were convincing enough reasons to spend ten days hiking, but the hike isn't the Tour du Fontina, or the Tour of rhododendrons. Mont Blanc is the most impressive and most convincing reason to do this hike in the first place. It is the tallest mountain in the Alps, and the tallest peak in Europe outside the Caucasus. The white mountain is so tall that it is covered in permanent ice: Mont Blanc is at the head of the second longest glacier in the Alps, the Mer de Glace, the sea of ice. This great glacier is where many concepts of glacial geology were formalized: this was once the stomping ground of men named Agassiz and Forbes. From Chamonix, the thick glacier cap atop the peak gives the summit a shiny gleam; from the Italian side, the sheer rock face of the mountain makes Monte Bianco dark and dramatic.

Although it is visible on just six days of the trip, it dominated the landscape every second that it was visible. Nowhere was that more apparent than at the border crossings into Italy and later back into France. The rocky Col de la Seigne marks the border of France and Italy and the re-emergence of Mont Blanc after two days. At the pass, the wild, icy summit rises out of the surrounding range, the grandest of a dazzling collection of granite spires.

Mont Blanc at Col de la Seigne

No less impressive was the view at grassy Col de Balme, where we reentered France after a three-day jaunt through Switzerland. Here, the mountain was regal, robed in thick glaciers, the most impressive of which was the Bossons, which poured directly from the summit down Mont Blanc's northwest face. Far below, we could see Chamonix, the town where we had started our journey nine days before.

Mont Blanc from Col de Balme

Yet the most emotional day of the hike was the last, when we left Col des Montets in the morning and ascended to the Grand Balcon Sud. After nine days and over 25,000 feet of climbing, the final morning involved a last 2,500-foot uphill climb from the low col up to the wildflower meadows and lakes of the great French balcony trail. A year before, I had discouraged my parents from attempting this hike at all. Their sixtieth birthdays were in the rearview mirror; a ten-day, hundred-mile, thirty-thousand-foot-gain hike seemed out of their reach. But through some combination of training, stubbornness, and will, the last uphill was before us and they were both still game.

For some reason, that last climb felt especially long. We climbed uphill, bit by bit, with encouragement from Francoise and widening views of the Dents du Midi, the peaks near the Rhone Valley, and the great snowy pinnacle of Aiguille Verte to drive us forward. I could tell my mother was tired: she had seemed ready to fold since we entered Switzerland. But she didn't give up. As the sun approached directly overhead, we turned a corner and finally found ourselves atop the Balcon, with an incredible view of the royal Mont Blanc. My parents had proved me wrong: they had completed the Tour du Mont Blanc.

On that last day, we enjoyed to the fullest the simple day-to-day pleasures of hiking the Tour: we drank fennel tea and ate biscuits in the morning with a view of the Argentiere Glacier, napped in the sunshine on the upper slopes of the Aigulles Rouge, and walked around the Lacs des Cherseys, tiny teardrop lakes with spectacular alpine backdrops. I even took a quick dip in one of the lakes, which provided a cold contrast to the warm Alpine summer day. Finally, we spent the afternoon following the gentle trail through the Balcon, gazing out on slopes of rhododendron, hidden waterfalls in the balcony's cliffsides, and the sharp granite needles that rose above the Mer de Glace on the other side of the Val d'Arve. And then suddenly, it was all over: arriving at Le Flegere, some hugs, everyone posing for a picture, and before we knew it we were back in the hotel room in Chamonix where we had nervously anticipated the hike ten mornings before.

Lacs des Cherseys

Trips can often seem like a dream: you wake up the morning after getting home and realize that, were it not for your sore legs, the whole trip might've been a dream between the previous day of normal life and this one. This trip, in particular, felt like a dream afterward: much of it was so idyllic that it was hard to imagine it truly happened. But whenever I hear a sound that remotely resembles a cowbell or see Fontina d'Aosta in the cheese aisle of the supermarket, I recall what it felt like to nap in the Alpine sunshine during that dream.

Returning to the Chamonix Valley through Col de Balme

Want to go? The Tour du Mont Blanc is relatively easy for a long distance trek, but it is still a long distance trek: you'll need to be in decent shape. While it's possible to trek it alone, it's more fun and less work going with a knowledgable guide. REI organizes well-run guided TMB hikes.