The Bailey Range Traverse

The Bailey Range Traverse

August 19th, 2017

My interest was piqued. Chatting after a 50k race that circumnavigated Mount Saint Helens, the man sitting across from me said, “I heard it’s a long 24 hours”. Others warned of at least a three to four day trek. A friend had bailed off a month ago due to snow. Indeed, another journey, another day. How long would it take? How far was it? The unknown. Two weeks later I was getting out of bed at one in the morning and headed for the trail head. The plan was to start at the Sol Duc and finish at the Sol Duc - traversing the Bailey Range to Mount Olympus, continuing on to the Hoh River Trail and climbing up the Hoh Lake Trail back up to Seven lakes Basin, and from there back to Sol Duc. 

I started up the Sol Duc River Trail and considered the long day to come. Still half asleep, grogginess permeated my consciousness as I forged through a tunnel of old growth trees illuminated by my headlamp while the rhythmic beat of my ice ax bounced along with my body's undulations. Time sprinted by. Before I knew it, the early dawn started to distinguish ridges and shapes on the dark landscape around me, while the crescent moon relaxed herself into the horizon.

Ascending to the sub alpine; heather and fir trees sprinkled in tiny orbs of dew. As I climbed up toward the High Divide, I gazed down on Heart Lake. Half shaded by trees and gently illuminated by the light of the rising sun.

Continuing to the crest of the ridge line, the trail meandered through the trees and heather meadows, making way to the cat walk along the ridge. The path became an ascending sin wave staircase of root and rock. The shoulder of Mount Carrie lifted me to the sky. Meadows reduced to sparse patches of grass intermingled among scree fields. My sight drifting down, admiring the marine layer crawling up the Hoh River Valley from the ocean.

I dig in. Claws up front grasping to occasional solid rock, searching for any purchase on loose scree. Toes finding a stable island of rock or sinking into soft slope. Getting one step up while losing two precious steps back to gravity. The glorious sight of the sun taunts from the opposite side of Carrie. Almost to summit, almost to warmth, almost to waking light.

The summit of Mount Carrie. Views expansive, flooding my consciousness. Vivid memories imprinted that I wont forget. A glimpse of remoteness. That feeling is a very rare occurrence. Out there - further. The Bailey Range sprawling and undulating. Expanses of rock and snow. A heavenly trail above the primeval rain forest. To the south, Olympus Massif, a standing kingdom of white shattered by protruding black crags. The distance to the Massif a lifetime away. After a break for water and food, I don glacier glasses and microspikes and step onto Carrie Glacier.

Following along the snow ridge in the middle of the glacier that leads a curved route that traverses below Ruth Peak... Ruth entices. A route to summit? I decide no. Knowledge of the route is lacking I've got many more miles to cover in very little time.

Onward I march to the steep eastern finger of Carrie Glacier. 

Cracked ice glistening in the sun. Snow melted off the steeper section of the glacier incites a decision: with only the microspikes, climbing up the solid rock to the right of the glacier would be a safer route.


I climb up glacier-polished rock. Hand holds are sparse. Hitting a difficult patch, I splay out on the smooth dome of rock, reaching. My body finds tiny protrusions allowing ascent. Success! After that, easy and loose rock lead to the sun-baked snow field above.

I eye the ridge crest for the gully descending to Stephen Lake. Peeking my head through the gaps between the rocky spires for the descent.  I follow a ramp that descends down to loose rock and snow fields. I glissade down the snow fields as far as possible. The wide open gully funnels down into a creek that cuts down to Stephen Lake. I hop from rock to rock along the cascading creek bed, less difficult than navigating the loose, steep scree slopes.

The creek disperses across a delta into tiny streams of water all finding their own rambling path to the azure lake.

Ascending Mount Stephen, I stick to a snowfield to avoid the frustratingly loose scree. Eventually, the scree is the only option. The climb is steep and long, one of the biggest of the day. I finally reached the top of a broad ridge a few hundred feet below Mount Stephen. Still holding a reservoir of energy, I make a small detour and find the jagged summit of Mount Stephen.

The descent is gradual on the ridge. Snowfields and rock are traded for trees and meadows. I follow trails. They are so faint it is hard to tell whether they are game or faint paths left by past traverses. I stay up high, and when a view of Ferry Basin appears, I descend. The view is picturesque. A network of streams and game trails meander through the heather and stunted firs. Alpine pools and streams glisten in the midday sun. What a paradise.


I linger for a while taking in the heavenly basin. I eat some much needed nutrition and wash it down with a small stream running off the snowfields of Mount Ferry. I climb a short snow field and a gently sloping ridge up to the summit of Mount Ferry. On the descent, the view to the right is a beautiful lake, still coated in snow and ice even in August.

I skip Mount Pulitzer this time. Skirting around on its east shoulder and descending down to Lone Tree Pass. I search for elk in Goldie Basin, but there are none to see.

I descend down a bare ridge off of Pulitzer Pass. Eventually returning to snow. I travel through a gully with the Urchin and Ragamuffin to the left. The names are fitting. Sharks teeth, devil's fangs, and demon talons would all be suitable names. I move over sun holes and snow crests making my way toward Mount Childs. After ascending up a ridge of snow I am surprised to see two humans making there way across the traverse. They are probably just as surprised. They have just come up from the Elwha Snow Finger and they say that it is nonexistent this time of year and a horrendous path without snow, a maze of slide alder and steep slopes of loose rock. Sounds like a typical bushwhack in the Olympics.


I approach the summit of Mount Childs. My thighs growing heavier as I ascend over loose rock interspersed with jagged chunks. I reach the apex and admire the sharp needled peaks below.

Bear Pass glacier is only a mile and a half away and I make my way over rock and snow towards it. Once on the glacier I realize how tired I am. My feet sinking into the sun-cooked snow encourages my growing fatigue. At the top of Bear Pass glacier I overlook the glorious Queets Basin. Remote as all hell. Has anyone been here? Gray and black rock spotted with white snow patches. Mount Barnes stands out, her snow fields glinting in the sun. Many tiny streams accumulate into the headwaters of the Queets River. I descend easy terrain into the basin and make my way past cascading creeks, rock, and mounds of heather.

Stepping off the scree and rocks I enter a meadow. I spot a bear meandering around down below, looking for whatever a bear looks for. He pays no mind to me. I head for low brush clinging to the hillside. Traversing towards Humes Glacier I start to have trouble in the brush. Steep, steep, steep. I cling to brush and branch. I even bring out my ice ax to grip the steep hills. I find a rotten tree torn to pieces by a bear and the biggest pile of bear scat I’ve ever seen. I have to descend and ascend two steep ravines still using my ice ax on the loose slopes. Frustrated and sun burnt, I did not want to deal with route confusion this far in. After descending the last ravine, I find myself staring at the north drainage of the Humes Glacier. I maneuver through the drainage, a maze of boulders and rocks smoothed by glacial movements. I climb up slabby rock ledges and view the sprawling glacier with a silty lake at her terminus. The glacier resembles a dirty ice cube. I walk up easily with my spikes on bare ice, happy that there is no soft snow, no crevasses. Tiny rivulets run down grooves in the glacier and a few small moulins dot the surface.

I climb over Blizzard Pass and make a detour. I climb Circe for my last summit of the day. The sun descends through wispy clouds. The rocky peaks of the Olympus Massif silhouetted in front of blue sky and golden sunset.

I move down snow fields to the Hoh Glacier. For a split second, anxiety that the route does not go makes my mind whirl. A symptom of weariness and low calories. Of course it goes through, and I eke out a whoop.

I maneuver slowly through the cracks of the Hoh Glacier being cautious, and marvel at the rock of Mount Mathias towering regally above the ice.

I climb over Glacier Pass from Hoh to Blue Glacier. I watch small blocks of ice clatter down the ice falls.


The sun drops behind the blue ice and the sky turns orange. I feel a surge of energy, the end of one leg of the journey done. I run down the gently sloped Blue Glacier and jump the two foot wide crevasses.

I make my way to the lateral moraine, the end of the glacier covered with dark rocks and rough ice. I get to the top of the moraine and look back at the glaciers and rocks. Ice ax and spikes away, jacket on. I take a quick 15 minute nap under the orange sky. 



I wake up, eat a few dates, and continue on. Through the dark I move down the Hoh river trail feeling a relief to be back on easier trail. Easier terrain. Easier route finding. Weariness takes over. I only make it to the Hoh Bridge before another 15 minute nap is needed. I set the timer and lay down with the roar of the river below me. I wake up before the alarm, something startling me into consciousness, and keep moving. 

I turn right on to the Hoh Lake Trail and start my long climb back to Seven Lakes Basin. I make it a mile before my drunken stumbling and head spinning bring me to the ground for another dirt nap. I take a few more during the climb, each nap limited by getting so cold I would wake up. The climb is relentless. The longest climb of my life, 4000 feet up from Hoh River to Hoh Lake. A spiral staircase of switchbacks that make me dizzy, coercing me to another nap. I’m finally at the top. A pleasant summer wind blows as I follow the dark trail home. I make an attempt to search for mountain blueberries, but the search is further exhausting me and I only nab a few. I pass lupines and open meadows, painted in darkness, sleepy and covered in dew. The last few miles is a hobble. I stub my toe, but it feels like my whole foot, over and over. Weary legs barely able to pick up my feet which have turned to lead. More switchbacks. More rocks. Through the forest, a gentle gray light blooms slowly. I hear the roar of the Sol Duc Falls. More switch backs. Will those damn falls ever appear? There they are! Roaring and misty. Over the bridge. Clank clank the ice ax bounces again. The trail smoother now from the many day hikers that eye-ball and paparazzi the misty falls. Another root to the toe and another rock. And the finality. One dedicated loop around the parking lot to make it 60 miles even. A drink to relax the mind, but it doesn't put a dent in my mind, blown. Just to take that edge off a little. Nostalgia already growing. I knew that this was a very good day.

https://www.strava.com/activities/1143073178