The Mountains I Should’ve Visited Years Ago

I’d been hearing about Idaho’s Sawtooth’s for years. Jagged peaks. Alpine lakes. Granite passes. One of those places that seems to constantly show up in photos and conversations with other hikers, followed by some version of, “You have to go.” So, finally, I went.

I had several days, a backpack full of food, and no real obligation other than to walk the 73 miles (originally intended on 84 mi). I was excited to disappear into the mountains for a while and finally see if the Sawtooth’s lived up to everything I’d heard. Spoiler: they did. But somewhere along the way, this trip became about something I wasn’t expecting.

I drove about nine and a half hours from my place in Oregon and pulled into a free campsite near the trailhead around 5 p.m. After spending nearly an entire day sitting in the truck, I needed to move. So naturally, instead of resting before several days of backpacking, I went for an 8.5-mile run into Stanley. This also conveniently solved the problem of realizing I’d forgotten sunscreen. I grabbed the sunscreen, made my way back to camp, ate a freeze-dried meal and crawled onto the mattress in the bed of my truck. Then the temperature started dropping. And dropping. Everything outside began freezing over, and my 30-degree sleeping bag was definitely being asked to perform at the upper end of its job description.

Above me, though, the stars were incredible. There seemed to be thousands of them scattered across the Idaho sky. I watched them for as long as I could tolerate having my face outside the sleeping bag before burying myself deeper inside. Tomorrow, the real adventure started.

I woke with the sun around 6:45 a.m., packed everything up and drove less than a mile to the trailhead. The screen inside my truck read: 29 degrees.

Most of my gear was already packed, so I grabbed my pack, filled out my self-issued permit and started walking with a breakfast bar in my hand. The air was crisp and cold. Ahead of me, the jagged peaks of the Sawtooths dominated the horizon. They almost looked like a barrier—a massive wall of rock protecting whatever was hidden behind them. And behind them were the lakes.

About four miles into the climb, the Sawtooths finally began revealing what I had driven all this way to see. Alpine Lake. Then the massive and impressive Sawtooth Lake. Then Baron Lake. Upper Baron Lake around mile 18.5. Then the Cramer Lakes. Every time I thought I had just seen the highlight of the trip, another lake appeared. Another basin. Another wall of granite. Another view that made me stop walking.

By the time I reached Middle Cramer Lake, I had covered roughly 27 miles and around 7,000 feet of elevation gain. That was enough. Even arriving late, I somehow managed to find an incredible campsite right beside the lake, looking directly toward the waterfall spilling from Upper Cramer into Middle Cramer. Not a bad place to lay my head/thoughts.

I went through the usual evening routine—set up camp, filter water, organize gear, eat a hearty dinner and stare at the mountains until darkness finally took them away. Strangely, the night felt warmer than the previous one despite being much higher in elevation. Maybe there was some sort of inversion. Or maybe I was just too tired to care.

The next morning, I woke with the rising sun and began packing before I heard any movement from the surrounding campsites. Soon, I was walking again. This day came with a constant debate in my head. How far should I go? Where should I camp? Should I stick to the original plan? Eventually, I decided I’d make it to Toxaway Lake and figure everything else out when I got there. Then I saw Toxaway. There are places where you immediately understand why people stay longer than they planned. Toxaway was one of them. It is easily one of the most scenic and inviting alpine lakes I have ever seen.

Once I reached the water, I decided I wasn’t going over the next pass toward Alice Lake as originally planned. Toxaway had other ideas for me. So I dropped my pack and dove in. Cold? Obviously. Worth it? Absolutely.

After my quick alpine bath, I climbed onto a huge granite rock and stretched out in the sun. For the first time since starting the trip, I really stopped. No miles to count. No pass to climb. No campsite to find. Just warmth from the sun and a ridiculous Idaho landscape surrounding me. I lay there thinking about everything I had already walked through—the jagged peaks, the endless lakes, the constantly changing terrain. It all felt surreal. I decided I would camp right there on the peninsula at Toxaway. Then I had some lunch. Made some tea. Sat around for about two and a half hours. And apparently forgot how tired I was supposed to be. Because suddenly I decided to put my pack back on.

Instead of staying at Toxaway, I headed back up the pass I had just descended and turned toward Imogene Lake, beginning my loop back toward the front country. My pack somehow felt lighter. Maybe it was the long break. Maybe it was the tea. Maybe Toxaway had reset something. Whatever it was, I made quick work of the pass and dropped toward Imogene.

And, because apparently the Sawtooths refuse to have average lakes, Imogene was gorgeous too. The problem was camping. There weren’t many options, and it was only around 4:30 p.m. So I did what backpackers always seem to do when they have perfectly good reasons to stop. I kept walking. Next stop: Hells Roaring Lake.

I arrived around 6 p.m. and found yet another incredible lake with plenty of places to camp. Home. I set everything up, ate, stretched and watched the mountains change in the golden-hour light. Eventually I crawled into my tent knowing another cold night was coming. And that’s when my mind wandered somewhere I hadn’t expected.

The trail had been mesmerizing. Everything I had hoped the Sawtooths would be, they were. But lying there in my tent, surrounded by one of the most beautiful landscapes I had ever walked through, I kept thinking about the people I had left behind in Oregon. What would they think of this place? Which lake would have been their favorite? Would they have thought I was insane for doing this many miles? Probably. And then my thoughts narrowed to one person. Someone I cared about. I missed them.

There I was, exactly where I wanted to be, doing exactly what I love doing—and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to share it with someone else. That surprised me. I’ve spent a lot of time hiking alone. I enjoy it. I need it. But sometimes solitude has a strange way of reminding you who matters. The mountains give you silence, and silence gives your mind room to wander. Sometimes it wanders toward the people you wish were sitting beside you.

I slept on and off before morning eventually arrived. Today had one objective: Get back to Iron Creek Trailhead. About 26 or 27 miles away. I expected this section to be easier. It wasn’t. Almost immediately after leaving the lake, the trail started climbing. And climbing. And climbing. The previous climbs on this trail had plenty of switch backs. Apparently, the crew that designed this part of the trail decided to forego the extra work and built the shortest trail possible, straight up, no twists or turns. What felt like hours later, I finally reached the top… only to immediately start dropping steeply down the other side. Which raised one of backpacking’s great philosophical questions: Why did you make me climb all that elevation if you’re just going to take it away five minutes later?

Eventually, I started approaching the massive Redfish Lake. That’s when I noticed a boat coming across the water. Wait. Is that a ferry? When I reached the dock, someone asked if I was waiting for the ferry. My response was basically: “That’s actually an option?!” Twenty minutes later, I was on a boat.

The ride saved me roughly three miles of walking around the lake, which at this point in the trip felt like winning the lottery. Then the boat reached the other side. A resort. And an outdoor grill. There are moments on trail when the universe speaks to you. This one said: Beer and pulled pork sandwich. I listened. Never pass up this kind of trail magic.

I sat there eating, drinking and giving my legs a temporary vacation. And even between bites, my thoughts drifted back to that same person. How much better would this be if they were sitting across from me?

Eventually, I put the pack back on. Twelve miles remained. They weren’t particularly easy miles either, but now the end was close enough that stopping wasn’t an option. So I walked. One foot in front of the other. The Sawtooths slowly disappearing behind me. And somewhere during those final miles, I thought about one of the things I love most about the trail. It gives you space. Space away from work. Space away from phones. Space away from schedules, noise and all the little things competing for your attention every day. Eventually, all that noise disappears. And when it does, the important things have a way of rising to the surface. The people. The memories. The moments that make you happy. The things you miss. The things you want more of.

I came to Idaho because I wanted to see the Sawtooths. I wanted the jagged peaks, alpine lakes, big mileage and difficult climbs. I got all of that. But I also got a reminder that sometimes seeing something incredible isn’t quite enough. Sometimes you want someone standing beside you saying, “Can you believe this place?”

Maybe that’s part of why I keep hiking. The trail doesn’t always give you answers. But it gives you enough silence to finally hear the questions.

The Sawtooths did not disappoint. Neither did Stanley. Even though I was looking forward to the highly touted fried chicken at The Super Club and it was closed! On a Thursday, really?!

And somewhere between Alpine Lake, Baron, Cramer, Hidden, Virgina, Edna, Toxaway, Imogene, Hells Roaring and that unexpected boat ride across Redfish Lake, Idaho gave me something I wasn’t expecting. A reminder that adventure is incredible alone. But there are some views you really want to share.