Nine years.

Last year for our anniversary we ran through the Enchantments after not having been back there together since our wedding. Every year for our anniversary we have to find larch trees. The spot must be a new place (with the exception of the Enchantments since that's where we got married, although we won't go back often if only to keep it special).

For this year, our ninth anniversary, I wanted to take K to a special place tucked deep in the – our– North Cascades. I had been there a couple times, the last time something like ten years ago. She had never been. Once again, her parents took the kids for a couple days. These occasional adventures K and I get to be blessed with wouldn't be possible without their help. They're the best. 

To find larch on this trip meant going over a pass. Despite a pleasant summer, this year at the end of September they had only begun to turn their brilliant yellow. Their color isn't the point, thankfully. Finding them and being in their presence is what it's about.

The valley on the other side is wild and immense. It feels like what I imagine valleys feel like in Alaska. Where bears forage wild and free. Maybe an elk or two.

Unfortunately, K wasn't feeling awesome. We regrouped at the pass, had some snacks, let her catch her breath. Then we dropped into that fantastic valley, taking it slow.

Distances in the mountains can be deceiving and it took us several hours to make our way to the head of the valley. To drop our stuff and set up camp under a nasty gully that led up to that special little place. A secret of sorts, hiding from all views except the summits of a couple mountains. Kept secret by that secrecy and that intimidating gully.

"Do you want to head up?" K asked me after we had settled and enjoyed our afternoon espresso. I grabbed only my camera and we made our way to the gully and buttress that would gain us access to a pair of lakes on a perfect bench nestled among the mountains. As I remembered, it was steep and loose, but never sketchy. In less than an hour, we crested the small pass.

There were larch scattered here and there around the lake bench, clinging to life in that raw and desolate place. Even at this elevation they hadn't really turned color. There was an upper and a lower lake, separated in elevation by only a couple hundred feet. But each felt different. The lower was surrounded by fields of heather. The upper, by rocks, barren and stark. Clouds churned the sky but still offered us a view.

Then it was time to head back down, to camp. Get out of the wind. It was cold. Weather was moving in quickly.

We returned just in time to cook and eat dinner before darkness descended. Freeze-dried pasta with fresh breadsticks and garlic butter, warmed on the lid of the stove pot. Red wine. Proper. Then a dash to tidy up and crawl into our sleeping bags. 

Not long after, freezing rain started pelting the tent and the wind picked up. It wouldn't let up for most of the night, until dawn. At one point, K kicked off the ice and snow that had built up on the tent fly. It was one of those kind of nights. But we were cozy and warm. Tents are amazing in that way, a home in the mountains.

When we unzipped the rainfly and emerged in the morning, we were greeted with a scene of fresh snow clinging to the mountains all around, just above us. The first snow. A hint of sun. Magical. It was a glorious sight.

It was cold, so we didn't dawdle. Made coffee and scarfed down some granola. Packed up. Then bid farewell to the mountains, again. We'll be back. We always come back, Love.