Hiker. Blogger. Photographer. CrossFitter. Dog Owner. Texan.
Pettit Lake to Hellroaring Trailhead
Early morning reflection in Alice Lake.
My fifth day on the trail was the longest, beginning with a hike to a waiting resupply and ending with a long slog along a lonely forest road, 15.2 miles total. “Everything hurts,” I wrote that evening.
I awoke beside Alice Lake to a clear, crisp morning. It was 26 degrees, and a thin layer of frost covered the ground. The air was still, and so was the water. It reflected the surrounding mountains as the sunrise provided quite a show.
The campers nearby were just beginning to stir as I packed up my campsite and started down the trail. It was 8 o’clock in the morning.
The first order of business was to hike down from Alice Lake (8,596 feet) to Pettit Lake (6.996 feet), where a bear canister holding food, fuel, and other supplies (hopefully) waited. The trail is mostly open for the first two miles, providing excellent views of the jagged peaks, particularly the prominent El Capitan.
Rounding an unnamed lake and El Capitan
Below Alice Lake, the trail passes a pair of smaller, unnamed lakes. The bright morning sun made the pines glow warmly, as the day quickly shed the chill of the night.
The trail proceeds northeasterly beneath the foot of Parks Peak (10,208), the highest in the line of mountains forming this canyon’s western wall. Several prominent cliffs and spires marked progress down the canyon, as did increasingly nice views of the Salmon River Valley and the distant mountains beyond.
View down canyon at the mountains beyond the Salmon River.
The trail passes a small, shaded waterfall and a hillside splashed in golden grasses and yellow blooms. Boulders litter the area as a vertical cliff looms overhead. The light granite reflected the morning sun, making me feel quite warm. The sun’s rays made one cliff look particularly imposing. The trail passed right beneath it.
A sheer cliff towers 450 feet above the trail.
More wildflowers lined the widening canyon as the trail continued its descent. It eventually disappeared into a thick pine forest, and the views vanished with it. A tricky hop along a sunken log and a partially submerged boulder permitted me to avoid an unexpected ford of the creek. I used the GPS to track progress toward Pettit Lake, as I figured I would be on top of it before I could see it. At 11:30 a.m., I passed the wilderness boundary.
As the trail neared the lake, the trees parted, and I laid eyes on its choppy blue water. The bald crown of Pt. 9,681 rose above the lake.
Pt. 9,681 and Pettit Lake
I followed the northern shore of the lake, carefully watching for the waypoint I’d marked when I placed my resupply. The canister was hidden behind a couple of trees up the hillside, about 100 feet above the lake just above the trail to Yellowbelly. Around noon, I found an open space near the shore which had clearly been used as a campsite. From there, I marched up the steep slope and found my resupply undisturbed. Victoriously, I returned to the shore to have lunch, swap out trash for food, and discard some items I no longer wished to carry around.
It was like Hiker Christmas!
View across the lake from my lunch spot.
Unlike most of the last several days, there were plenty of people on the trails and in the water. A series of canoes and kayaks passed by the shore, and groups of dayhikers traveled in both directions above me.
Like most of the last several days, clouds began to gather as I prepared my resupplied backpack for the next five days of trekking. I left the bear canister, now filled with trash and discarded gear, in a hiding spot near the shore. The sun was hot when it was out, but the assembling clouds provided some shade.
I stayed later than I wanted at Pettit Lake. It was nearly 1:45 before I got moving again. In a few moments, I reached the trail junction and took the left fork toward Yellowbelly Lake.
The trail climbs steeply over a 500-foot high ridge separating this drainage from Yellowbelly. The south-facing slope was dry and hot, and the folks who designed this trail had obviously never heard of switchbacks. At least the view back up the canyon toward Alice Lake and the high passes improved as the trail steadily gained elevation.
The view back up the canyon, where this day began.
Once on top of the ridge, the trail lazily zig-zags through a forest of tall pines, a surprising result given how resolutely it picked a path up the slope. It quickly began a largely viewless descent. The sun disappeared behind a deck of clouds. A little over an hour after I’d left my lunch spot, I had reached the trail junction back toward Toxaway Lake. I had a decision to make.
Part of me wanted to spend the night at Toxaway, but it was a long way and a big climb. I wasn’t sure how long or how high because I’d discarded the relevant map an hour earlier. My plan was to continue to the next drainage, Hellroaring, and follow it into the high country, so I was carrying the map for that option. Finding Toxaway Lake would not be challenging — reaching it by darkness, on the other hand, could be tough. I opted to stick with the plan.
As the trail passed by boggy McDonald Lake, the rain began to fall. I put on my raingear while swatting mosquitoes. It is now 3 o’clock. I had an adventure log-hopping Yellowbelly Creek. Several logs were submerged and not exactly solid. It was as close as I came to falling into a creek while trying to cross it.
Over the next hour or so, I climbed 600 feet up a relentlessly steep trail to reach the top of a loaf-of-bread-shaped ridge. Inexplicably, the trail reaches the top in two arcs, neither of which I’d call a switchback. In fact, I was practically using my hands in places as the trail was little more than a runoff chute. Once on top, the trail flattens out and proceeds almost two miles on the ridge top. The incredibly poorly designed trail then plunges practically straight downward until it reaches an old Forest Service road.
A confusing sign identifies the place as the McDonald Lake Trail. It was obviously intended to be a parking area and trailhead. A little further and the trail/road reaches another road, and nothing is marked. Though I was tempted to follow the road back into the mountains, the sign and my map suggested I turn toward the Salmon River. So I began hiking down the road.
Hiking down a Forest Service Road.
The road eventually reached stinky Mays Creek, which it crossed on a rotting wooden bridge. Then the road turned into a confusing four-way junction. A sign was present, but it said only “315″ but neither my map nor my GPS identified the forest roads by number. I wasn’t sure which road to take. For five minutes, I stood at the intersection, trying to figure out which roads were shown on the map, which one was not, and which one I needed to follow. Nothing marked the way to Hellroaring.
In an incredible stroke of good timing, an equally confused woman named Jennifer, driving along in a hatchback with Idaho plates, pulled up the road. She rolled down her window, and we discussed the situation. It turns out she was carrying a Forest Service map and a guidebook. Together with my map and GPS, we were able to figure out where we needed to go. Unfortunately, she was going to McDonald Lake — probably the last dayhike I’d do in this area — so the ride I was hoping I’d get did not happen. At least I knew where I was going.
As I approached a bend in the road — the easternmost point of the hike — the view of the valley opened up, and I admired the view of the Salmon River.
View of the Salmon River Valley
The views soon disappeared, and I was left with a lonely forest road and the trees. At this point, it had become a death march. I kept walking, and walking, and walking. I saw a couple of vehicles, but they were going the other way. I kept hoping a truck would come up and give a ride to the trailhead, but it never happened. Eventually, the road brushed by Hellroaring Creek, but I was still three miles away from the trailhead. Determined to make it before sunset, I kept walking.
I got to a dusty parking area beneath the pines just before 7 o’clock. I found a pair of trees within earshot of the creek to tie up the hammock. The mosquitoes were absolutely horrible here. I was exhausted, though, so their forcing me into the hammock wasn’t such a bad thing. It also meant I didn’t have to look at the dreadful campsite and the half dozen vehicles parked among the pines. At least I had the sound of the creek to help me to sleep — the last couple of nights had been silent.
Hellroaring Creek
Other than to get water, I had not looked at the creek or the trail I would take in the morning. As I laid in my hammock listening to the creek and flicking the mosquitoes onto the tarp, I wondered if my day would begin with a ford.
Early Morning Reflection in Alice Lake, SW09-0816-5608R, UTM 11T 0665178 E 4867320 N NAD27; Rounding El Capitan, SW09-0816-5613R, 0665458 E 4867829 N; Mountains Beyond the Salmon River, SW09-0816-5616R, 0665960 E 4868510 N; and Imposing Cliff 450 Feet Overhead, SW09-0816-5624R, 0666577 E 4868984 N; Sawtooth Wilderness | Pt. 9,681 and Pettit Lake, ID09-0816-5648R, 0668973 E 4871778 N; Pettit Lake Lunch Spot, ID09-0816-5650R, 0670298 E 4871984 N; View Back Toward the High Peaks, ID09-0816-5659R, 0669799 E 4872176 N; Hiking Down a Forest Road, ID09-0816-5666R, 0671248 E 4875724 N; Salmon River Valley, ID09-0816-5670R, 0671884 E 4876502 N; and Hellroaring Creek, ID09-0816-5671R, 0672226 E 4877258 N; Sawtooth National Forest, Idaho | ©2009 Jeff Blaylock
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