Crossing a ridge of one of the most iconic ranges in the Olympics, I descend into an otherworldly basin. A deep blue glacial lake—not the typical turquoise but with the same mesmerizing effect of absorbing rather than reflecting light—captures my attention as I navigate the cliffy, scree-filled embankment. Like a portal to another dimension, the lake mirrors the surrounding peaks perfectly, yet without a trace of sheen.
Feeding the lake is a network of streams that fan out into a stunning alluvial delta, weaving through the basin. The basin itself, alive with alpine shrubs and vibrant flowers, sits cradled in a natural amphitheater of spires and gendarmes—a scene both surreal and sublime brings a close to my first day traversing the Bailey Range in the northwest quadrant of Olympic National Park.
As I settle in for the night, my thoughts drift back to the Sol Duc trailhead where this journey began. Little did I know that the path ahead would test not only my endurance but also my ability to navigate one of the park’s most challenging and breathtaking landscapes.
This adventure begins with me heading up toward High Divide from the Sol Duc Valley, already three hours behind schedule, with just three songs on repeat in my earbuds—a problem now unfixable, as I’m out of cell service. A peripheral gleam catches my eye, drawing my gaze to my first sight of Mount Olympus: a shimmering sliver of its massive massif rising above the ridge of Bogachiel Peak.
Unbelievably, I have cell reception up at High Divide—likely from a tower across the valley at Hurricane Ridge. In the shade of a tree, with the vibrant, meandering meadows of Bogachiel Peak splashing the landscape with color, I spend the next hour downloading tunes for the 65+ mile adventure ahead.
Bobbing along to the rythm of my new beats, I diverge from the main path onto the Cat-Basin-Primitive Trail. The two peaks (on the right side of the picture) are Cat Peak and Mount Carrie (which is the highest peak in the Baileys Range 6,995ft)
Coming into Cat Basin: Mt Carrie (left of the tree) with Fairchild the second highest at 6916 ft, behind it. In the far background to the right of the lovely tree is the ridgeline I will be traversing.
Beneath the behemoth of the Baileys
The Cat Walk is a third-class scramble across an arete—an aristocratic “Cat-arete” that limits forward progress to only the most determined few! Brambly trees, with an inexplicable fondness for snagging backpacks and ice axes (no matter how low I kneel), added a touch of chaos. Still, with its abundance of solid holds, this section was a lot of fun.
As though extending from Cat Peak, a calm path meanders from the trees, accentuated by the yellow hues of the meadow. Yet the rugged profile of the peak beyond hints at the trail’s more sinister origins. Following the treeline reveals a steep ridge where the trail descends, leading to the infamous white-knuckle escarpment. Ascending the Cat Walk, anthropomorphic limbs of the forest claw at an encumbering pack as the dark canopy closes in. Suddenly, the intrepid alpinist bursts into the open, skipping across the meadow to a “Sound of Music” moment, with Cat Peak behind the adventure of the Bailey Traverse has begun.
From Eleven Bull Basin—a level area on the southern slope of Ruth Peak—most of the Bailey Traverse is visible. The route crosses the ridge on the left at its low point before Stephen Peak, circles around Stephen’s northern side just below the summit, and passes behind it. From there, it follows the ridge to Queets Basin, navigates the glaciers of Mount Olympus, and exits the Blue Glacier via a scramble along the slopes of the mountain labeled “unknown peak.” The journey then descends into the valley and follows the trail along the Hoh River.
Stephen Peak, its soul seemingly cradled within the lake, glows in the light of the setting sun.
Taking a break from climbing the steep scree embankment toward the north ridge of Stephen Peak, I glance back at the alluvial fan I had carefully crossed the evening before. The alpine meadow of shrubs and chartreuse heather looks like something out of a fantasy novel, mesmerizing in its beauty. Beneath it, hues of bold blue swirl through the magic mirror-like surface of the lake, framed by the intricate northern ridgeline of Ruth Peak.
Day 2: Stephen Basin → Pan Camp
Rounding the north side of Stephen Peak, I scrambled down the escarpment before snapping this selfie, crowning myself king of the gendarmes—of which there are plenty on this adventure.
Descending into Ferry Basin, I glance to the right, my thoughts on spending the night at Pan Camp. The weight of the trek ahead settles over me: navigating to Queets Basin, climbing to Blizzard Pass, and descending to Pan Camp.
A labeled overview of the route taken just south of Stephen Peak.
The serene alpine sanctuary of Ferry Basin stretches across the landscape, its pebble floor dotted with islands of delicate alpine sedges that fill the air with a fresh, earthy aroma. To the right—between the peak to the right of Mount Ferry and the snow below it—lies a gorge that leads to Lower Ferry Glacier Lake. The gorge’s opening, however, is just out of frame.
Pressed for time, I barely pause to savor the basin’s beauty, stopping only to replenish my water from a stream.
With no time to spare, I couldn’t simply walk up the embankment of the gorge on the right. Instead, I ducked under the snow bridge, climbed the far-side embankment, and backtracked slightly to stay above the bridge. I descended to the highest point where the snow meets the rocks, knowing this would be the thickest and safest section to cross. Carefully, I traversed the snow bridge and scaled the cliff wall, before moving on!
Ferry Glacier Lake shimmers beneath the towering spires of Mount Pulitzer as I ascend toward the saddle.
Taken while descending from the east ridge into the valley south of Pulitzer, this picture highlights the challenging scree climb up to the ridge leading to Mount Childs.
Offering better zoom-in capabilities than the panoramic shot below, this picture reveals the trail descending near the cliff edge where it crosses the east ridge of Pulitzer. The saddle between Ferry and Pulitzer is also distinguishable. I paused at the cliffs to the right of the saddle, wondering how the route from Ludden navigates that section. From this angle, it’s unclear whether the route approaches from above the saddle along the shared ridgeline near the summit or perhaps from the north side.
This picture was taken from the ridge between Mount Pulitzer and Mount Childs, offering a panoramic view of the Bailey Range. My intent in including it is to provide useful beta.
Trail (on the left) is baring southwest—toward Mount Childs: The valley (not labeled) but more or less in the middle of the picture is facing west: Mount Ferry is located to the north: Came from this direction is oriented northeast.
There are multiple routes into the Baileys, with one popular route starting at Madison Falls Trailhead. This route leads into the Baileys via the Ludden Peak Way Trail, which circumvents Ludden Peak on its south side before climbing to the Ferry-Ludden Ridge. From there, it follows the ridge to the Ferry-Pulitzer saddle.
The route I’m doing comes up between Ferry and Pulitzer so turns right at the saddle, and climbs to cross the east ridge of Pulitzer. (if you go to the photo before this you can zoom in on this area) From there the trail descends into the valley and climbs the scree embankment to where the photo is labeled Came from this direction.
The “West ridge children of Mt Childs,” look like mountains in their own right and can be helpful navigationally. I don’t know the name of ? peak but it seems like a significant peak.
Approaching Mount Childs (on the right), where I cross over to the east side of the ridge—a landscape that feels astonishingly different.
Towering spires are one of the unique features that make the Baileys an unforgettable adventure!
Childs glacier, which I thought about crossing but ulitately end up climbing the rocks on the left to the ledge which was a good route.
Walking out on the glacier was a little freaky due to the melt out. So I peeked under the hood and decided to climb the rocks.
The ridgeline east of Mount Childs has the most gendarmes I’ve ever seen in one area. Walking through it, I half expect to stumble upon a dragon’s lair—it feels that otherworldly. There’s even a section of vertical rock columns jutting out of the ground, resembling the throne from Game of Thrones.
Looking back at the route: Mount Childs is on the left, Pulitzer in the center, and the peak on the right is actually the half-mile-long ridge walk.
Looking ahead, Humes Glacier stretches straight in front of me, while Queets Basin lies down to the left.
Mount Barnes was originally named Mount Childs—by, well… a guy named Barnes.
Wait. So a guy named Barnes wanders into a vast, rugged wilderness of glaciated peaks, names one of them Childs, and then they rename it after him?
Yes. Well, pretty much, anyway. Barnes and his companion, Christie—
Oh, his wife?
No! Not his wife.
His girlfriend?
No! His companion.
So, a guy named Barnes and his companion Christie go wandering together through a vast, unforgiving mountainous wilderness, and they name one of the most remote peaks Childs?
Yes, exactly. Barnes and Christie led a group of guys into the mountains, and they all agreed to name the mountain Childs.
Oh, so they figured the mountains were like their children?
No, no! Childs was a newspaper publisher—he ran a paper in Philadelphia.
Wait. Let me get this straight. A bunch of rugged, mountain-hardy guys wander into this relentless wilderness and name a mountain after some guy publishing newspapers on the other side of the country?
Yes, now you’ve got it.
But… why?
Well, apparently they had a soft spot for the press. After all, they were funded by William Bailey, the proprietor of the Seattle Press, to explore the Olympic Mountains. And it was kind of a thing for this motley crew. They named Mount Dana after a New York newspaper editor and Mount Scott after a Chicago newspaper publisher. Maybe they just really liked staying informed, or maybe they appreciated getting paid to do something they loved: exploring untamed mountains.
Huh. So did Barnes and Christie ever have a child?
Descending into Queets Valley, the barren yet beautiful, undulating valley floor transitions into bear-haven meadows. Above, the rugged mountains rise, with Humes Glacier gleaming in the light and the notch of Blizzard Pass clearly visible on its right.
The thing about barren, rocky, undulating landscapes is that they hide scenes within scenes—like this pool tucked away in an alcove, stumbled upon serendipitously (another quirk of such terrain). Sunlight dances across vertical columns of charcoal-rust rocks that refuse to hide in the shade, their slanted symmetry mirroring the peak above. I smile, stepping off the pebbled path leading to the falls, capturing a postcard-worthy moment.
The picturesque landscape to my left leaves me perplexed as I descend into the basin, unsure of which mountain is which. I know both Mount Queets and Mount Meany are out there, but neither’s glaciers—substantial as they are—have come into view yet. The glare of the sun makes it even harder to distinguish where the ridgelines originate, their contours blending into the rugged scenery.
A little further down, I encounter a bear. It glances back at me before casually meandering up a steep embankment.
Scarred rock remnants of a once-mighty glacier form miniature canyons, where a stream frolics through in a playful series of cascades.
If I had to guess—and for some reason, I feel compelled to—I’d say the peak at the top center is the summit of Mount Queets, while the peak on the far right is Mount Meany. The profiles of Mount Queets’ ridges blend seamlessly with those of Mount Meany, but by tracing the ridgelines descending into the valley, I can discern their distinct depth and separation. Either way, the combination creates a stunning mountain profile for the journey through Queets Basin
I stop, scratch my head, and glance around—not to admire the colors of the unfurling fauna as I approach the turn-off to Humes Glacier, but to locate the faint trail hidden amid the shrubbery.
I head up the first canyon toward Humes Glacier at 3,600 feet. I’m mentioning this because I’ve read various reports about this tricky section, and I thought my line worked really well. After reaching 3,800 feet, stay at that elevation and watch for a creek intersecting with the one below you. This is where this picture was taken and the creek you’ll follow up to Humes Glacier,. The current canyon does not lead to Humes. About 0.2 miles from where I turned up the canyon, I found a path that zigzagged down to the creek and then backtracked about 20 meters to meet the correct creek. From there, follow the creek for about half a mile, then climb the rock escarpment on the left.
Glacial Lake Humes
Foreboding ripples, carried on the breeze, silently pass floating islands of ice.
Day 3: Camp Pan → Hoh Lake Campground
Blizzard Pass from Camp Pan: I descended the rocks to the left the night before, navigating the rugged terrain under fading light.
Sunrise at CampPan : Less than 24 hours ago, I stood where Mount Ferry now glows in the deep orange hues of sunrise. From across the valley, I gazed at the very precipice on which I now stand.
Tripping over one of the six anchor lines tethering my tent to the rocks, I fumble my mug, sloshing coffee onto my new crimson puffer. “Damn!” I mutter, stumbling forward. As I approach the vantage point, a sigh of awe escapes into the crisp air, and the scene unfolds before me.
The vast glacial river unfurls below, its icy crevasses rippling beneath towering spires that frame the valley in the soft morning glow. The scale is overwhelming—a frozen realm, seemingly void of life yet the sustainer of the vibrant Hoh Valley far below.
From Camp Pan, a precipitous outcrop 400 feet above the glacier’s surface, I overlook the Hoh Glacier, one of the largest in Olympic National Park. Stretching over three miles, it flows from the summit of Mount Olympus at 7,200 feet, etching its path through the valley to its terminus below. Surrounding jagged peaks, monolithic and imposing, crown this icy expanse with a sense of timelessness.
This view reminds me why I came, even as I stumble over anchor lines and spill my coffee. The glacier is both immense and fragile, its retreat a stark testament to the shifting balance of the natural world. Standing here, I feel small but profoundly connected to this wild and wondrous place.
Just across the glacial river—the one I’m about to cross, its surface riddled with crevasses!—Mount Olympus East Peak (left) rises majestically. Rugged cliff outcrops cradle the brilliant white glacier below her towering monoliths, like a cloud inversion frozen in time. The standard route—Glacier Pass—lies below, where the Hoh Glacier meets the Blue Glacier. A substantial glacial cornice looms ominously over the pass, catching my attention. I swallow hard as I pass beneath it, acutely aware of its looming presence. To the right, Mount Mathias basks in the sunlight, its sharp silhouette completing this breathtaking alpine vista.
After scouting around, I decided to descend the north side of Pan. The climb down was enjoyable, with solid rock providing good footing. I paused to look back at the magnificent mesa before turning to hop across to another small ledge. Stopped by a cliff just 40 feet above the Hoh Glacier, my eyes scanned for potential climbing lines as my mind did the math. Too risky, I concluded, and continued my parkour-like traverse north along Pan’s escarpment. Eventually, I found a good spot near a cascading creek. The downclimb was mostly a hands-on, front-facing descent, with a few short 5th-class sections that required me to face the rock. Enjoying the activity and beauty of the waterfalls, I soon touched down on the Hoh Glacier.
Out on the Hoh Glacier, Camp Pan and the east rim stretch before me—a serrated scene of rugged pinnacles, their jagged forms carved by eons of relentless ice and snow. Towering overhead, their cliff faces bear the undeniable wisdom of the ice age etched into their marred and weathered surfaces. The crunch of my crampons against the ancient river of ice echoes through the valley, a sound that whispers of a bygone era, carried away by the winds of change.
This picture, taken below Glacier Pass, looks back on my route. Starting at Blizzard Pass (visible in the upper right), I scrambled down the rocky island just above and to the right of Camp Pan. Following the light-colored rock descending left of Pan reveals the spot where I touched down on the Hoh Glacier. From there to this point, I navigated as directly as possible, carefully working around crevasses too wide to step over. I found no trouble scaling the escarpment directly in front of me.
The sharp, rhythmic crunch of my crampons against the solid, crystallized surface echoes through the valley. Beneath it, the ubiquitous sound of glacial streams trickling, carving delicate channels into the undulating river of ice. Beyond that, a sound even more profound—the sound of stillness. No rustling leaves, no insects burrowing, no rodents scurrying. Only the glacier and its voice, unbroken by anything else in this moment.
Crossing the maze of crevasses on the Hoh Glacier felt peaceful, my progress largely unimpeded—until I encountered an unexpected wonder. A hollow sound, distinct from the crunch of my crampons and the ever-present trickle, caught my attention. I approached a hole where a waterfall disappeared into the glacier’s rim. Standing at the edge, I peered into the void. Water cascaded through layers of translucent blue, unimpeded by the icy walls, plunging into a black abyss that resonated with a deep, hollow sound. It was a moment of awe—an unexpected glimpse into the glacier’s hidden depths.”
The Blue Glacier careens through narrow pinch points, fracturing into spectacular, intricate crevasses. Icefalls carve deep canyons, their rims lined with intrusive crevasses—a testament to the glacier’s relentless power. Elsewhere, horizontal crevasses reveal stunning displays of glacial waterfalls, seemingly frozen in time. With a looming storm on the horizon, summiting Olympus is no longer an option, and I press onward, descending the glacier.
The Blue Glacier near Glacier Pass was a sketchy section, a precarious labyrinth of overhung crevasses. Their gaping forms hinted at hidden dangers below, forcing me to carefully probe and scout my way through, each step demanding focus and precision.
Zoned out and skipping across crevasses (the non-threatening kind), I’m enjoying every minute—until I find myself at the glacier’s terminus. ‘Urr,’ I mutter, finally checking my GPS. Turns out I passed the spot where the trail climbs the embankment by three-quarters of a mile. Backtracking, I tackle the steep scree embankment, only to overshoot the cutoff again—this time blaming the encumbering fog. Eventually, I find the right track, where the trail transitions into a maintained, well-trodden path— a welcome reprieve from the rugged route-finding I’d grown accustomed to over the past few days, and an absolute godsend given my recent history of blowing past cutoffs.
After waiting my turn, I ascended the Jemrod Gully Ladder and took off down the trail—a gentle, sloping, manicured path I couldn’t resist. Then the rain started. The vegetation grew thicker, and soon I was no longer in the mood to run. Walking—no, moping—through the wettest rainforest in the rain felt like trudging through a field of sprinklers. Bushes doused me as I pushed past them, then gave me a nice wet slap on the back for good measure. By the time I reached Hoh Lake Campground, I wasn’t just wet—I was waterlogged. But it’s times like this that make a warm sleeping bag feel like heaven. With that thought, I closed my eyes as dreams overtook me.
Day 4: Hoh Lake Campground → Sol Duc
I woke to the soft light of morning, stowed my gear, and hit the trail. A smile crossed my face as I passed Hoh Lake, its still blue waters perfectly reflecting the dark ridge of surrounding forest. Soon, glimpses of a cloud inversion appeared between the trees. As I climbed higher and the trees grew sparse, the entire valley revealed itself—a sea of clouds stretching out below, with the Mount Olympus massif rising majestically above and the Bailey Range bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun.
Reaching High Divide, I stood watching an amber sunrise envelop the silhouettes of my traverse, rising proudly above the clouds. In that moment, I was filled with a profound sense of gratitude.
Seven Lakes Basin
Sol Duc Falls
Use the GPS track however you’d like. Note I went off route a few times and I will list those below
About a mile after Eleven Bull Basin, I go straight into the forest and backtrack to cut up over the ridge. To avoid this detour, I recommend taking a more direct approach to the ridge.
After passing Stephen Lake, veer to the right. The route goes directly up to the pass. I suggest drawing a straight line on the map from where I cross the creek to where I go over the north ridge of Stephen Peak. The route can go around either side of the lake—choose whichever works best for you.
After Bear Pass, I veer west before coming back east in a big V. To save time, I recommend cutting out the V by drawing a straight line between the two points.
My track goes to the top of Humes Glacier, which was a worthwhile but unnecessary side trip. Instead, head straight to Blizzard Pass in whatever way the glacier allows.
From Camp Pan, I dropped straight down to the glacier but was unable to descend fully and had to climb back up. While I enjoyed this side adventure, you may prefer a more direct route.
Coming off Blue Glacier, I continued to its terminus. Instead, head directly to where I climbed the embankment. Additionally, I overshot the trail and climbed too high on the embankment. Avoid this by keeping to the correct elevation as you ascend.
