Colchuck Lake: A Winter Hike in the Enchantments

For most of my life, I thought being present meant paying closer attention. Narrow the focus, notice every detail, miss nothing. I set out this morning with that idea still firmly in place, my headlamp on the trail, the air hovering around freezing, and songs from a concert the week before still playing in my head. The trail climbed toward Colchuck Lake, tucked into the Enchantments outside Leavenworth, with about 2,875 feet of elevation gain between the trailhead and the water. I knew the climb would ask a lot of my legs. I didn’t expect it to ask me to rethink what paying attention actually means.

Colchuck Lake

I didn’t make the drive alone, not really. The week before, a small show at the Triple Door had filled an evening with music, some of it from an artist I’ve loved for years and some from an opener I heard for the first time that night. My daughter and I met her after her set, a short conversation that stayed with me longer than I would have guessed. Both of them kept coming back to the same idea between songs, and it rode along with me in the dark. By the time I reached the trailhead, I already knew what I wanted to carry up the trail.

The trail followed Mountaineer Creek up through cedar and rock, and after a long climb, the lake finally showed itself, green and starting to freeze. Along the way, my mind did what it usually does. It wandered back to old regrets, raced ahead to what was next, and fussed over getting everything just right. Somewhere near the water, I noticed it doing that, and the noticing turned out to matter more than I thought.

The Journey

I started up the trail in the dark, my headlamp cutting a small circle out of the shadows, with the temperature sitting right around freezing. A fine dusting of snow covered parts of the trail, a hint of the winter already settling into these mountains. Colchuck Lake sits high in the Enchantments, part of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness near Leavenworth, and I had a long climb and most of the day ahead of me. For the first stretch, the forest was mostly quiet. Every so often leaves rustled somewhere off the trail, and once or twice I heard an animal I couldn’t see, somewhere between peaks I couldn’t see yet either. I had the trail to myself, and I was grateful for the solitude. Before dawn, a forest has a kind of stillness I’ve come to look forward to, and this morning had plenty of it.

As the darkness gave way to dawn, the trail showed itself: dirt, roots, and scattered rocks, running alongside Mountaineer Creek. The rushing water filled the air, and the wind howling through the trees kept trying to drown it out. The air smelled of cedar, fresh water, and damp earth. As I climbed, the mountains on either side took shape against the brightening sky, steep and close. It was a long way from my last hike in the rainforest, all moss and soft ground. This trail felt rawer, more rock than green, and I liked it right away. A little higher up, I stopped to shed a layer, warm from the climb while the air stayed cold around me.

Then the trail opened up. The high peaks above me were catching the sun, and boulders lay scattered across the trail, left there by forces far older than any of us. I crossed a small bridge and stopped to look at the traces of snow catching the light. The trees started to thin, and through them I caught my first glimpses of Colchuck Lake, a deep green, its surface just beginning to freeze. Little Colchuck had already frozen over. I spent a while at the water before turning back. By then, the fatigue had settled into my legs, and the steep path down asked for its own kind of focus, with the sound of the creek meeting me again as I dropped back into the trees.

Gratitude…

The roads were dark and empty this morning, and I drove most of the way with last week still in my head. I’d spent an evening at the Triple Door with friends and family, listening to Joshua Radin, and it stirred up memories of Kelly. The feeling was bittersweet. His cover of Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” which he didn’t perform that night, kept replaying in my mind, her warmth all through it, along with the song’s promise “every little thing’s gonna be alright.” In the quiet of the car, it felt like the music had come along for the ride. What made the concert special was that it brought all of us who were there a little closer to her. Each of those moments with the people I love felt like an ornament on the tree, holding a memory and shining bright against the loss.

The surprise of that night was Emily James, who played before Joshua took the stage. Her sound was new to me, and I could almost hear Kelly in the back of my mind, not singing, but nudging me to stay open to new music. She would have added Emily James to her playlist. My daughter and I met Emily after her set, and that short conversation felt like a break in the clouds. Her message all night was to be present, and it landed. I’d read Eckhart Tolle’s teachings last year, and I know how easy it is to get lost in my worries instead. Then Joshua played “Here, Right Now,” and it said the same thing in a song. This morning, the music filled every corner of the car and brought up feelings I still have trouble putting into words. So this is my gratitude today: for the people who shared that night with me, for the music, and for the love that keeps reminding me we’re never alone on this road.

Reflections…

My trail-thought this morning came straight from the concert: being present. Emily James and Joshua Radin had both come back to it all night, each in their own way. Emily asked us to leave everything behind the doors we’d come in through, and I liked picturing my worries as a heavy coat hung on the back of the booth while I let myself sink into the music. Joshua sang it outright: “I’m here / Right now / Not lost / But found.” That one stuck. It made me think about how often I’m lost in my own thoughts, as if I’m at a party but stuck in my own head, replaying old regrets or worrying about what comes next. Stepping onto the trail in the dark, I wanted to see if I could do any better.

As I climbed, I tried to shake off those distractions by focusing on the details: the soft ground underfoot, the patterns in the rocks and roots, the snow dusting the edges of the trail. For a while it worked, until I found myself balancing on a narrow log, trying to catch every tiny detail at once, and realized I was missing the stillness, the wind howling through the trees, and the simple feeling of being there. I’d always thought being present meant honing in and sharpening my focus. Today it felt more like softening the edges and letting my attention widen. When the sun rose behind the peaks and Dragontail Peak’s reflection shimmered on the water, I wasn’t thinking about being present. I just was. Of course, the thoughts crept back, the way they do. What’s around the next bend? It’s part of how a mind works, and it pulls me away every time.

There’s a name for that constant chatter, the mind jumping from one thought to the next: monkey mind. It has its uses. It’s part of why I can be quick with a connection nobody else saw coming. But I’ve started to notice what it costs, especially when it settles on old regrets or future worries. What helps is stepping back and becoming an observer of my own thoughts, letting them drift by like leaves on a river, no longer tied to the ground and no longer needed to tell me who I am. That bit of distance feels freeing, and it anchors me in the moment. I’ve come to see presence as more than awareness. It’s also accepting the ebb and flow of thoughts without judging or overanalyzing them. Breathing is supposed to be the simplest way back, and I’m still practicing. On the trail, though, a rhythm takes over, and for stretches I feel less like I’m moving and more like I’m flowing with it.

Perfectionism is another thing that pulls me out of the moment. It’s the companion that keeps pointing out my flaws. I want to be accepted, I’m afraid of getting things wrong, and somewhere between wanting it perfect and feeling like an imposter, I get tangled up. Letting go of that ideal is easier said than done, but I know it’s a step in the right direction. I catch myself wondering what other people will think, and every time I do, I’m a little further from where I actually am. Part of the work is unlearning that need for approval and making peace with how messy life really is. On the trail, I’m learning to see the beauty in what isn’t perfect, and the freedom that comes with simply being myself.

Being present, I’m finding, is a lot like learning to use trekking poles. It feels awkward at first, and then one day it’s second nature. I’m starting small: paying attention to my breath, listening more closely, and loosening my grip on control. Each step brings me a little closer to the moment I’m in, without letting go of the memories I carry from before. This morning’s hike was a gentle reminder of how much practice that still takes. Sitting here with my thoughts, I’m curious where it leads. The trail has a way of teaching me what I need most, and today the lesson was simple: be here, right now. The path continues.

-Ken