Sometimes life feels heavy as the routine of daily living settles upon me -- especially in the fall, when it does nothing but rain and the world slowly goes to sleep. I was starting to feel the autumn blues, and thought a hike would make a good remedy.

A quick persual of my hiking guide led me to Red Pass: "This trail...is at its best in the fall, when autumn colors and solitude abound....The basin shows off a rainbow of color in October." The end of the five-mile trail, Red Pass, is described as "the best lunch spot within 20 miles of Snoqualmie Pass." Timing and destination both sounded perfect.

As anticipated, Sunday dawned gloriously sunny. I arrived at the trailhead around 11 am, booted up, and hit the trail.

Conditions were good -- only a little mucky and not too crowded. After a short meander through the woods, the trail began a slow and steady climb. Not that it bothered me, though. I made short work of the first section of trail, feeling happy and full of energy. In no time at all I found myself at the halfway point. The guidebook called this a six hour hike, but in about an hour I'd covered a quarter of the round-trip distance. Feeling rather impressed with myself, I continued on.

The scenery was wonderful, and constantly changing. Great views to the north and west alternated with waterfalls and all types of terrain -- thick forests, open meadows, and boulder fields. The temperature held fairly steady between 5 and 10 C (40 to 50 F). A couple of times I crunched across some frozen places as the temperature took a sudden drop in shadowy bowls. There was no wind, though, and the cool, sunny skies were great.

A little while later, I got my first view of Red Mountain. Guess what? It really is red. Go figure.

Another mile later, the trail disappeared at a small creek -- about 8 feet wide, and calf deep in several rather inconvenient locations. As I approached the near side, contemplating the best way to cross, I met an older man returning from the strange lands on the far side of the creek. Since I didn't see an obvious continuation of the trail on the other side, I asked him if the trail did indeed cross the stream.

"Yes," he replied. "But, the trail actually runs through this stream for a bit." A decent amount of rain in the previous weeks must have raised the water to an inconvenient level. The wise stranger continued on: "The trail continues about 50 meters on. Keep an eye out for it, because it's easy to miss."

I thanked the stranger, and then proceeded to follow his advice. I crossed the bumbling torrent with nary a soaker and then dove into the bush alongside the stream, in search of the path's continuation. The bushes were wet, from dew and recent rain, and my shorts and legs were quickly covered with moisture. The bushes were thorny too, but I managed to avoid the worst of them by carefully stepping on the bushes instead of through them. An effective, if destructive, strategy.

After 10 meters or so, I began to have doubts. Surely this wet, scratchy mess was not the trail. Perhaps I was on the wrong side of the stream? I checked my map, but it only told me that I was near a fork -- with the trail proceeding down the middle -- meaning the stream could be on either side of the trail. I put the map away and continued on for another 10 meters, until my doubts once again resurfaced. This just didn't seem right. I checked the map again. It told me nothing new, but somehow I managed to convince myself that I was on the wrong side of the stream.

I crossed again, managing to not add any new moisture to my body, and dove into the wet, thorny bushes on the far side. Newly convinced that the trail was on this side of the stream, I proceeded up the hillside. The trail should have run parallel to the ridge above me -- meaning I should intersect it eventually if I kept going up.

So, up I went. I left the wet thorny bushes behind me and entered a loose boulder field. Many thoughts were running through my head. Firstly, I wasn't too concerned about being lost. As long as I could hear the stream I could find it, and that meant I could always find the trail leading back to the car. But, mixed in with this confidence was a twinge of guilt at all the damage my bumbling was causing, and just a little bit of anxiety at the thought of twisting an ankle in among the huge boulders. Of course, there were probably snakes sleeping in among the rocks, too...

After about 100 meters of rock-hopping my way up the hillside, I received yet another flash of sanity from the map. The trail couldn't possibly be on this side of the stream, or I would have crossed it already. I decided to head back towards the stream, albeit a little further along, and try to find the trail on the other side. Once again I entered the forest -- scrambling down the hillside, slipping over, under and around the trees. Eventually the dense hillside gave way to a more open, flat forest -- but the sound of the stream was slowly getting fainter. A few minutes later, fortunately, I came upon the trail. I have no idea where the stream went, or how I managed to cross it, uncross it, and then somehow end up on the far side. But of this, I am certain. When you're not on it, the trail is damn hard to see.

So much for "making good time". I'd spent 45 wet, scratchy minutes scrambling through the forest. Oh well. I picked what I assumed was the correct direction and continued on.

Not long after my little walk on the wild side the trail took a nasty turn -- up. The trail to the halfway point, about 2.5 miles had gained about 1000 feet. The 1.5 miles since then had been pretty flat. What lay before me now was another 1000-foot gain, and a little bit more than a mile in which to accomplish it. I put my head down and continued on.

Fortunately, my head didn't stay down for long. The trail was switchbacking up an exposed hillside and the views kept getting better and better. My frequent rest breaks were well rewarded.

I could feel a hotspot developing on my right foot. The steep trail was causing my boots to slide up and down on my heel. Because I'm just that kind of idiot, I ignored it.

After a half-mile of steep climbing, the trail came upon a saddle and a small lake. With no wind the surface was still and gave a great reflection of the mountains around me. There were other hikers here -- I could see tiny figures near the summit of Red Mountain and up on the pass. After a few minutes of exploring near the lake I walked back to the trail and tackled the final half-mile.

By this point the hotspot on my heel had become a blister. A rather large, painful one, at that. With this new handicap dogging my footsteps, I had to satisfy myself with achieving the pass, despite the easily-accessible peaks beckoning me on either side. I found a large boulder on the pass, and sat down for lunch.

Pictures could not possibly capture the amazing location at which I ate. On the south side a long green valley stretched away for miles, finally culminating in a view of distant Mount Rainier. On the north side I was perched on top of a steep, 1500-foot cliff, with steep cliffs and snow-capped mountains stretching off into the distance. With that to fill my view and a great roasted pepper hummus to fill my stomach, I had a truly satisfying lunch.

One of the slighly annoying realities of hiking is that when you get to your destination, you're really only halfway done. Usually, you still need to get back to where you started. With a few clouds starting to pile up to the west, I didn't stay up at the ridge that long. I added a second sock the blistered foot, tied up the laces nice 'n tight, and began to clump my way back to the bottom.

The sun continued to shine as I wound my way down Red Mountain and back into the forest. Foremost on my mind was finding out exactly where this path ended with relation to the stream I'd crossed (twice). Much to my chagrin, I soon found myself on the exact opposite side of the river from where I'd first crossed. The open forest, hard ground, and debris had made the path difficult to see from the far side. But I could have found it quite easily if I hadn't been waylaid by the mysterious stranger's advice. I met a family at the crossing and didn't burden them with any words of wisdom.

The rest of the trail went by quickly. I passed a few other hikers, some burdened with massive tripods and little else. I wondered: where do these people stored their ten essentials? At the very least, I'd expect them to carry a water bottle, snacky food, and light jacket. I guess some hikers have a different style from mine.

I practically jogged the final mile to the car as gravity pulled me back down. The sense of adventure and exploration was gone on the return leg, as it usually is. Been there, done that. Ten miles of trail (and the occasional lack of said trail) has a tendency to rob one of energy. But the hiking itself felt good: to be moving, muscles and bones working. At that point I was more than happy to pay no attention to my surroundings and lose myself in the act.

Ahh...that's better. Nothing like lunch on top of the world to cure the autumn blues.

So much for my first time being lost in the woods. I wasn't nervous about losing the trail...more like annoyed. Trampling through wet, thorny bushes in random directions isn't all that much fun. So take my advice: the next time a stranger tells you that the trail runs for fifty meters down the middle of a fast-running, knee deep stream, just ignore him.