华盛顿州 Chiwaukum 山脉 24 小时 Fastpack 环线：22.5 英里、累计爬升超 7,000 英尺

Updated October 5, 2026 12:27PM

How We Reported This Story

Trail Runner Community Engagement Editor David Gleisner spent 24 hours fastpacking (and successfully not freezing through the night) in the Chiwaukum Mountains of Washington.

I watched the stars disappear until there was just one left, directly overhead, a pinprick of white in the pale blue sky.

When that last speck disappeared, I knew it was time to get up. I shook the frost off my ultralight quilt, deflated my sleeping pad, and grabbed my pack, walking over to our al fresco dining room up on a high clearing. As the rest of the group started to stir, the morning sunlight descended on the surrounding mountains, a welcome reprieve from the cloudy conditions of the day before.

The day before, 10 of us set out from the Icicle Creek Trailhead, deep in the Chiwaukum Mountains of Washington. Led by trail runner and climber Jenny Abegg, a local of nearby Leavenworth, our mission was to fastpack up to Lake Edna in the high alpine, camp for the night amidst the fall foliage, and run back down to complete a 20-something mile loop. Everything we needed would be carried in our packs, and we aimed to travel as light as possible.

We were here for a press trip to preview Patagonia’s upcoming Mountain Movement collection of lightweight, no frills gear for big days in the mountains. So I was expecting a chill, party pace jaunt up some beautiful trails.

My last experience in these mountains came in starkly different circumstances, four months into a northbound thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail in 2023. I remembered endless climbing and  descending to lush river valleys only to ascend right back up to alpine ridgelines on unrelenting switchbacks. Surely, though, it felt so hard because I had 2,3000 miles in my legs and 30 pounds on my back. This time, I expected it would be much easier.

I was wrong.

We made good progress initially among the ferns and moss of the low country, jogging over rocks and roots and fording ice-cold creeks. The group, composed of trail running media, athletes, and representatives of Patagonia’s trail running apparel team, got along well, sharing stories of trail runs past.

Then, we started to climb. Our pace slowed to a steady power hike as some of the group pulled out poles and others used hands on knees for added momentum. Conversation quieted, too, as we focused on continual upward motion amidst bright red maple. In due time, the blissfully uncrowded trail opened up to views of cloud-covered peaks. We each added a layer or two among the patchy snow of the high country, continuing to traverse the scenic ridgelines until the summit of 7,316-foot Cape Horn came into view, signaling our destination.

After cresting one final pass, we entered the basin of Lake Edna around 3 p.m., meeting up with four other members of our group who took a shorter route. The only other person at the lake was a man with a rifle slung over his shoulder for bear hunting, we learned. Luckily, we were all wearing bright colors.

Without much to set up—we didn’t have tents, after all—Jenny eyed the ridgeline above the lake with the keen eye of a mountain athlete. “Does anyone want to tag that?” she asked the group. I’m not much of a climber, but I’m also not one to say no to an adventure. “I’ll join!” I replied.

Jenny, a Patagonia employee named Jess, and I hiked and scrambled our way to the summit of Cape Horn. From the summit, we could see the rest of our crew down by the lake, and the lone hunter’s tent over the next ridge. But with clouds shrouding the ridge, Jess and I left the traverse to the expert (Jenny) and headed back to camp.

Clad in matching puffies, we set up camp stoves to boil water for backpacking meals and hot tea, cozy comforts in the chill of the misty evening. When we were done swapping stories over dinner, a group of us decided to set up the “cuddle puddle.” We deployed our sleeping pads and quilts in a sardine-like arrangement, lining up next to each other to share body heat. The sun set, the night quieted, and, aided by Nyquil I brought along for a lingering cold, I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, we learned that the cuddle puddle had proved useful, as those campers who opted for solo spots looked worse for wear after a restless, cold night. Don’t be afraid of a little body heat, people! Our lightweight Patagonia puffies kept our upper bodies toasty warm, but some had opted for minimal lower layers to save weight, and a 40-degree-rated quilt can only do so much. We fired up the stoves again for morning coffee and breakfast, slowly getting our bodies and brains working again.

Jenny offered us redemption on the ridgeline now that conditions were clear and she had the beta. This time around, a group of seven of us headed back up Cape Horn with our belongings on our backs. My Brooks Cascadia Elites got an experience they were not designed for as we scrambled across sharp granite ridges, tagging unnamed summits as the wind whipped around us. Eventually, when it was time to descend back to the trail, I learned I’m not as confident a descender as I previously thought. We stutter-stepped and slipped our way down the dirt and foliage until, mercifully, we made it back to singletrack.

The rest of the day was comparatively lovely, descending back down 5,000 feet in dappled sunshine to Icicle Creek. After fueling with the remainder of my Nerds gummy clusters, I made it back with the perfect amount of remaining food: none. All told, I notched 22.5 miles with just over 7,000 feet of climbing and descent in the 24-hour expedition.

While our trip leaders didn’t take it easy on us, we were game for the challenge: We logged the ninth-fastest Strava segment on the ascent, according to Jenny. The gear held up to the test, too. My pack stayed secure and comfortable even as I carried 10 to 15 pounds. My shorts and sun hoodie breathed and flowed with me as I moved, while the midlayers and puffies kept me insulated when I stopped. Everything I brought with me served a purpose at some point over the 24-hour trip, and by the time we got back to the trailhead, I had just a couple gummy worms left.

The organizers promised an “unforgettable route.” Between the foliage, conditions, and new friends, this trip delivered.