I didn’t find Lost Lake until the end of my first summer in Seward. I went up with a backpack full of Goldfish and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, no clue how long it would take. I’d never gone on a hike that long before. I got to the top, thrilled, jumped in the lake, and ran down (my first time running on a trail). Lost Lake holds a dear and special place in my heart. A trail of personal firsts and memories made with friends. It’s also, quite simply, awesome, in both senses of the word. Think, a thirteen-year-old saying “Yeah, that’s awesome,” but also think, turning 360 degrees and seeing mountains on all sides. Literal awe filling you from head to toes.
The trail itself – if you start from the Lost Lake side – feels like three distinct sections. You start in the trees, steep and shady, branches covered in dark green moss, sun-dappled stones, a creek running in and out of earshot. You cross in front of a small waterfall (these five steps always take me five minutes, checking and rechecking my footing lest I slip and fall, butt-first, into a very shallow pool) hop over some roots, pass two more creeks, and you feel the trees start to thin, more light peeking through, like they’re about to reveal something. You’re almost onto the second section.
Before we get there, though, I want to talk about place-based memories. I read somewhere that your brain is better at tying memories to locations when you’re out in nature, like the memories themselves become landmarks. I love Lost Lake for all of its memory landmarks. Every time I pick my way past the root-studded stretch before the waterfall I remember Tziporah brainstorming a plan for her surprise proposal – a dance party in Mt. Rainer set to Voulez-Vous. When I pause to walk up the last big hill on the Primrose side – the one where roots act as handholds – I hear Ryan recounting a kelp farmer versus sea kayak guide standoff: “The War For Lowell Point”. (It’s worth mentioning that a year and a half ago, that sentence would have been completely nonsensical to me.) Crossing the bridge a mile before the lake, Kaelyn is telling me what love feels like to her at its best and worst, how different relationships can look and the memories she’s taken away from her most significant ones.
It’s amazing, really, the joy of a three-hour run. There’s so much uninterrupted time to fill – breathing and talking and laughing.
And on to the second section. I won’t lie – I’ve completely wiped out here many times. Another place-based memory – Tziporah is looking down at me, wheezing with laughter. I’m lying in a comically human shaped hole in a bunch of ferns, having somehow had the wherewithal to launch myself into the brush on the side of the trail instead of face planting directly onto the rocks. I am not that lucky every time. The thickets of trees are the highlight here. You run into the trees and immediately it’s a different world. Dwarves live here, probably. It’s fairyland at its finest; they make homes in the hollows of trunks and rest in the soft patches of moss and pine needles that make up the floor. If you’re there on a sunny day, bands of light shine through the trees so strongly it feels like you should be able to reach out and run your fingers through them. Only seconds later you’re through, alders to both sides once again. You pass four copses of trees and you’re on to my favorite part of the whole trail.
A note on using this trail regularly from June to October- you get to watch all four seasons roll through the alpine and it’s the most magical thing I can imagine. In June, there’s snow covering the trail and trailing halfway down the mountains. Slowly, slowly, it melts, revealing light brown, dead-looking grasses underneath. One day, probably in early July, you come back and everything is a vibrant shade of green. The grasses, the alders, the alpine, the ferns, they’ve all jolted awake at the exact same time. By August, there are wildflowers everywhere. Fireweed and lupine, bluebells and forget-me-nots carpet the ground in between the high alpine spruces. You can pick blueberries on your way along the trail and there isn’t any snow in the mountains anymore. Then one day, sooner than you’d expect, (because, surely, wasn’t it just the other week when everything was an explosion of life?) color starts to leach out of the mountainside. Flowers gone, sparkling greens long since faded, only the lingering reds of the alpine fall remain. And then snow covers the mountains once more. The seasonality makes it special-every time I’m up there it’s different and in a summer packed to its bursting point with mostly work, but also friends and music and love, a day with three consecutive free hours is a gift.
Lost Lake was my first time running a trail, my first time running sixteen miles – two things I never thought I could do. But once I got there, I just had to try. There’s something about it. I’ve gone up there tired, sad, anxious, but by the time I’m winding my way through the third section, it’s impossible to feel anything but awe. The trail makes you feel like a little human race car, twisting around trees and over wooden bridges. Each time you round a corner, a different view of the mountains smacks you in the face and just dares you not to be impressed. It makes me feel lucky to be exactly where I am, at the precise moment I’m there. It makes me feel present. Which is a gift, if you hadn’t heard.
You’ve probably already been. Go again. Stop in a patch of sunlight, if there is one. It’s awesome.
-Anna Testore
Anna got to Seward kind of by accident- she applied for a kayak guiding job online because she was really tired of researching dolphins in Gulfport, Mississippi. Moving was the best decision she’s ever made. Here, she experiences joy and wonder on a regular basis, whether it’s trail running, drinking an iced Americano in the sun, or being surrounded by the laughter of her friends.
Artwork by Kaelyn Schreiner