7 Miles, a 7-Year-Old, and the Magic of Fall on Washington’s Maple Pass Loop
Together on the Maple Pass Loop — one of those hikes that reminds you just how big the world is, and how lucky you are to share it.
Quick Summary
A breathtaking fall hike through golden larches, alpine lakes, and endless mountain views — and a story about how not every family hike needs to be “family friendly” when we choose to do hard things together.
Deciding to Go Anyway
I wasn’t sure this trip made sense. Early October in Washington can go either way — crisp and clear or cold and miserable. Our son had a week off school, and I kept going back and forth: was it worth it to spend fall break hiking in places where it might snow?
We flew into Seattle with plans to split the week — the first half exploring Mount Rainier National Park, and the second half driving north to North Cascades National Park. We’ve done plenty of family hikes before, but this would be our first one where the cold might really turn against us. And the elevation here was more than our son was used to.
Still, I’d been watching too many reels of hikers weaving through gold-drenched larches and couldn’t get the idea out of my head. Something about the challenge — the mountain air, the short window before the snow — felt worth it. So we went anyway.
The Must-Do Hike
Every photo I’d seen of the Maple Pass Loop looked unreal — and somehow, standing here, it was even better once we climbed it ourselves.
The one trail I couldn’t get out of my mind was the Maple Pass Loop. Technically in the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest—it’s right on the border of North Cascades National Park. Every photo I’d seen looked otherworldly: ridges dusted in gold, mountains stacked against blue sky, and reflections of larches glowing in alpine lakes. It’s 7.2 miles with more than 2,000 feet of elevation gain — no small feat for anyone, let alone a 7-year-old.
But our son had a big motivator. He’s training to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with his grandma this spring and has been excited to build up his hiking mileage. When I told him Maple Pass was the longest trail we’d ever done, he grinned and said, “I’ll beat my best record.”
Trail Details
Trailhead signboard at Rainy Pass — the start of our Maple Pass Loop adventure. Bundled up for a chilly North Cascades morning.
Distance: 7.2 miles round trip
Elevation Gain: ~2,000 feet
Trailhead: Rainy Pass Trailhead (Highway 20, North Cascades)
Best Direction: Counterclockwise — 100% recommend it. The climb is steady but manageable, with stunning views that open up early and often. If you go clockwise, the ascent is brutal — long, steep, and mostly exposed.
But be prepared: the counterclockwise descent is no joke either. It’s steep and hard on the knees, so trekking poles are your friend.Timing: Go early for parking and soft morning light on the larches.
Not Every Family Hike Needs to Be Family Friendly
We didn’t start with hikes like this. We started with short walks to waterfalls, scavenger hunts for pinecones, and endless snack breaks. Slowly, those trails turned into a few miles at a time. Somewhere along the way, hiking became our shared classroom — a place to talk about what it means to do something hard and finish it anyway.
And maybe that’s the truth of family adventure: not every hike needs to be family friendly. Some hikes are for growth — for building confidence, grit, and wonder all at once.
Up the Mountain
We started the loop counterclockwise, climbing through a shaded forest where the air smelled like pine and damp earth. The first mile or so is calm and gradual, winding through tall evergreens and soft needles underfoot — the kind of easy, rhythmic walking that lets you find your pace.
About a mile in, a short spur trail branches off toward the base of Lake Ann — roughly 1.2 miles round trip with about 400 feet of elevation change. It’s a beautiful detour if you have the energy, but we knew the extra descent (and climb back up) would be too much for little legs on this trip.
Beyond that junction, the trees begin to thin and the trail opens to rocky slopes alive with sound — tiny pikas chirping from the boulders, darting in and out between rocks as if cheering hikers along. It’s here that the views start to reveal themselves. Between stretches of switchbacks, we began catching glimpses of Lake Ann far below, flashing through the trees like a secret.
Pausing to take in the spectacular view of the perfect spot above Lake Ann before the final climb — a moment worth catching your breath for.
We stopped for lunch partway up those switchbacks when our son started to fade. It wasn’t the perfect overlook I’d imagined — we could see hints of Lake Ann through the trees but not the full sweeping view that waited just a little higher. Still, it was beautiful: gold-tipped larches on the hillsides, blue sky peeking through, and the kind of quiet that only mountain air carries. We shared sandwiches and trail mix, talking about how far we’d come and how much more there still was to see.
If we could have, I would’ve pushed a little farther — just enough to reach that overlook perched directly above the lake, the one that shows up in all those photos that drew me here in the first place. But maybe that’s the balance of hiking as a family: sometimes you stop where you need to, not where you planned. We may have missed that perfect lunch spot, but later we had all the time in the world for photos and bubbles at what felt like the top of the world — not realizing, of course, that the trail still climbed even higher.
From there, the trail steepens and the trees give way entirely to open alpine terrain. The switchbacks narrow, cutting across loose rock and wildflowers long since gone to seed. The climb to the ridge is a real challenge, especially with tired legs, but every step earns its reward. When you finally crest the top, the view stops you in your tracks — a glacier gleaming on one side, and on the other, the whole valley spread out beneath you with Lake Ann sparkling far below.
Alone at the top of the world — just us, the wind, and miles of quiet stretching across the North Cascades.
If you take just a few steps farther out to the left along the ridge before beginning the descent, you can see the full sweep of the mountains — and realize that the place you thought was “the top” was really just one of many summits along the way.
Blowing bubbles at 6,000 feet on the Maple Pass Loop — because wonder belongs on every trail.
Somewhere along the way, our son discovered the Pano feature on my phone and decided that every viewpoint needed documentation. We stopped often so he could take sweeping photos of mountain ridges and larch-filled valleys, turning slowly in circles, concentrating like a little artist at work. Watching him see the world that way — framing it, savoring it — made the hike feel less like a challenge and more like a collaboration.
We played trail games, too — “find something that starts with every letter of the alphabet,” and “I’m going to mystery island, and I’m bringing…” At one point he proudly announced that the island’s name was Metamorphosis, which none of us could guess, because — really, how could we? We also quizzed each other on state capitals — he still finds it hilarious that his dad can never remember most of them. (For Frankfort, we’ve started reminding him with the phrase Frank Farts, which, unsurprisingly, he thinks is the funniest thing ever.)
At one overlook, he pulled out a bubble stick the staff at a Ukrainian restaurant had given him the night before. We stood on a cliffside, watching bubbles drift out over the canyon, catching the light like tiny pieces of glass. It was pure joy — the kind of quiet, magical moment that happens when no one’s rushing.
The Last Two Miles
But even magical hikes have hard miles.
About five miles in, our son’s pace slowed. His feet started to hurt. The excitement faded into quiet determination. I could see the “are we almost there?” look starting to appear.
So we suggested we tell a story. Without missing a beat, he dove in:
“Okay. There’s a magic teleporter that takes us to a haunted amusement park. We have to find the right coffins to transport us through the haunted house ride. There are ghosts and ghouls, and the statues come alive if we touch them. King Kong shows up on a drop ride that takes us miles into the air before bottoming out, and we have to battle our way out through ghost tunnels and flying mummies!”
It became an epic saga — complete with ghost battles, ghoul statues, and heroic escapes — unfolding step by step with the trail.
Suddenly, he wasn’t tired anymore.
He was leading the charge, sword made of sticks, shouting plot twists as he hiked.
By the time we reached the final viewpoint, the whole mountain felt alive — gold trees shimmering, wind whipping through the ridges, and our little storyteller grinning ear to ear.
Beginning the descent — a series of sharp switchbacks carving down the mountainside before easing into a long, gentle stretch through the forest.
Why It Mattered
That day wasn’t easy. But it was good. Watching him finish — proud, sore, and standing in awe — reminded me that perseverance doesn’t have to look stoic. Sometimes it looks like imagination. Sometimes it looks like blowing bubbles off a mountain ridge or turning pain into play.
And sometimes, the best family hikes aren’t the easy ones. They’re the ones that teach your kids what they’re capable of — and remind you, too, of what you’re capable of together.
If You Go
Start early. The Rainy Pass lot fills by 9 a.m. There is parking along the road, but it can get quite busy too!
Bring layers. It can feel like three seasons in one hike.
Trekking poles help kids and adults alike, especially on the steep descent.
Snack breaks = magic. Gummy worms, granola bars, or trail mix can reset morale fast.
Stop at Blue Lake nearby if you want more larch chasing without the full mileage. Another beautiful trail—easier, but way more crowded and less wow factor.
Closing Reflection
Leaving the mountains behind on Highway 20, sunlight fading over the peaks as we drove toward Winthrop.
As we drove back down Highway 20, the sun dipped low behind the peaks, and the larches caught fire one last time in the light. Our son was half-asleep in the backseat, bubble stick in hand, still talking about the ghosts we’d defeated.
The next day, we took a break from hiking to explore the cute western town of Winthrop, with its wooden boardwalks and old-time storefronts. Our son — who’s often shy — told multiple people about how he’d just tackled his longest hike yet with the most elevation gain. He grinned from ear to ear, pride radiating from him.
And honestly, it was contagious. His pride was infectious — the kind that makes you remember that the hard things we do together are the ones that stay with us longest.
Maybe that’s how confidence grows: not from doing things that feel easy, but from doing things that once felt impossible, together.
Join the Journey
Thanks for coming along for the journey. If this story sparked something in you — wanderlust, reflection, or maybe just the reminder that slowing down matters — I’d love for you to stick around.
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Chasing joy while cuddling with sled dog puppies in Ilulissat, Greenland
About Christal
I’m a clinical psychologist, professor, and writer who believes in resisting hustle culture and finding awe through slow, meaningful travel with my family.
I’ve explored four continents, often blending work and play through teaching abroad and cultural immersion.
I created We Went Anyway as a space to share stories about choosing presence over perfection and finding joy in a full, connected life through adventure — big and small.
When I’m not writing or hiking, you’ll find me sipping peppermint tea on the porch with friends, building Legos with my son, watching design videos to guide the slow remodel of our 118-year-old home, or planning the next family trip from our home base in Kentucky.
Because sometimes the most meaningful adventures
start when we go anyway.