-----We were able to sleep in, and for us, "sleeping in" means 8:00. I never thought I'd be a morning person, but I guess my circadian rhythm has always been on Alaska time. We walked to the site of our epic dinner the previous night for a breakfast of champions, and the buffet spread they had was the greatest breakfast I've had. I'm not normally a breakfast kind of guy and I can't name the last non-trip day in which my first meal was something other than lunch. But every component of the hot breakfast was top-notch, and we entertained our plucky Wisconsinite waitress by our habit of putting as much creamer in our coffees as the cups will hold and being self-deprecating about the whole matter. We got our fill because we knew we'd need it for the hike ahead, but little did we know just how much we'd be praising our previous selves for their wise investment.

-----We left our lovely little cabin, with its five pillows per bed and oddly Star Trek-esque showers, at 11:00 sharp, and said goodbye to the Knik River area as we once again paralleled the river over the hilly and winding road that led us—eventually—to the Glenn Highway. It wasn't long on the freeway (!) that we reached the exit for the tiny town of Eklutna, home of 363 people and a really cool Russian Orthodox church. Though no one was manning the visitor center, we voluntarily put $5 in the collection box and walked around the area. The permafrost means that people are more or less buried in mounds aboveground, and the Russian Orthodox tradition of housing the bodies in what appear to be small facsimile houses made the entire area feel really ... I don't want to say creepy, but kind of odd—especially when no one was around.

-----The Glenn Highway was full of the most insane examples of driving I'd seen yet, as the hectic nature of the big-city freeway was crossbred with the daredevil foolishness of the Alaskans. We soon reached the outskirts of Chugiak, which now has as many people as Eagle River did back in the late 80s. It was around this point that my parents—who lived in Eagle River for several years in the 1980s—began openly marveling in a state somewhere between shock and stone-cold horror at the amount of growth in the greater Anchorage area in the intervening period, which started in earnest when we saw the sprawling high school in Chugiak and only continued when we got into Eagle River itself. Every street, every extra lane, every shopping center, every road, and every stoplight saw one of them say in hushed tones that "that wasn't there before." This didn't stop as we wormed through town to see their old house.

-----After passing the old stomping grounds—a place that both of them believed they'd never see again—we headed up to a trailhead nestled deep in the mountain roads that go into Eagle River valley, where—as we negotiated steep grades and sharp turns—there was continued marveling at the subdivisions and new constructions that have begun to stretch into the valley. It was house after house after school bus stop after house on the winding road that took us to the South Fork trailhead.

-----Our research had led us to believe that—after the inclines we'd endured in Denali and the snow we'd tackled in Hatcher Pass—a long and relatively flat walk would be of great value and ameliorate our sore calves and shins. Sure, we'd seen that it'd be a nearly ten-mile round trip, but we saw the minimal elevation change and pictures of the beautiful lakes we'd see at the end—Eagle Lake and Symphony Lake, specifically—and thought that it was well worth a trip. They never got to do it in the 80s, and there was no time like the recent past.

-----We realized nearly immediately that the 800-foot elevation change was a net gain, because we went up and just kept climbing. The path started out quite well, but soon became thinner as it crossed over tributaries of Eagle River and finally Eagle River itself by way of a footbridge. The trail got progressively rockier as we traversed the rolling hills of the valley floor, and while it was not overly cold, the wind was rather steady and it brought with it various misty rain showers and the occasional miniature snow flurry. We made good time until the trail really got rough; there were multiple paths cut as previous alignments turned into impassable mud pits, where logs and wood planks put down to aid the wayward hiker just got sucked wholesale into the moist earth. We ended up perfecting a quasi-system were trails were blazed along moose paths (which became easier to see the more one looked), as well as stepping on roots and thick shrub branches and the viable planks (where available) to avoid the puddles and muck which came to dominate the trail.

-----The problem is that the trail—which is called "easy" as opposed to the "strenuous" it actually was—used to run through the valley the entire way instead of working its way up on the ridge line, which added time, distance, elevation, and strenuousness. Someone had purchased land down in the Eagle River Valley and while the previous owners were okay with hikers on their property, the new owners weren't so pleased. This is obviously well within the owner's right, but no one bothered to change the web site, maps, or ... well, pretty much anything anywhere for anyone wanting to learn anything about getting to these secluded lakes.

-----We were very obviously over the 5.5 mile point, which was to mark our arrival at the lakes, and no lakes were anywhere in sight. The trail was simply getting worse, as now there was mostly a line of muck and running water snaking over the valley floor. We had to pause to look around at the mountains and fog around us and the snowcapped peaks ahead, at whose bases lay these mythical lakes. We were much too far in to turn back, and we'd come all this way, so with the mist blowing around our hooded faces, we pressed on, climbing over huge piles of loose rocks—miniature mountains in and of themselves—and snow banks and drifts still feet thick, and finally—at long last—we saw the glimmer of a green lake.

-----Actually getting to the lakes requires a certain amount of negotiating over a truly massive pile of rocks and boulders with only the barest hint of a suggestion of a trail embedded within, and it took us a long while of steadying our muddy hiking boots and keeping our weight evenly distributed over such hairy terrain. I've always enjoyed climbing on rocks such as these, but when there's six miles of a so-called trail between you and the nearest road, there was even more emphasis on safety.

-----I made it over a particularly challenging set of rocks and came down on quite a nice trail that led to an epic view of the green-hued Eagle Lake, which was just melting into its pure glacial color as Flute Glacier and Cantata Peak looked on majestically from their faintly fog-shadowed perch high above. Symphony Lake still lay above the huge mountain of boulders, and tiny figures could be seen on the rocky ridge that lies between the two lakes. But Eagle Lake is a) a prettier color, b) has actually melted somewhat, and c) larger, so when it was time to head back not too long afterwards, it was well worth the journey.

-----The hike is a well-worn path by Alaskan locals, and we were one of perhaps a few groups in a small minority who didn't have dogs with us. They ranged from small to massive, and protective to friendly, with the two golden retrievers happily greeting and being petted by all the new friends they could find. (My jeans, already caked in mud from the knee down, got an extra few licks from these dogs.) Though the scenery was gorgeous everywhere you looked, it became harder and harder to ignore our sore feet and legs, and as we passed landmark after landmark on the return trip, we did what we could to make time downhill and pass the time however we could. I recited what I could remember of The Cremation of Sam McGee, and several lines about the badness of the trail seemed very apt—especially the parts about feeling half mad but swearing never to give in.

-----We saw little wildlife on the trail; though we crossed through prime moose country, only one moose sighting was reported by a family ahead of us, and by the time we'd gotten to that area, the creature was well away. The number of people on the trail probably helped in this regard; while we saw many holes for ground squirrels and beavers, none seemed inhabited as we passed, and our bear spray stayed stuck safely in their holsters on our belts. We saw a number of magpies—beautifully stark creatures of black and white—as they zoomed through the air alone or in groups, as well as the majestic willow ptarmigan, which is a beautiful bird until it opens its mouth, at which point you hear a sound echoing across the canyon that sounds like a dying goat auditioning for the role of the Joker. It's this awful whining screeching chirp that sounds like some sort of demonic chicken, and I now understand why early settlers with no knowledge of this creature would have assumed that it's some sort of native chicken.

-----Over hill and dale and creek and muddy quicksand we kept on the trail, occasionally taking a shortcut or the long way around depending on their relative levels of mud. It didn't look like it helped if you went by looking at our jeans afterwards, but we'd have been in far worse shape had we gone through the worst of the mud. Our pants were caked, our layers of shirts and sweaters and jackets were soaked from both the tiny but constant precipitation and our sweat, our hair was completely in shambles, and we looked beat—but we beat the trail. (My dad and I also wanted to beat up whoever said that the trail was "easy" with "minimal elevation change.")

-----We had begun the adventure at around 12:40 and we got back to the car at 7:00. The rest of the Glenn Highway awaited and we got to Anchorage well within half an hour, where it took all of what remained of my attention to keep eyes out for every driver within 100 yards of me, the myriad middle-lane potholes, and—of course—where our next turn was. My parents provided a bit of help, especially in the latter category, between their statements affirming their incredulity with the course of progress in Anchorage. It's not the small-ish town they remember, and driving around reminded me of driving into somewhere like St. Paul or Sacramento. Not even Fairbanks with its metropolitan area felt like such a big city as Anchorage.

-----It did not feel good to move after a half-hour's respite in the car, but we needed to unload some of our things before we went to one of the area restaurants. Our gnawing hunger and utter exhaustion in every other aspect led us to the closest place: the Sea Galley. It's a local chain, yes, but they had food and food meant sustenance and they served seafood and we were in Alaska so we went in. We sucked in as much food as possible, and it's a testament to our empty metabolisms that what tasted heavenly at the beginning began to seem more and more like a plate of overpriced fried whitefish the longer we sat. But I will give kudos to their strawberry lemonade—which tasted like a melted sherbet—and their calamari, which actually had tentacles and had a wonderful sauce alongside.

-----Tomorrow: we see how sore we are. Good thing we have a full day in Anchorage to rest up!