I assumed the trail on the north side of the pass would match that of the south side of the pass. I was wrong.
A ghost of a trail appeared and disappeared through the scree and boulder field that fell off the north side of the saddle, but it completely disappeared once we made our way out of the rocks. Little trickles of water wandered down the sides of the surrounding mountains. In our search for the path we knew must be there, we mistook most of the trickles for trails until we splashed into them. Then it started to drizzle, and we gave up on finding a trail and simply picked our way between the spots of marshy, spongy ground and the dense thickets of willows.
We were heading for the Fryingpan Lakes, which were reportedly chock-full of trout. We almost made it. Almost.