A glassy, fir-ringed lake reserved for fly-fishing and rowboats, with no motors allowed. The last calm water you'll meet before the islands pinch shut and the channel's roar takes over.
Glass. That's the word for Pass Lake when you reach it — a dark mirror laid flat against the forest, off to the east, ringed close by Douglas-fir that drop straight down into their own reflection. You won't hear an engine out there, and that's on purpose. No gas motors are allowed on this water. It's a fly-fishing lake, catch-and-release by long tradition, so whoever's out there is moving slow — a rower easing a little boat along the shoreline, an angler standing in a float tube, false-casting a line that lands like a whisper. Take it in now, because of everything in this park, this is the last calm thing. You're a few hundred yards from where the islands pinch shut and the whole mood breaks open. Coming the other way, off the bridge, this lake is the first thing that tells you you've made it — the water gone still again, the roar behind you, the forest closing soft around a sheet of glass.