The train arrived on schedule and the dusty view turned to the cool farmland of the Santa Clara River floodplain, and soon I was catching glimpses of the Channel Islands through thick haze.
The wedding that afternoon was a beautiful event under soaring Sycamore trees in the company of as warm, intelligent, and talented people as anyone should have the privilege of knowing.
The open bar, on the other hand, was a blessing that evening and a curse the next morning as Alyssa and I roused ourselves out of just a couple of hours of lousy sleep.
My brother Bart, home for a few weeks from college, volunteered to drive us back to Kennedy Meadows, so in dad's car we sped over I-14 past Vasquez rocks, straining to catch a glimpse of the trail we had hiked an eternity of three weeks ago.
As we sped into Lancaster the temperature soared into the triple digits, finally topping out at 108 degrees. We turned off the highway and climbed the narrow mountain road toward Kennedy Meadows as the air steadily cooled into a more manageable eighty-two degrees. That evening we made our first campfire of the trail and drank beer while looking at the stars. When we climbed into our tent that night it was like returning home.
Perhaps it was the five days off, perhaps it was the altitude, perhaps it was the drinking like you're 25 when you're 35, but the next day was a struggle as the trail wound up into the southern Sierra through a thin pine forest. The dust was dustier, the sun was hotter, and our packs were heavier, but we pressed on.
The Manzanitas, our constant companions thus far, hugged lower and lower to the ground until they disappeared into it altogether. Goodbye chaparral.
We passed through or around several of the large meadows that dominate the valleys of the southern Sierra. Soon we reached a pretty steel bridge over the South Fork Kern river and unshouldered our packs to nap and snack in the shade along with twenty or thirty other hikers. Swallows that had made their mud nests under the bridge sallied back and forth catching their lunches. We managed another five miles of steady climbing that afternoon before camping next to a huge fallen Jefferey Pine just past the Olancha Peak trail junction.
The next day we resumed the climb over a ridge and into another meadow valley. We stopped for lunch at Gomez Meadow where a solitary eight point buck grazed, unconcerned. Unseen fighter jets thundered far overhead, breaking the otherwise perfect quiet of the warm afternoon. After lunch the trail pitched upwards to climb steadily for three miles, and two thousand feet later we regained the Pacific Crest for the first time since before Kennedy Meadows. The eastern slopes dropped precipitously down to shimmering Owens Valley seven thousand feet below.
The trail mercifully flattened out (only because there was nowhere else to climb at the moment) and, after passing through an ancient granite "gate" descended to a broad gravely saddle where we made camp for the night at 11,000 feet.
Morning dawned chilly, but warmed up as soon as the sun peaked over the eastern crests. We enjoyed the views from our high saddle and again set off down the trail with considerably more spring in our steps than the previous two days. Perhaps we were finally acclimating to our new packs and the altitude.
The discussions that day revolved around the logistics of adding a day to this section to summit Mt. Whitney with our available supplies. The high Sierra is considerably more remote than any of the previous 700 miles. Resupply is not as easy as simply hitching out at the nearest road - the nearest road is often eight miles away and over a 13,000 foot pass!
We watered at Diaz Creek where tiny alpine hermit crabs with shells made of glued sand grains scurried along the bottom of the shallow creek.
The trail climbed away from Diaz Creek and over several small ridges where the formerly distant peaks of the high Sierra - grey jagged teeth far off on the horizon for the past two weeks - now seemed close enough to touch. Steadily we ascended toward a massive bald peak, the Lodgepole and other pines giving way to gnarled Foxtail pines as we approached the timberline. We paused at Chicken Spring Lake for a rest, our first Sierran Lake and only the third lake of the entire trail so far. The still blue water reflected the steep glacier-carved bowl it filled. Above, the omnipresent fighter jets burned up our tax dollars joyriding over this most scenic landscape. I couldn't blame them one bit -- I would be doing the exact same thing if given the opportunity.
We crossed into Sequoia National Park at 11,200 feet and camped in a small meadow as the sun set behind the craggy range to the west.
After our discussions of the previous days, we decided that it was possible to summit Whitney and make our scheduled resupply without starving to death. To this end we set off the next morning, descending to cross a large creek where we rested in the shade while a mule skinner coaxed his laden animals across and up the opposite bank.
Again the trail climbed above the timberline and then rapidly descended a rough and bouldered set of switchbacks into a steep-sided granite canyon. Exhausted by the climb and the subsequent treacherous descent, we took a short break under a huge Foxtail pine before resuming the trail as it climbed the canyon under ever more majestic peaks. Within a mile we came upon a sign marking the Whitney Spur trail, which we followed past a babbling brook filled with so many trout you could walk across on their backs without getting wet.
The trail followed the stream into the most picturesque meadow either of us had ever seen. Birds sang in key with the brook and the mountains gazed on benevolently from the impossibly blue skies. A pair of deer grazed completely unafraid only feet from the trail. Disney could not have composed a more idyllic scene.
The trail climbed steadily and at times steeply towards the high peaks of the Whitney group. The feeling of the vastness of the mountains is almost impossible to describe in words and is even more futile to capture accurately in a picture. We were as joyful as we had been in days, smiling at every step and turn of the trail, each moment a gift that made the physical effort easy.
Up and up we walked, deeper into the great glacial valley surrounded by these massive peaks. Soon even the Foxtail pines couldn't take the altitude and disappeared, leaving only hardy meadow grasses and moss to add splashes of green to the immense grey and blue panorama.
Guitar Lake teemed with would-be summiteers and a fairground of tents. Seeking a more serene setting for our camp, we followed the trail a little higher over then next rise and were rewarded with a pristine lake and meadow completely to ourselves. Below, the circus at Guitar Lake was close enough to be audible, but for some reason not one other person had thought to hike another ten minutes up the hill to escape the cacophony.
This was our highest camp yet at 11,700 feet, and by far the most scenic. We even had an infinity pool overlooking distant sawtooth peaks.
Being more possessed than my wife of that spark which drives people to summit high peaks, I would be making my summit attempt alone. I awoke at 4:30 the next morning and escaped the siren call of my warm sleeping bag into the chill predawn air. The headlamps of sunrise summiteers bobbed along the switchbacks thousands of feet above as the first gray of dawn lighted the sky. After a hearty breakfast and coffee, I set off up the trail with a small daypack. My steps were light and fast without fifty pounds on my back, but I soon found myself winded by the thin air and the steep switchbacks. After a mile the grade slacked a little and I found a comfortable pace. Higher and higher I climbed up the east face of the Whitney/Muir crest. Soon I was looking down on the peaks of Mt. Hitchcock, which that morning had seemed to tower impossibly over the campsite. The summit of Whitney was still out of sight and two thousand vertical feet away. Far below, the Hitchcock Lakes were black bottomless pools.
I rounded a switchback and paused to catch my breath just as the first sun rays kissed the top of the distant sawtooth peaks. I lost my breath all over again. The monumental grandeur of the vision was like looking into the face of God, and all I could do was laugh like a fool with the elation of it.
Apropos of nothing, the poem "Ozymandias" came to mind, as if my brain was trying to find words for the wordless beauty before me, and coming up empty, borrowed Shelley's perfect poem as a poor substitute.
When I regained my senses, I tackled the climb with a renewed vigor. Above 13,500 feet, snow and ice covered parts of the narrow, treacherous path and the going slowed as I concentrated on not tumbling off of mountain. The sky was considerably lighter when I reached the sharp ridge crest that I would follow up to the summit. Stepping out from behind a large granite needle I was greeted by the palm-tingling sight of the three-foot wide path perched on the three-foot wide crest, with a 10,000 foot drop to Owens Valley to the east and a 3,000 foot drop to the valley on the west.
In the thin air my concentration began to wander dangerously, and I had to consciously focus on the icy path. Twisting an ankle here would be highly problematic.
At 7:30am, two hours after I left camp, I stood on the 14,505 foot peak of the tallest mountain in the continental United States. Owens and Jenkins peaks stood off in the sunlight to the south - we had passed just under those weeks ago at Walker Pass. Beyond them in the infinite gray was the barely perceptible darker gray of the San Bernardinos and the Angeles Crest. Beyond even that, and supposedly visible on exceptionally clear days, was the peak of Mt. San Jacinto, some 211 miles away as the crow flies (and 583 trail miles!). To the north lay countless more peaks under which we would be passing in the coming weeks. After signing the register and snapping a few pictures, I took one last look and headed back down the hill.
An hour and a half later, I reached our campsite where Alyssa had been busy with camp chores and watching the Marmots play and fight in the meadow. I had just made a +-3,000 foot, eight mile round trip, but now it was time for the day's hike to Forester Pass, fifteen miles away.
Down we climbed from our perch beneath Whitney and rejoined the PCT, which is also the John Muir Trail for the next two hundred miles. Turning north we hiked right at the tree line, dipping into forests as the trail descended into creek valleys and out into the barrens again as we regaining the ridgelines. After crossing Tyndall Creek the trail ascended steadily up a treeless plateau that afforded humbling views of the surrounding peaks. As the trail turned east toward a sheer wall and huge glacial canyon, we strained to see where Forester "Pass" might be. Finally we reached the foot of the switchbacks that led up to the pass, where we found a barely large enough campsite amongst the boulders and tarn lakes.
If you were under the impression that a pass is a low point between two peaks, then you will agree with us that Forester Pass is inappropriately named. The "pass" is a notch in the granite 13,200 feet up on a snow-encrusted ridge. The trail up to it had to be blasted into the living rock with dynamite, as it is essentially a sheer face.
We climbed this trail first thing the next morning. With fresh lungs and legs we completed the mile-long 700 foot ascent in about 45 minutes. Cresting the notch revealed a huge cirque surrounded by 14,000 foot peaks, which steeply graded into a mile-wide glacial valley that bent away into the distance: welcome to Kings Canyon National Park. Down and down the steep cobble trail we hiked, finally reaching the tree line at 11,500 feet, passing above shockingly blue tarn lakes that turned to a million brilliant diamonds with every slight breeze.
Farther into the vast valley we went, the forest returning and the smell of sweet pine replacing the arid dryness of the higher elevations. Pausing by a small creek, we swatted mosquitos and ate most of our remaining food. The trail followed large Bubb's Creek along the valley floor where we were tempted by perfect riverside camp spots to delay our exit from the wilderness another day, but our nonexistent food supply spurred us on.
After a couple of miles of steady descent the trail abruptly turned right and steeply up. After so many miles and so much climbing over the last three days, the change was unwelcome. Our backs and legs burned as we began regaining much of the altitude we had just given up. Adding to to the unpleasantness was the steepness of the grade, which was far greater than the fifteen percent mandated by Congress for the PCT. Up and up we climbed out of the Center Basin and into Kearsarge Valley. There we turned off the PCT onto the Kearsarge Pass trail, which would take us out to Onion Valley where we could hitch a ride into Independence to pick up our resupply box. Up and up Kearsarge Valley we climbed towards Kearsarge Pass, another misnamed notch in a granite wall. The grade and sun were relentless, and our patience and energy were rapidly running out. At long last we reached the 11,700 foot summit of the slippery, bouldery trail and passed from King's Canyon National Park into the John Muir Wilderness and renewed views of the Owens Valley. Instantly, the awful, steep, rutted trail we had been cursing turned into a broad, beautifully maintained path coursing gently down the Onion Valley. Downhill on such a path is easy hiking, and we completed the five miles to the campground with twice the speed we could muster climbing up.
Our hitchhiking karma was good, as we almost immediately found a ride into town. We headed to Lone Pine, some thirty miles down the road, where we found a hostel, showers and freshly cooked (not rehydrated) food.
Monday morning we'll hitch back to Independence to get our resupply box, and then hitch the thirteen miles up the Onion Valley to re-cross the Kearsarge Pass again and regain the trail. Hopefully the day off will have rejuvenated us enough to complete the 2,500 foot, five mile climb. From there we tackle the rest of the high Sierra, and we won't exit the trail again for several weeks. The toughest climbs are behind us, and now we have the confidence and conditioning to tackle those to come, one step at a time.
Dazzling!
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SG120
Sweeeeeeeet
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