Luckily, we were safe inside a bus, but it was a startling reminder that lightning in the mountains is a genuine threat. And here we were on our way higher up the mountain to regain the trail after our short break in Mammoth.
We made it back to Red's Meadow without further excitement, and after a chocolate milkshake at the small diner we headed off down the rain-soaked trail.
Shortly we arrived at Devil's Postpile, a geologic feature that was only barely saved from miner's dynamite by its protection as a national monument.
A few miles later we found a suitable campsite along the middle fork San Joaquin River. We fell asleep to the rush of the water, our equipment safely stowed from the promise of overnight storms.
We had one more pass to climb before crossing into Yosemite National Park and what we hoped would be an easing of the strenuousness of the trail. We had no idea how wrong we were.
An afternoon thunderstorm chased us over Donohue Pass at record speed, with Alyssa leading the charge across the exposed summit before the very dark storm clouds closed in on us. With barely a pause at the top to regain our breath, we charged down the other side, and just in time. As we reached the tree line the steady rain turned to a torrent of dime-sized hail. We sheltered under a paltry stand of Foxtail Pines until the downpour passed, then carefully picked our way down the over the slickened rocks. Fighting the usual battle against the mosquitos, we ate dinner and tucked ourselves in to the sound of light rain on the tent punctuated by the lingering crashes of distant thunder.
The ten or so miles to our resupply at Tuolumne Meadows the next morning flew by as the entire route was a nearly level stroll down a wide meadow-filled valley.
The hiker and tourist circus that was the Tuolumne Meadows Store was a startling change from the perfect solitude of the high Sierra, and we found an unoccupied picnic table far enough away from the crowds to keep us happy. The post office staff was apparently sick of the circus as well and had designated 3:00 pm as the official hiker box pickup time -- Don't even bother trying to get your box at other times. With two hours to kill I requisitioned a box of Cabernet, a box of Ak-Mak, and a wheel of goat cheese to enjoy in the meanwhile. Pleasantly lubricated by the wine and warm sun, we collected our box at the appointed hour, divided up the goods between us, and departed with another PCT couple also on their way north. Our goal that evening was Glen Aulin campground, some six miles on.
Again chased down the trail by an imposing thunderstorm, we made excellent time over the glacial-polished granite and past two magnificent waterfalls. That night the rain on the tent was heavier, but had relented by the time we lazily readied ourselves the next morning.
We left later than normal, and with less enthusiasm than normal. The trail steepened, then steepened some some more. Morale plunged, then plunged more. Luckily the rain left us alone that day, as through the two vertical climbs and equally vertical descents we managed only fourteen miles that day. The next day was the same routine - straight up the side of a steep valley, then straight down the other, followed by straight up the next. Morale dropped even lower. We each began making plans to get off the trail as soon as possible. Despite the magnificence of the surroundings, we were too tired to care, and in any case too preoccupied looking at the trail so as not to break a leg, to ever look up and enjoy the scenery. I made a fire on the second night to keep away the swarms of mosquitos. This was only partly successful. After three days of this agonizing, muscle-torching routine, we made a final steep descent into a wide valley, where we turned northwest at a creek to follow the valley gently uphill for six miles past Glen Meadows and Dorothy Lake, and out of Yosemite National Park.
As soon as we passed into the Herbert Hoover Wilderness of the Toiyabe National Forest, the topography changed. Gone were the glacial-carved granitic domes and valleys of Yosemite. In their place were ruddy volcanic peaks, ridges, and wide-open valleys. We made another bug-ridden camp at Lake Harriet, where we cooked and ate in the tent; neither of us having any more patience for the mosquitos.
That night we resolved to hitch out to Bridgeport at Sonora Pass. We were both approaching terminal burnout, and were beginning to ask ourselves what the point of all this was. When you start to ask that question, then what's the point? It was time for some real R&R so that we could retake the trail with fresh eyes and really enjoy the journey that we were on.
Just resolving to take a step back improved our moods dramatically. The next morning we took our sweet time eating breakfast and actually enjoying the campsite and lake. We finally started hiking after ten in the morning, but who cared? We lunched by a creek as very dark clouds began gathering to the east, which was fine with me as long as they stayed to the east.
The trail led us steadily (but not steeply) up, and soon we came to a junction above the tree line - one trail switchbacking up Emigrant Pass and our trail switchbacking up to Leavitt Peak. We attacked the old jeep road with a crisp pace and were soon awarded with an incredible view of deep violet storms to our East contrasting with the blue white and grey of the clouds and peaks to our south.
Up we climbed, then leveled and followed the 11,000 foot ridge as it undulated northward. To our left the mountain dropped off steeply to a valley and lake some 1,500 feet below. To our right the hill rose for twenty feet before dropping precipitously about eight hundred feet to Leavitt Lake. This section could easily be fatal in a heavy snow year.
Thankfully, the snow huddled only in small patches and the storms remained safely crackling off to the east.
At long last we reached the descent to Highway 108 and Sonora Pass. We had hoped to hitch into Bridgeport that night, but by the time we reached the road there was almost no traffic daring the pass in the darkening evening. The one driver who stopped turned out to be lost, so we gave him directions and sent him on his way. We decided we would have better luck in the morning.
We pitched our tent in the deepening afternoon, spirits again high that we would soon be enjoying a hotel, showers, and real food. As we finished dinner the setting sun broke under the overcast, illuminating the massive thunderstorms in the most spectacular display I might have ever seen. I was suddenly very grateful that we hadn't found a ride, as we might have missed this bit of magnificence.
After a few days off in Bridgeport and South Lake Tahoe, we'll be recharged and ready to take on the next month of hiking, one step at a time.
