Three High Sierra Adventures (2008)
Kenji Hakuta
This was my summer of fun Sierra
adventures.
My interest in climbing it
was triggered 4 summers ago when I was hiking out from a 5-day backpacking trip
from Ten Lakes to Glen Aulin with my wife’s cousin Gordon and my old friend
David. You cannot help but notice this
prominent mountain on your left hand side as you head out of Glen Aulin. As the sun set, we could see the silhouette
of Sheep Peak on its west casting a shadow on the mountain’s majestic
rise. “I want to climb Conness some
day,” I told Gordon.
Well, four years later, I
talked Gordon into climbing it with me.
I checked out the climb on Super Topo and found that there are two
moderate technical climbs – the West Ridge and the North Ridge, as well as a
scramble hike to the summit that serves also as the descent for the
climbs. Both ridge climbs are rated as
of excellent quality and classics in alpine climbing in the Sierras. The routes are acclaimed by well-known
climbing household names such as Peter Croft and John Long.
The main challenge
for both routes is described as the approach and route finding. The North Ridge is best done in one long
day. The West Ridge is not advised in a
single day, and is best approached from
The West Ridge is a few
pitches of 5.6 climbing and lots of third and fourth class scrambling, which
most parties simul-climb (where the two climbers are attached to each other by
about 50-75 feet of rope and climb simultaneously rather than set up anchors
and belay, and protection is placed between the two climbers as they
climb). The main feature involves some
extended climbing along a knife edge that drops steeply to the south side, and
it is considered one of the more exciting exposures one can get without much
technical difficulty.
On the first day of the
adventure, I woke up early at home in
We made pretty good time
getting up to
When we approached
At Young Lakes, we went past
the second lake (there are three of them), and then went off-trail towards
Roosevelt, following more or less the contours of the ridge around the valley
created by the drainage of the Young Lakes and Roosevelt Lake. It was pretty much of a slog, steep in
places, and our going was slow. By
around 7:00, it was clear that we could either keep going, getting to
We woke up early and got on
our way. In spite of my GPS information
about distance as the crow flies, the going turned out to be quite slow. We did manage to get there by around 11:00,
and found a spot not quite at the lake, but within view of it. And there it was -- the West Ridge just
waiting for us, with no one around us. We
put on our climbing harnesses, racked up, and put some snacks and the rope into
my climbing backpack. We also took our
windbreakers and a headlamp just in case.
For water, we consolidated all of our water into Gordon’s Camelback,
thinking that this should be enough for the climb and descent. Before departure, we hydrated as much as we
could, and we were off on our great adventure up Conness!
The approach to the base of
the climb was short (about 30 minutes) and as the path steepened, we practiced
simulclimbing even though the climb itself was not difficult. We finally got to the point where it seemed
to get technical, so we set up an anchor, and I started leading up our first
pitch. There were so many possibilities
with multiple crack systems that I could go up, it was like being in a high
Sierra climbing gym. It was also great
to have the luxury of getting Gordon comfortable with the system in that
context, as it had been several years since he’d climbed. The first pitch was probably 5.6, and on the
second pitch I probably went a bit off to the right on a system of cracks and
ended up with a section with one 5.7 move, but that was about it. There was one bit of crumbly rock, but other
than that, the quality of the granite was world-class. We took our time after each pitch, going over
the safety system, just enjoying ourselves and taking our time. There was no one else around – we literally
had the whole mountain to ourselves!
After the first couple of
pitches, we simulclimbed the rest of the way.
The knife-edge section was truly awesome. It really wasn’t as sharp as I had
anticipated – not Ginsu, more like a butter knife -- but getting through them
required occasional side traverses that were quite exposed and stimulating,
especially when they involved getting on the south side of the ridge, which
meant a huge sheer drop-off to step out into.
After the knife edge section, we went up a section known as the “bowling
alley” which is supposed to be hairy if there are people above you, especially
if they kick some loose rock – fortunately no people ahead! There was one easy technical move above that
point for which we set up belay, but other than that, it was just lots of long
rambling fourth class climbing, with stunning beauty all around. Occasionally, we heard thunder in the
distance and some weather down by
But then there was the time
we were taking as we enjoyed our ramble up the mountain. As we were getting towards the top, I looked
at my watch, and realized that it was 5:30, and there was a ways to go – the
part of the guidebook that says “4th class forever…” I snapped a nice picture of the North Ridge
that was to our left, with very interesting colors due to the smoke from the
fires. It was also at about this time
that Gordon informed me that we were out of water. Hmm, I guess that Camelback doesn’t hold as
much water as I’d thought.
I decided to pick up our
pace, figuring that at this rate of progress, we would be descending in the
dark. And we had only brought one
headlamp. As we got near the top and the ridge started
to flatten out, I suggested that we change out of our climbing shoes into our
hiking shoes. Gordon sure welcomed that
because, the stoic guy that he is, he had dropped a boulder on his toe earlier
without telling me, and he was actually in some pain (he did lose his toenail
after the trip, so he was not faking it).
As we crested, the sun was
quite low, casting long shadows. It was
not entirely clear where the descent was, but it was definitely not to our
left. To our left was the real summit of
Mt. Conness, but we decided that it would be better to save the “glory” of
going a few more feet to the top, and to find our way down safely.
Meanwhile, we were both
feeling very thirsty. Thank goodness for
the patches of remaining snow that we found!
We scooped up snowcones, which really do not provide enough hydration,
but boy did they give us a mental boost!
We wandered around the
mini-plateau at the top of the mountain, and found the ridge toward the east
that descended into a larger sandy plateau.
From there, we would access the descent path to the west (the regular
descent toward
The guidebook had advice on
where to begin the descent down the west side of the plateau. It said to go far along the plateau ridge
until you could get a view of the entire west ridge. If you start down before that, warned the
book, you would end up down some nasty drop-offs from which you would not be
heard again.
The sun was almost at the
horizon by now, and we kept looking down the edge, and over to the west ridge,
and eventually we came to a point where we could see the whole west ridge. However, we could not see the full face of
the west ridge (i.e., the south side), and so I argued to Gordon that we should
go a bit more until we could see more of it.
That was not a good call.
We did go further, but by
that point, much of the ridge was moving out of view. However, there was an inviting path down, and
I thought that perhaps the further one gets from the ridge, the more gentle the
slope, so we would be fine. So, we
decided to go for it. My bad.
We switchbacked down the
face as the sun finally set. The going
was pretty easy for a while, and then we got into some pretty loose sandy
scree. Gordon was “skiing” down it,
while I tried at one point to butt-slide (and really tore up the bottom of my
pants). This went on for a while, and
then we got down into more rocky cliffs.
By this time, it was headlamp time, of which we unfortunately had
brought just one (du’oh!). The moon was
rising, but it was about a quarter, and very orange in color, not much help by
way of illumination.
We came to a point where the
cliff just dropped off, and there was no possibility of a safe down-climb. Fine, I admitted to Gordon, we should have
gone down where we could actually see the West Ridge. But by now, that was theoretical. The reality was to either spend the night
there (no water, not much by way of warm clothing, cuddling like cold
shepherds, not that inviting a possibility, much as I love Gordon) to figure it
out in the daylight, or to take a risk and rappel down the notch and see if we
could keep going. We inspected it as
best we could with the headlamp. It was
just a 40-foot or so drop, but then there was no guarantee that we would not
get stuck there. I checked the crack
system where we were for anchor placements, and decided that we could set up a
safe rappel, though we would have to sacrifice a #2 and a #3 cam – total value
of $120 (I did not want to rappel off of a single piece of gear). We decided to go for it.
I made sure that Gordon felt
comfortable with the rappel system, and then went down first. Because we had just one headlamp (ouch again),
once I was at the bottom, I took off the headlamp and tied it to the rope, and
he hauled it up and used it for his own rappel.
When he was down safely, we pulled the rope. Goodbye, two cams, two caribiners, and a
cordelette.
It turned out that there was
another drop-off around the corner, but this time, there was a very sturdy bush
that could serve as the anchor for another rappel. The cliff was much longer this time, and more
of an angled slab. It seemed that there
was significant flat ground at the bottom, though it was too dark to really
tell. We decided to go for it
again. This time, I girth-hitched two
slings around the base of the bush/tree, having made sure that it was really
strong and rooted to the ground. I put
two caribiners around the slings, and then the rope through the
caribiners. I tied the ends of the rope
together just in case they did not reach the ground, and rappelled into the
night.
There was one platform area
that I reached, and then I could see at that point that the balance of the rope
did reach relatively flat ground further below.
Hurrah. I continued down, and
indeed found myself on a large platform that descended on the left into a
snowbank (yes, SNOW bank!) that then led to a ramp down some mellow stuff.
The problem now was how to
get the headlamp back to Gordon without it getting caught at the first platform
that was between us. Fortunately, there
was no wind, and we could hear each other well.
Solution: I ended up taking my
climbing shoe, putting the headlamp inside the shoe and tying it up, turning
the lamp on so that it is visible, and then clipping the shoe onto the
rope. I then held on to the rope to keep
it as taut as possible as Gordon pulled the rope, and it was hilarious seeing
this impromptu shoe lantern going up the mountain. It successfully cleared the platform area,
and soon thereafter, I ran out of rope and so the lantern was no longer
suspended in the air, but Gordon was able to pull it up to himself without a
problem.
Gordon rappelled down
safely, and the rope also pulled down without getting caught. I coiled the rope neatly and appreciatively
as we prepared for our last leg back down to our packs.
We ate snow. And more snow. We then kept going, like an inchworm now that
it was totally dark, me going 10 feet, then stopping and turning around and
illuminating those 10 feet for Gordon.
It was gradual terrain, though we kept running into bushes around which
we had to do some significant negotiating.
We also ran into some
running water, as we were at lower altitude and there was more snowmelt. We did not have water tablets, but we weighed
our thirst needs against the odds of having animal feces in the water in that
area, and we did not deliberate long before we drank and drank. Water never tasted so good.
After what felt like hours
(and it probably was) of inch-worming our way down, we did get to pretty flat
ground. Fortunately, I had remembered to
record the exact GPS location of our packs earlier in the day. The GPS told us that we were .5 miles away,
and pointed us the way. We came to an
area of grass, moss, and slow-flowing water where we had to hop across from
island to island, and it felt like we were walking across a zen garden.
When we were across from
that, we were in the general vicinity of the packs. I could just fantasize myself in my sleeping
bag. Then, my headlamp went dead. The batteries, dang it! I did not have extra batteries, though
immediately my thought was that I had two AA batteries in the GPS that are pretty
fresh, so I could use them. But then, I
need the GPS to locate the packs in the dark.
Hmm.
Fortunately, my Petzl headlamp
is smart, and has two settings – one for an incandescent bulb, and another for
an LED bulb. I had been using the incandescent,
but it gave off a decent glow with at the LED setting. Thanks, Petzl.
Under the ghostly blue glow
of the LED, we were able to navigate the rest of our way to our packs. Without the GPS, I doubt that we would have
found our packs. At one point, we were
within 200 feet of the packs, but we could not see them, and only located them
because of the GPS. Ah, technology.
We got to our packs. The first task was to find Gordon’s headlamp,
then to replace my batteries, stuff everything into our packs, and head to the
lake and water. Fortunately, the lake
was only about 200 yards away. We got to
the lake, filled a couple of water bottles and treated the water with iodine
tablets, and waited for the requisite 30 minutes before starting our
re-hydration process.
I looked at my watch and
asked Gordon what time he thought it was.
I don’t know, 9:30?
It was 12:45 AM.
Even though we had food to
prepare (anchovies and pasta) and Gordon had snuck some scotch in a flask, we
were in the mood for just a few bites of gorp and water. It was windy but warm, and we fell asleep
almost instantly, waking up to drink water, and the next morning, we celebrated
with oatmeal.
We had a lazy start that
morning, but did manage to start heading back by about 9:00. Overnight, considerable smoke had built up in
the air. We debated different routes
across the valley over to
Gordon was limping, due to
his smashed toe. I was suffering because
my pack was really not appropriate for the amount of weight I was carrying –
the pack I was using is more of a day pack for climbers, and I had stuffed it
with camping gear on top of climbing gear, and I decided that it is not that
ergonomic for long and heavy duty use.
We stopped frequently, but made it out by 5:30. We were looking forward to a hamburger and
beer at the Tioga Grill, but much to our dismay, they had closed at 5:00. So we settled for beer and Cheetos from the store,
and then headed to Gordon’s in
Abbreviated lessons
learned: bring plenty of water, always
bring one headlamp per person, extra batteries too.
Several weeks later, I found
myself back on Conness. Shortly after
the trip with Gordon, I found myself thinking about the picture of the North
Ridge (the second tower) that I took from the West Ridge, and wanting to check
it out. I thought of making this my
summer of Conness. Check it out west,
north, in every which way, get to know the mountain more intimately than I’d
ever have the opportunity. So, I called
Sevve.
Sevve is a young man from
I managed to catch Sevve
just as he was winding up his time at Yosemite for the season, and preparing to
drive home to
North Ridge is most easily
climbed in one long day. It is described
as 3-8 hours for the climb, but a long approach and descent. The access is from
Sevve and Colette were
planning on going up on Friday the day before.
Colette is into serious fly fishing, and so they were going to hang
around Tuolumne Meadows and do some casting.
Through their connections, they were confident they would find a site at
the campground even though this was peak season, a plan which they easily accomplished. We were to connect somehow during the day, or
at the latest by that evening, and get an early start the next morning.
I had planned on meeting
them in Tuolumne Meadows early Friday, to get used to the altitude, hang out,
and perhaps practice some fishing in preparation for my backpacking trip
(Adventure 3). I left the Bay Area on
Thursday after work, planning on spending the night in
I left
So, I stopped by Ron’s house
and we talked quite intensely for about three hours, and it was early afternoon
before I continued on to Tuolumne Meadows.
I arrived there by mid-afternoon, and managed to connect with Sevve via
voice mail, who informed me of his campsite at G-20. I had time to wander around the beautiful
area, explore a few low domes, soak my feet in the lazy
For sunset, decided to see
if I could take a picture of Conness from a distance, and drove back west on
the road. I found a spot the rises just
after leaving Tuolumne Meadows near Fairview Dome where a bright reddish
Conness could be seen, flanked by the face of Pothole Dome on the right and
some pine trees on the left. I snapped
about 20 shots at different settings of my digital camera, hoping that one of
them would turn out well. Several turned
out well.
After dark, I went to
Sevve’s campsite, where I found Sevve and Colette, as well as their friends
from Minnesota, Jen and Matt, who had come up from San Jose where they were
spending a few months – she as an ER nurse and he as a job-seeking graduate in
mechanical engineering. We made campfire
pizza for dinner, passed around a bottle of red wine, and went to bed early.
The next morning, Sevve and
I took off by first light, and drove 15 minutes to the turnoff to
We shared the boat with
three anglers who were out to explore some of the many lakes in that area. The driver was a portly man in his thirties,
who said that he’d been up to the top of Mt. Conness, but not recently after he
got married and gained (quite a bit of) weight.
We asked him how long it took him, and he said he’d use his half-days
off to go up and down. I am sure that he
also caught a lot of very large fish for his wife to cook as well, and ran a
four-minute mile.
At the other end of
Saddlebag, we started our approach to the climb, gently sloping up along
Greenstone Lake (10,127 feet), then up toward waterfalls coming down from
Conness Glacier. We ran across Alison, a
sweet superwoman. Alison was hiking the
other way, having come from
We parted ways, and Sevve
and I then headed to
Our approach came to the
bottom of the first of the two distinct towers that characterize the North
Ridge, and it was time to rope up and start.
We roped up with about 75 feet of rope between us, and we started simulclimbing,
Sevve first. Our progress was amazingly
fast, and we were up at the ridge in no time, and beginning to traverse left
toward the second tower. We could see
the majestic sweep of Conness Glacier to our left, and on the other side of the
ridge was a spectacular view of
As we were traversing and I
was taking a video snapshot of Sevve explaining what we saw around us, we heard
a very loud thundering sound, much louder than the other smaller slides that we
had heard earlier. This one was so loud
I thought it was a rockslide on the next ridge over, but Sevve saw it, and said
it was a car-sized boulder sliding down.
I kept looking for a dust cloud, but did not see any. I guess it is fairly moist below the glacier,
no dust clouds. Dang, I missed the
spectacle.
The rest of the climb up was
just plain fun, going along the ridge, lowering down a grunty chimney (that was
perhaps the most difficult move of the climb for me, because I had a backpack
on, and the chimney was just wide enough for me and the pack, I really had to
grunt my way down, no fear of falling because I was wedged in), and then some
great easy slab all the way up to the summit.
Sevve timed us, and we did the climb in just over 3 hours, which was
very good time, and we had been going at a pretty leisurely pace.
At the summit, we met a
couple from the Tahoe area who work with the Forest Service – and Alison. I was simply amazed by her attitude and
demeanor. She did not look at all tired,
and was thinking of hiking back by way of Young Lakes, just a cruise through
the mountains. Well, I guess I better
get going, she would say. I figured she
would have hiked well over 20 miles by the time the day would be done for her. After she took off, we had a nice
conversation with the couple, who had come up the West Ridge. They work in a field station that is run by
UC Davis, and it turns out they know all of the folks at UC Merced with whom I
worked. They were waiting for a pair of
climbers who were coming up the North Ridge, one of whom was into English
learners and education, and they told me that they would like me to meet her.
The views from the summit
were spectacular, a 360-degree panorama, south towards Whitney, east to the
White Mountains across Owens Valley, west to half Dome, and north to all kinds
of peaks. I took a video scan of the
panorama, but mostly recorded it to memory.
Too bad Gordon and I could not sit and enjoy the summit on the earlier
trip, but I thought of him.
After a snack, it was time
to head down. The descent involved
beautiful views of Conness Lakes and the lakes along the twenty-lake circuit –
a series of lakes dotting the north of Saddlebag that are supposed to be
angler’s paradise. I thought about my upcoming
backpacking trip during which I planned to catch and eat trout along the way.
The descent got a bit rough,
and Sevve and I remarked on how we would not really enjoy hiking up this
route. It took a while, but eventually
we were down to the meadows. We could
see the Carnegie Institute in the distance, as well as Saddlebag Lake beyond,
and we discussed the most efficient route back to the car. I think we were starting to want dinner. And before long, we were at the Saddlebag
campground talking with some campers, and then walking up the road to our
car. It was 5:30 when we were back at
the car, about nine and a half hours after we left on the boat with our bellies
full of pie.
At the car, we unfortunately
did not find a note from Colette as we had expected with a rendezvous
point. So we went to our next
pre-arranged spot, the Tioga Pass Resort café.
She was not there, so we figured she was still out fishing. We ran across Ron Kauk and his girlfriend
Katie two of his buddies who work at TPR (Bill and Brad) sitting in the
lounge. Ron and Katie were waiting for a
table, and so we joined them, and soon enough, Colette showed up. The 5 of us had a nice dinner sitting across
the counter. Ron and Katie took off
after we made plans to get together at Stanford in October, and I paid the bill
– my treat. As we leave, I noticed that
the couple we had met up on the summit were sitting at a table, checking us out. They informed me that the woman who works on
English language learners had actually been at Stanford and had taken my course
there, although I fail to recognize the name.
Small world. And then the man looked
at me brimming with curiosity and blurted: “Were you just having dinner with Ron
Kauk?” After I nod, he asked: “Do you know everybody
in the world?” and we all broke out in
laughter, because at that moment, the world really did feel small.
The fun day over, Sevve and
Colette decide to go down to Lee Vining to camp there and go to church the next
day. I decide it would be best to head
back home, and start on my long drive home, listening to Steven Wright, John
Coltrane and Metallica on my iPod for entertainment.
Cross-Sierra Solo Backpack
Three years ago, when I was
planning to make the transition back from UC Merced to Stanford, I thought
about how nice it would be to commemorate it with a hike across the
Sierras. I had spent three years in
Merced, physically close to the Sierras, but with so little time to partake in
its joys due to my all-consuming start-up job.
In fact, during the three years there, I could count on one hand
(actually, two fingers) any significant enjoyment of the mountains. So I thought it would be appropriate to
celebrate my return to a faculty job (i.e., freedom) with a hike that took back
my ability to enjoy the area.
But in my first summer of
freedom, I got consumed by the move and the act of resettling into the Bay Area
and Stanford. So, it took me two years,
but here I was planning a nice, solo backpack across the Sierras. Last year, I made a took a simple solo trip
for practice, and to get Nancy accustomed to my doing solo hikes. It was a nice segment of the John Muir Trail,
starting at Tuolumne Meadows, going up Lyell Canyon over Donohue Pass, across the
Thousand Islands Lake area, hanging out at Lake Ediza, and exiting through
Devil’s Postpile. But that was
technically not a cross-Sierra hike.
This year, I decided that I
wanted to go through Evolution Valley, starting on the west side near the Muir
Ranch, and exiting near Bishop at South Lake.
That would qualify as my cross-Sierra solo experience that I had hoped
for two years earlier. Evolution Valley
was inspired by my friend Jamey, who had done a solo hike up there many years
ago when we lived in Palo Alto, and I had also been envious of his adventure
for some time. It had also been
recommended to me, if memory serves me correctly, by Karen Merritt, a colleague
and friend at UC Merced with whom I consulted on all matters having Sierra (not
to mention the UC system, given her experience as a lifelong administrator in
the system).
The logistics for this trip across
Evolution were complicated, given that this was a one-way solo hike. I basically left my car at South Lake near
Bishop, which would be the exit of my hike.
Rather than paying someone an outrageous amount of money to shuttle me
from there to my trailhead way on the other side of the mountains, I decided to
add another adventure: hitchhike! Now, that is a separate story, which is told
elsewhere (appended to the end of this account). In any event, I did get myself over to the
start of my hike, Lake Florence, which is up a ways from Bass Lake near
Fresno. And that is where this portion
of my story begins, when my friends Roger and Marie from Merced dropped me off
at Lake Florence.
I ended up being left off at
sunset, alone, and with a bothersome separation and cracking on my boots that I
had noticed during the ride. I inspected
it more carefully since I had time, and my concern grew so as to even appear in
my dreams that night (also recounted in my hitchhiking account).
The following morning, determined
to address the problem, I got some FREESOLE repair glue at the store. The instructions say to wait 24-48 hours for
major repairs to cure. Not wanting to
hang out right at the lake, I decided to hike in a few miles just past Blaney
Meadows, where I found a lovely set of options for riverside campsites. That would be the site for my shoe repair
operation.
I quickly got to work on the
boots, thinking that I would let the glue set until the next morning, and take
off. I sharpened a fresh Manzanita
branch with my knife into the shape of a narrow scalpel, and got ready for the
repair. On closer inspection, the boots were
separating in several places and actually looked pretty sad. I thought of the O-ring failure in the space
shuttle disaster. I did my best to try
to blow off dust with my lungs (they recommend a thorough cleaning, but I did
not want to wash it and wait for it to dry).
I squeezed the oozing, sticky mess and shoved it as far as I could,
using the Manzanita stick which, by the way, performed truly magnificently for
its strength and flexibility. I used up
most of the tube of Freesole, and then set the boots down at a sunny spot, and
commanded them to “SET”. My hands
turned into a sticky mess, but at least I had addressed the problem.
Having the whole afternoon
to kill, I decided to practice my fishing skills.
The idea originally
intrigued me when I ran across an obviously experienced angler-backpacker near
Waterwheel Falls several years back. He
had been backpacking up the Tuolumne River from White Wolf, catching fish all
along the way, by his own account. It
was reportedly a poor fishing year according to some ranger, but he evidently
had no trouble. Of course there are
fish, those young fellows don’t know where to look, he said in matter-of-fact
fashion. His pack was light – the old-fashioned
aluminum frame kind – and I guessed that he didn’t really have to carry much
food. That was my model.
In preparation for my trip,
to be supplemented by fishing, I stopped by several Big 5 Sports stores to talk
with the guys. They mostly proved to be ignorant
without admitting it. But they did
manage to sell me a very cute short rod, bright green, with a reel – for $9.99.
My knowledge level from
moron to near-genius when I stopped by the California Fly, recommended by staff
at REI. The store advertises itself as
the fourth largest fly shop in the state, and indeed, it is impressive if not
intimidating. When I told the sales
clerk that I was interested in catching fish while backpacking, and asked if
they could advise me bait and spinners, I was met with a patronizing look, and silence.
So I joked about my economical rod from
Big 5, which broke into a smile, and to which he said that I could get a basic
starter rod and reel for about four ninety nine – four hundred and ninety nine
dollars, that is. I was not sure if he
was serious. “And you could upgrade
easily from that,” he added for good measure.
Okay, I felt like I had just driven in from a cheap used car lot to the
Porsche dealer. I limped out of the
store, knowing that I should try a different tack. Alan Goodban.
Alan is my father-in-law who
has spent his life dedicated to fly fishing.
He ties his own flies during the winter in preparation for the season. He immediately slices open the guts of the
fish he catches to inspect what they have been eating. He displays all of the marks of a true devotee
to the art. When I briefly described my
needs to him over the phone, he filtered my request through his lifelong
experience of trying to create converts out of just about anyone who would
listen. And he had a lot of catching up to
do, having raised four daughters, none of whom I believe have expressed more
than polite passing interest in their poor father’s passion. It gave the daughters a theme to use in
selecting Father’s Day gifts, but that was about it.
So, Alan showed up at our
house the day before my departure with one of his favorite rods (protected by a
white PVC case that he himself had constructed). Despite his enthusiasm for converting me, I
did manage to persuade him that pawning off this gear to me would be like putting
a teenager who has practiced go-carts at Malibu Grand Prix behind the wheels of a Ferrari.
Alan did not like my first
thought that I could take his prized rod out of the PVC case and just carry it
unprotected (I would be careful, I reassured him). Mostly, I did not want to make the fishing
that big a part of my trip, and certainly did not want to carry anything bulky
or heavy. By the time that I had shown
him my short green rod and asked him my primitive questions (what are the hooks
for?), he grasped the primitive nature of my program and intentions, and helped
outfit me with a setup for dummies -- weights, floats and hooks that he
patiently explained to me. He did leave
me his precious box of flies, which I promised to guard responsibly.
The afternoon while my boots
were curing in the sun, I was practicing tying different kinds of rigging on my
short green rod, casting them into various pools and spots along the beautiful creek
that would eventually flow into the San Joaquin River. No fish, just a couple of hits from some very
small ones, but a steep learning curve in the art of casting. I was hitting my intended spot within 3-4
feet, really not that bad. I was not
surprised to find no fish. This area was
close to the trailhead and the popular lake, so it was most certainly
overfished.
For dinner, I made a lentils
and rice dinner flavored with garlic and curry.
That evening was mostly memorable for a nice fire, since I was still
below 10,000 feet, thus campfires were allowed.
I kept stoking it and put off going to sleep.
In the interest of hydrating
myself, I decided to make chamomile tea, since I had not urinated all day. The idea of the tea was appealing anyway, and
I debated whether to use one or two teabags.
I counted the number of teabags in my assortment, and was contemplating
it when I thought I heard a voice in the back of my mind, in deadpan: “Live it up.”
Okay, I thought, I will have two chamomile teas. I then started cracking up, thinking of my
friend Jamey who I know would have cracked up at that, and in fact the voice
sort of sounded like his. Great life,
living it up, not with a double scotch, but a double chamomile! I did sleep well that night, and I dreamt up
a new dish, pan-fried mixture of rice and lentils into a crisp pancake,
accented by a colorful garnish of chopped cilantro and cranberries. I would try that as soon as I got home.
The next morning, I
inspected my boots first thing, and it appeared that the glue worked, drying
into a clear rubber material. I was
anxious to get going, and kept to my plan of ignoring the fact that it had been
about 20 hours since application, but that was good enough. I really wanted to go see Evolution Valley,
so after a meal of two oatmeal packets (living it up), I was off.
The hike took me past the
junction to Paiute Canyon and up into Evolution Valley and a succession of
meadows at around 9,000 feet. I passed
by beautiful cascades and waterfalls on Evolution Creek. Plenty of lovely vistas as the trail
switchbacked up toward Evolution Lake (10,850 feet). On the way, there was an obvious trail that
would lead up to Darwin Canyon, which tempted me because I knew Jamey had gone
there on solo trip he took several years earlier, and I made a mental note to
come back there some day.
The sun was getting pretty
low by the time I was in the final set of switchbacks into Evolution Lake. I ran across a party of four guys coming the
other way earlier in the day, and since one of them had a fly rod carrier with
him, I asked how the fishing was. He
said that there were lots of fish in Evolution Lake on the close side of the
lake. “They’re small, but they’re native
and they put up a good fight.” I asked
if any of them were eating size. “You’d
be doing a lot of cleaning.” But as I
hiked up with my hunger growing, I thought of the idea of using the two packets
of soy sauce I had with me to make trout nitsuke (soy sauce and sugar) by using
the sugar from the oatmeal packets. That
would be good with some rice.
As I got into Evolution
Lake, it was probably a half hour before sunset, and it was gusty and getting
cold, but I was determined to enact the little fish nitsuke idea. The fish were jumping, and I had practiced
all afternoon the previous day. I was
ready. So, I found a nice campspot right
near the water, dropped my backpack, pulled out my box of flies and bait, and unrolled
my Thermalrest pad in which I kept my little green rod. Oh no, no rod! I looked again, but no rod. It must have fallen out. Real bummer.
The fish were laughing at me. I
briefly entertained catching some with a hand line, but I just could not get
past my discouragement, and it was getting cold.
At the bottom of my bear
canister was a freeze-dried dinner – a Mountain House Beef Stroganoff. On most trips, I usually carry one or two
selections of freeze-dried food, which I almost never use. Eventually, I throw them away once their
expiration date passes. Well, this one had
to be my dinner tonight, I decided. So,
I boiled some water, opened the package, threw in a bunch of curry powder just
to make it a bit more appealing, and “prepared” my dinner. Eight minutes later, I was stirring it with a
spoon, and trying my first mouthful. It
had round pieces of “meat” that looked just like the lamb IAMS that my dog
Orion eats (barely). I ate it all, but
thought a lot about Orion, who kind of gags as he downs his food. The warmth of the food was the most
comforting part.
After dinner, I curled up in
my sleeping bag, and scanned the skies for shooting stars.
The next morning, I got up
in time to capture the light rays coming over the east rim of over Evolution
Lake. I thought that the light contrast
between the previous day’s sunset and this morning would be interesting to
compare.
After a breakfast of two
packets of oatmeal – live it up! – I headed along the shores of Evolution Lake
up towards distant Muir Pass. I would
pass along Sapphire Lake (so named because of a reddish color due to algae
rampant in this region), Wanda Lake and several unnamed lakes and tarns.
Across Sapphire Lake from
the trail is a scree slope that I noticed would lead to a glacier behind Mt.
Huxley – an adventure that seemed easy,
but unadvisable while solo. Again, a
mental note for some other time.
I kept passing and then
being passed by Garth, a middle-aged soloist who had last been in the area as a
boy scout. Garth was overenthusiastic,
and did not offer an explanation for why on the side of his pack he carried a
large roll of heavy plastic sheeting, 5 mil, the kind that you get at Home
Depot for construction projects. It
seemed kind of heavy duty, and a lot of it.
He was very friendly and talkative, and we kept on bantering as we
leap-frogged our way.
At Wanda Lake (named after
one of Muir’s daughters) I noticed a whole lot of smoke in the air, drifting in
from the southwest. I later learned that
it came from the Tehipite Fire, about 25 miles away. At Wanda Lake were many frogs colored
cryptically just like the granite in the lake – tan with black dots. I thought this was aptly named given the
theme of biological adaptation in the region.
I got a fairly nice shot of a frog specimen sitting on a rock.
From Wanda, the climb turned
steeply toward the nearly 12,000-foot Muir Pass. The smoke made the distances appear longer
than they actually were, and before long, I was up at the pass. There is a stone shelter right at the pass
which was built by the Sierra Club in 1931.
It is a beautifully constructed – circular, with a cone-shaped roof, all
made of stone that was painstakingly cut, I am sure, by handtools. I would love to have been part of the team
that erected it. Inside is a bench
around the perimeter, and a fireplace that is now filled in with stones. There is a window that provides some
light.
There were at least three
parties in the hut, including Garth. It
was smokey outside, obscuring any grand vistas, and we were all enjoying the
novelty and coziness of the hut. Someone
pulled out a pipe and some weed, and it was passed around. I would have loved some, but I did not think
it a good idea before a steep and unfamiliar descent, even though the smell and
the camaraderie made it very tempting. I
hung around for a while, and by the time I left, munchies had taken over the
group, and they were gorging on peanut butter and jelly burritos. Good for them!
The hike down was a dreamy
experience, courtesy of the Tepihite fire.
Unfortunately, Lake Helen (named after Muir’s other daughter) was hazy
from the smoke, but as I hiked down the steep drainage from the lake, the air
cleared somewhat. I paid attention to
the beautiful series of cascades and water formations, with thousands of
variations. On the side along northern
exposures were slight bits of remaining snow late in the summer season, tinted
pink in parts by the high altitude algae.
I stopped partway down, at around 3:00 PM, having decided that it would
be a good idea to have an early dinner while it was still delightfully warm.
Before lunch, I decided to take
a bath in one of the many pools and do some laundry, which I set out to dry
during the meal. I pulled out my stove, and
opened up the bear canister. I first
boiled angel hair pasta until it was al dente (pretty much no option anyway, at
this altitude), set it aside, then heated up olive oil, a dash of sesame oil,
and then cooked five cloves of garlic and a can of anchovies until they were
sizzling and starting to burn. I threw
the pasta into this mixture, and tossed it around with my chopsticks. It was far better than the dog food from the
previous night.
After this satisfying meal,
I put on my freshly clean clothes, re-packed my things, and felt like a totally
new person. My plan was to hike until it
got dark, since dinner was done for, and just go to sleep on a light snack.
But as I kept going, I got
worried that I was covering too much distance.
I did not want to get too far and risk having the trip over before I was
really ready. That is one of the risks
of hiking solo, because there’s really nothing else to do but hike, and keep on
hiking. So I slowed down.
One of the most immediate benefits
was that I started paying more attention to the photographic opportunities
around me. I was impressed by the
interplay of the angles of light in the late afternoon with the rock patterns,
and how vegetation was reflected in the shadows on the rock. I studied the shades in the talus slopes, and
also noticed the patterns of vegetation growing in the talus that followed the
path of water. I could not stop
stopping, getting giddy from the beauty around me.
About an hour before sunset,
I came to an unnamed lake that is more or less at the base of the Black Giant,
a fairly low profile formation that is to the southeast of Muir Pass (one of
the stoned groups up in the hut had had plans to scramble up to the top of
Black Giant until they encountered the smoke – they had heard that the view
from its top was spectacular because of the steep drop-off on its eastern
side). The lake is formed by multiple
cascades from snowmelt at the base of the Black Giant, and it is quite
serene. The color of the water is almost
an unreal dark turquoise, kind of the color that one sometimes finds in water
hazards of cheap golf courses. Although
I had another hour of light, I was tempted by the possibility of getting
another lick at fishing, rod or no rod, and this lake seemed promising. Although not hungry, I could make the time
and room for fish nitsuke, as planned the previous night, if I was successful.
So, with what I had left
sans short green rod, I proceeded. I
taped the reel (which I had not lost because I had detached it and carried it
separately from the rod) with first aid tape to the base of my hiking stick,
just so that the fish would know that I was fishing. Then, I filled my plastic bob with some
water, put a swivel behind it, placed a fly on a lead and attached it to the
swivel. I felt ready. I looked ridiculous, fishing with a hiking
pole.
I then saw a sign that had
been placed on the campsite that said: “WARNING: This lake is part of an experimental program
to net fish. Do not tamper with the
nets. Swimming is not permitted as there
may be danger due to entanglement with the nets.” Oh, I had heard that the fish were
endangering the frog population because they were eating all the eggs and
tadpoles, and that there were experiments in which fish were being eliminated
from some of the lakes. Great, no wonder
I did not see any fish jumping in this lake.
So, after a few feeble
attempts at casting (and they were great casts, because I had practiced), I
decided that the kharmic forces for fishing were not aligned with me on this
trip. Although I did go over to a small
creek on the side and tried casting in a more promising-looking small pool
there, again with no luck. Barren of
fish, or perhaps barren of fishing talent.
I thought of the older man that I ran across near Waterwheel Falls a
while back. I’m sure he’d catch the one
fish that remained in the lake.
I went to bed looking at the
façade of Black Giant, and thinking that the sunrise on its face would be
spectacular since the other side of the horizon was quite low, allowing the
reddish light to directly hit the formation.
That night, as in the past few nights, I was a bit disappointed that
there were so few shooting stars in spite of the darkness. I listened to my iPod to some downloaded
books on tape (Golf in the Kingdom, a throwback to the sixties read by an actor
with a fake-sounding Scottish accent), and drifted into sleep.
The next morning, sure
enough, the light on the Black Giant was impressive. I thought about how fun it would be to stand
on top of the ridge as the sun rises. I
did hear from the guys smoking pot in the Sierra Club hut that there was a
Class 2 scramble from Muir Pass that could access it. That would be one possibility. I also thought of a ridge climb from the
other end toward the east, and wondered how easy it would be, and if I could
talk Jamey into doing it some time (I’m sure of that!).
Up early, I lived it up with
a couple of oatmeal packets and a mixed brew of a Constant Comment and an
English Breakfast tea bags. I ran across
Garth immediately at the trail, and we again spent the morning crossing each
other’s path. We had both independently
decided to make it to Dusy Basin and to enjoy that high altitude enclave. It was not far (probably 10 miles from where
we were). I took my time, studying
shadows cast at various angles on talus rock.
I found a great opportunity to take a self-portrait when I noticed my
own shadow over a section where the granite boulder and some beautifully-lit
pine needle floor. I did contortions
with my arms so that any hit of the camera would be obscured by the shadow from
my body. Except for my head being in an
odd position due to the contortions, the self-portrait turned out fairly well.
The trail descended to
almost around 8,700 feet down LeConte Canyon, past Big Pete and Little Pete
Meadows. The John Muir Trail continues
down the canyon, but my turnoff toward Dusy Basin is a left turn at a ranger
station, heading north. There is a
series of stiff switchbacks that ascends to Dusy (around 10,000 feet), and then
to Bishop Pass (11,972 feet).
Going up the switchback
allowed a beautiful view back at LeConte Canyon, as well as a sweeping view
back toward the drainage from Lake Helen from which I had come. To the right of the switchbacks are cascades
on sheer slab, occasionally interrupted by rock features that cause small
waterwheel effects. It was a fairly
vigorous hike up the switchbacks, but the views offered many excuses to
stop. I was about two-thirds up my way
to Dusy, at around 1:00 PM, near a bridge that crossed the creek, when I
noticed smoke coming from the Tepihite fire flowing into LeConte Canyon. It got thick in real time, which was amazing
as it had been brilliantly clear all morning.
By the time I got into Dusy Basin, where I had thought about passing a
lazy afternoon exploring the lakes and spending the night, the whole area was
quite thick with smoke. At that point, I
decided to continue over Bishop Pass to see if there was better air on the
other side of the pass.
I did stop for about 15
minutes at Dusy Basin because I noticed that my boots were starting to come
apart at the back heel. I was not quite
sure what to do. I took out some tape
from the first aid kit, and wrapped it around several times, going from the
back of the heel to the space in the middle of the sole, hoping that it would
hold them in place for just a few more miles of ascent.
The switchbacks up to Bishop
Pass were quite relentless, and also quite hot in the full (smokey) sun. I made it to the pass at 4:30 PM, and noticed
that the air was suddenly clear of smoke.
The view over the pass down into Bishop Lake and the chain of lakes
lower down was crisp and a stark contrast to the other side. After celebrating the climb and a brief
conversation with two different parties who were at the pass going in the other
direction – it was brief because they were obnoxious to each other, doing the
outdoors one-upsmanship of telling tales that stretched credulity about hiking
off trail and bad weather – I headed down toward Bishop Lake.
The views were stunning,
down some very steep scree from the eerie crumbing Inconsolable Range to my
east, with the sun flirting with the tops of the range of mountains to the west. I did not want to stop because the light was
getting beautiful, and so I made the decision to just hike out that evening
amidst the beauty. The idea of a nice
dinner in Bishop was also starting to sound appealing. I had only been hiking for three real days,
but there was the day of boot repair, plus the hitchhiking, and so I had been
out and about for a week. So pizza, or
something like it, and mostly the thought of cold beer, kept me moving.
The rest of the way down was
bathed in the lowering sun. The eastern
side of the Sierras has more interestingly colored rock – from the volcanic
activity and iron content, there are more blacks and reds, and the light was
being playful. I took lots of photos,
taking my time. This was Friday evening,
and so I also ran across a steady stream of hikers coming in from South Lake
for the weekend, and I told them bad things about the smoke that they would
encounter once they got past Bishop Pass.
“You should see clear skies in the mornings, but smokey by
mid-afternoon” I predicted like a meteorologist.
The hike down goes by the
eastern side of the chain of lakes (Saddler, Long and some unnamed ones), and
because the sun was setting, I was able to catch a glimpse of the depths of the
lakes as the sun lit my side of the bank.
It appears that the eastern side is quite steep and deep. I was also able to see fish (yes, fish)
reflected along the rocky side. I wished
that I had the camera skills and equipment to somehow capture what I saw.
The sun set around 7:30, and
I was not quite at South Lake. I
navigated for as long as I could without artificial light, but eventually had
to pull out my headlamp as I approached South Lake. The crescent moon was rising over the
silhouette of the mountain ranges, still slightly defined by the very last
remnants of the setting sun. I held my
breath for as long as possible and snapped some pictures, but I could not hold
still long enough for the shutter. I
rested my camera on a rock at ground level, pressing down to keep it still, and
snapped a picture that turned out OK.
It was totally dark by the
time I got to the parking lot at South Lake, dreaming now of a shower and
food. As I approached my car which was
at the very far end of the overnight parking lot, I noticed that the light
inside was on. I first thought it was
just the reflection of my headlamp, but sure enough, the light above the front
seat was on. Strange, I thought, if it
had been on for a week, then surely it would have drained the battery.
I got to the car, opened the
back hatch, and threw in my backpack. I
took off my boots (they did hold together thanks to the tape) and changed into
the set of clean clothes that I had left in the car. I closed the hatch, and went to get into the
driver’s side and to check out the light, and noticed that the front windshield
had been smashed, forming a large cobsweb pattern on the driver’s side. It was not smashed open, just massively
cracked.
There was a note behind the
windshield wiper blade, from Deputy Sheriff Vaughn, which reported an incident
number and asked to call him when I got back to the car.
The car was drivable,
although sitting in regular position was not very easy because the center of
the cracks was right at eye level. I
positioned my seat so that I would be leaning back (like a Formula 1 driver),
peering through the glass below the cracks, and drove back to Bishop.
I found myself a room at the
Holiday Inn Express, took a nice long shower, found a hamburger and beer at the
Whiskey Room (or something like that) next door. There was a sushi restaurant also across the
street, but somehow the idea of sushi in Bishop seemed odd. After dinner, I called the police, filed a
report, and found that there had been a series of vandalism cases not just in
the South Lake lot, but all over Bishop.
In the next day’s local paper, there was an editorial about the
vandalism encouraging anyone with knowledge to turn in the culprit. This was a strange way to end an otherwise
beautiful journey.
Reflections
It is a privilege to have
the time, health and ability to wander around the mountains. The Sierras are a mass of granite created by
tectonic forces of the Pacific plate going under the continental plate, rising
to the surface only about 130 million years ago. Three stages of glacial advances carved the
huge rocks, leaving valleys, moraines, lakes and polished surfaces. Water and ice still course these pathways,
and trees and vegetation take advantage of the soils and moisture to form forests,
meadows, and artistic displays of rock and bonsai gardens. These are reminders of our place in nature. I was fortunate enough this summer to have derived
pleasure from roaming around this amazing place.
Appendix: My Hitchhiking Chronicles
From South Lake (Bishop) to
Florence Lake (Fresno)
I planned a one-way
backpacking trip from Florence Lake on the western side of the Sierras, north
of Fresno, to South Lake, which is located on the eastern side and accessed through
Bishop. The logistics involved driving
and leaving my car at South Lake, and then hitchhiking to Merced, where I would
have dinner with my friends Roger and Marie.
They would then drive me to Florence Lake on a leisurely drive the
following day.
I woke up early at home in
Redwood City on Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend, eager for the adventure,
and left home by 5:30. I drove through
Yosemite, over Tioga Pass, and dropped down into Lee Vining near Mono Lake in
time to have a leisurely mid-morning breakfast at Nicely’s. The morning was unusually windy, and there
were dust plumes in Owens Valley and whitecaps on Mono Lake. Proceeding south on Highway 395 toward
Bishop, I passed several touring bicyclists, with packs on front and back
acting as sails, struggling along. They
were tilted almost grotesquely into the wind, and none of them looked like they
were having a good time.
I got to Bishop, took a
right turn on West Line St. with Galen Rowell’s photo gallery at the corner,
and proceeded about 25 miles up the road toward South Lake, which turned out to
be an artificial lake created by a wooden dam.
I found the very last
parking spot for overnight campers. I
conducted one final check of my backpack, locked the car, and was ready to
hitchhike. Onwards.
The overnight parking area
is somewhat remote and isolated, so I start hiking back the road to find a
point where there would be more thru traffic.
I hike for several miles, noticing that there is little traffic, and
thinking that it has to do with it being early afternoon in a popular fishing
area. When I would hear an oncoming car,
I would turn around, hold my hand-made cardboard sign that said MERCED / YOSEMITE written in bold black
magic marker on the back side of a UPS overnight delivery box, and stick my
thumb out. The last time I did this was
in the summer of 1971, when I hitchhiked from Boston to someplace in New
Hampshire.
Derek, driving a beat-up
hatchback, picks me up about an hour into my re-initiation into hitchhiking
after a quarter-century hiatus. He is a
scruffy kid in his early 20’s, and I notice some climbing chocks and random
outdoor gear in the back seat as I throw in my backpack. He has a pack of Marlboros on the
dashboard. Derek works at the boat
launch in South Lake, and is just driving a couple of miles down the road to
the store where his girlfriend works, but thought that it would be easier for
me to find a ride there by talking to the people stopping by the store.
The store turns out not only
to have fishing supplies, but also a bar and grill and some unassuming
cabins. There is space for about a dozen
cars to pull up into the dusty lot, and a convenient large rock by the steps up
the porch to the entrance. I make myself
comfortable by the rock and put my backpack down, my sign straddling the
straps.
An hour goes by where I have
numerous pleasant conversations, mostly on the order of “Looks like you have a
long ways to go” as they notice my sign.
Most of them are truly local, stopping by for ice or bait or beer. There is very little traffic going down the
road. Derek keeps checking in on me as
he hangs around his girlfriend, killing time until their date at the demolition
derby that evening. He eventually
suggests that I make a sign for Bishop, which I had been thinking of. In fact, I’d started it on the back side of
one of the pages from the carefully printed set of maps that Nancy had prepared
for my trip, but my ball point pen ran out of ink before I could make much progress.
Derek goes behind the
counter of the store looking for a marker, without success. Eventually, he finds a crayon set for
children’s placesetting, from which I choose blue to fill in the letters that
say BISHOP.
I cross the street and
decide to get more aggressive with my hitchhiking. The only problem is that there is virtually no
traffic. Dead still, the heat has
crested. It is getting to be late
afternoon, and I start seeing my chances of making it to Roger’s steak dinner
fading.
At around 4:00, I hear a
woman’s voice, and turn to see someone in uniform, which gets me wondering
whether it is legal to hitchhike. She
turns out to be Jan, a middle-aged woman with straight brown hair. She says she could give me a ride down to
Bishop because she is going down there to get gas. She and her husband Richard are Forest
Service volunteers, and this is their second year working in the Bishop area as
trail maintenance crew. They evidently
stopped by the store, and heard that I was looking for a ride.
Jan and Richard get me as
far as the Denny’s and the Shell Station on the north edge of town, heading out
of Bishop on 395. It is hot at this
lower altitude, the wind is gusting and threatening to blow my sign, and it is
now 5:00.
It’s not that long before I
am picked up by a sporty station wagon (Subaru perhaps) with a bike rack on its
rear. Mark is a handsome young man in
his mid-20’s with stone-cut features. He
is driving to his family home in Susanville near Reno, coming up from Southern
California, and he offers to get me as far as Lee Vining. Cool, it would be a snap getting a ride into
Yosemite once I’m at that intersection by the Mobil Station. Maybe I could make Roger’s steak dinner!
Mark turns out to be in
something of a limbo in life. He just
got back from Germany, where he went to figure out what he wanted to do, having
been laid off a teaching job at a charter school in San Diego, where he taught
high school science the previous year.
He had taken that teaching job after dropping out a prestigious doctoral
program in earth science at Princeton, where he studied global warming. He liked his area of study, and it was
clearly a choice topic with great currency, but he hated the place. Being Californian and the son of parents who
worked in the California prison system in Susanville evidently did not align
well with the more genteel Princeton environment where he found himself. We talked a lot about academic culture. He wanted to get back into another program,
but wondered whether he had burned his bridges.
Cool and smart guy, I hope he finds a way to contribute to society. We talked about the irony about how, if he
went into academia and was successful, he would be making less than his father
who had no college education and worked in the prison system.
Marked drops me off on Tioga
Pass Road right across from the Mobil Mart as the sun is setting over the pass
– a couple of hours before dark, but already in the shadows. It’s getting chilly, and I pull out my jacket
and windbreaker. Most of the cars
turning east on the road actually turn into the Mobil Mart, eager to get in
line for the gourmet feast provided by the Bay Area drop-out foodie chef Matt
Toomey. A few cars are leaving the lot,
but it takes just one. And one of them,
a Jeep, that pulls over. Hallelujah!
A woman gets out of the
driver’s side. She opens the rear
passenger door and has to shuffle belongings in the back of their car to make
room for me and my backpack. She is very
pleasant and I am impressed by how nice she is to go through all that
trouble. I throw in my pack, jump to the
seat behind a man in the passenger’s seat with short sandy hair. As we pull onto the road, he slowly turns to
me with a stoned look, and says “You got any weed?” I smell petuli oil, and think about my 1971
experience. The woman, Esther, turns to
me and apologizes for the petuli smell, that they spilled some in the car. I apologize that I am not carrying any weed,
and add that I would love to have some, but that I lacked connections to get
any with teenage kids, etc.
Esther and I carry on a very
nice conversation. She is from Colombia,
they live in Oakland, she is an artist and photographer, she is trying to start
a vitamin business. She is interested in
the fact that I work on bilingualism.
Her partner Sol, meanwhile, is withdrawing during this conversation, no
words uttered. We are driving up Tioga
Pass road, the light is striking the sides of the pass. I try to engage him in the beauty, to which
he does not respond. He pulls out a
light scarf that is the color of the Hare Krishna outfit, a pinkish orange, and
he drapes it over his head, and curls up into a near-fetal position. Esther and I continue to have a conversation,
but I wonder what is up with their life.
Fortunately, we are at the
Tioga Pass entrance to Yosemite, and the beauty of the Tioga basin bathed in
the light of the setting sun kills the conversation, and we drive in silence
until I am dropped off at the Tuolumne store and grill area. I do not succeed in eliciting any words out
of Sol as I get off the vehicle.
The sun is now about 45
minutes from setting as I stick my sign and thumb out at Tuolumne Meadows. It is beautiful, and I am very hopeful
now. In the park, getting dark, clearly
many vehicles getting off the trail, and some undoubtedly heading to Yosemite
Valley, and from that fork of Highways 120 and 140, I can get a ride into
Merced for a late evening steak dinner.
Roger, I am tired, hungry and thirsty!
Ironically, there are many
cars, but none stop, and several even speed up.
As I wonder what that is about, I see a young female figure walking up
towards me, having been dropped off a car in the parking lot of the store. She says “I hope you don’t mind if I join
you, I don’t know if I’ll help or hurt your chances.” A scrawny blond and in her early 20’s, it is
obvious it would not hurt my chances for a ride. Laurie is headed back to her friend’s place
in Foresta, having been on the east side climbing with other friends that day,
except that it was too windy so she gave up sooner than planned.
We stick our thumbs out and
talk to the cars. She is very animated
and gesticulates as the cars buzz by.
She is playful as she says “I’m trying to looks as cute as I can and smiling!”
as cars whiz by. Her southern accent is
noticeable – it turns out she is from North Carolina, attended Appalachian
State, and moved out west to live in Reno and climb, ski, and work in the straw
homes business. Mostly to climb, as it
turns out, but with explicit awareness that climbing is a selfish activity no
different than taking drugs, and that it’s important at some point in life to
do something for other people.
As the sun reaches the
horizon, with cars blowing by, I am thinking that this will not work. My backup plan is Ron Kauk, a well-known
climber who has a permanent campsite at the Tuolumne Meadows campground, site
A-52, just across the road. Being
Saturday night, he might not be there because he has an engagement in Yosemite
Valley during the viewing of his movie, but he has told me in the past that I
would be welcome to crash there any time.
Laurie is calling her friend
in Foresta to see if she could come pick her up, but her friend is not
responsive, so I suggest to Laurie that we could go over to Ron’s campsite and
crash there. She is a bit starstruck by
the thought, almost afraid, but we head over.
Ron is not there, but we make ourselves at home around the picnic bench,
make some food, and crash out for the night at our respective corners of “Camp Ron.”
My thought is that I could make a 9:00 YARTS shuttle, get down to the
valley, and either hitchhike from there or take a YARTS connection from the
valley into Merced – better late than never.
I call Nancy and Roger,
informing them of my delay.
It is very cold that night,
and I wake up around 7:00 thinking I would try hitchhiking for an hour, from
8:00 to 9:00, and if unsuccessful, I would take the 9:00 YARTS, which would be
slower but surer.
When I get up, I notice that
Ron came back during the night, as the zipper to his yellow North Face tent is
opened. I heat up some water and rattle
around, and Ron gets up. He makes a fire
(his full-time campsite carries the obligation that he work for the park
service as a woodcutter, so he has a good supply of firewood), and we
talk. Meanwhile, I try to introduce
Laurie to Ron, but notice that she has taken off.
At 8:00, I bid farewell to
Ron and head to the road. I run into
Laurie, who is trying to warm herself in the sun and waiting for the café to
open. She said she was frozen stiff and
could not imagine introducing herself to Ron in that state. I get some coffee and a cinnamon roll. She has decided to stay to climb in the
Tuolumne Meadows area for the day, but for some reason stands around while I
try to hitchhike. I figure this would
not hurt my chances, so we keep talking and sticking our thumbs out. Much of this is half-hearted, given our
experience of the previous day.
We continue our attempt at
hitchhiking. The high point of the
morning happens when a tourist walks up to me, and asks if he could take a
picture. Surprisingly, the person has a
regular American accent. He just walks
up, and says “Do you mind if I take a picture of you?” I give permission, and he steps back across
the road, and takes a picture as Laurie and I ham it up. Another tourist behind him, noticing that he
is taking a picture, leans back and takes a picture of us, again. That tourist looked European. I now imagine me in a couple of photo albums,
thumbs stuck out with a blond girl half my age -- what kind of stories will be
told about those pictures?
I am almost immediately
picked up by a blue SUV, perhaps thanks to the attention from the photo
shoot. There is ample room, and I throw
in my pack, bid farewell to Laurie, and I am on my way.
Brad and Susie are in their
late 20’s, and live in Washington, DC.
They had been climbing in Tuolumne Meadows the day before, but were
freaked out by the high winds, and are headed back to Yosemite Valley where
they hope to climb for several days.
They are very explicit in stating that they are not a couple. They talk about sleeping in their tents
and kid each other about their boyfriends and girlfriends. I am not sure if they are siblings, but
probably not because she claims to be from Texas, and he has no traces of
Texan. They are into climbing, and she
is clearly the lead climber, and we talk about what climbs they might do in the
Valley.
They drop me off at the
junction of 140 and 120 as they merge by the Valley at around 9:30. I walk down to a pullover area on Highway 140
in the direction of Merced, and stick out my thumb. I feel that I am now pretty much there! I call Roger, and he tells me that he and
Marie are headed up in my direction, and we could meet in Mariposa. I tell him to wait for me at the Red Fox, a
popular local dive.
After about 15 minutes,
though not many cars have gone by because it is still too early for people to
be exiting the Valley for the weekend, an old hatchback rattles to a halt. The driver clearly looks like a Yosemite
local, and indeed he lives in El Portal and works for the Park Service as a
trail maintenance supervisor. He looks
to be in his late 40’s with sunburned and wind-dried skin, Asian features. I expect him to introduce himself as “Kazuo”
or something like that. We shake hands. Hi, “I’m Kenji,” I tell him. “Hi, I’m José,” he replies. “You could have fooled me, I thought you
might be Japanese.” “A lot of people
tell me that. I’m Mexican, but I had
friends who were the Tanaka brothers, and I used to go to their parties and
call myself Kenji. And when I was in
Hawaii, a lot of people thought I was Hawaiian, and the same thing in the
Phillippines.” He’s kind of like the
universal adapter, I think, because he could equally well pass in the Middle
East or in South Asia. José had just
dropped off his son in Yosemite Valley for a group trip up to Northern
California. He had gotten into some gang
activity in his high school in Mariposa, has spent time with the youth
authority, and is trying to get himself clean.
Good kid, smart, but has trouble focusing.
José can take me to El
Portal, and he says that I might be able to catch the YARTS bus from the lodge
there into Mariposa. He pulls over at
the bus stop, and the posted schedule shows that the next bus would be in 15
minutes, getting me into Mariposa at 11:38.
He waits for me while I get a ticket at the lodge, and then drives me
over to the stop at the El Portal post office, which is near his house. As he drops me off, he give me his cell phone
number and tells me to give him a call if there’s a problem, and that he would
be able to give me a ride. Nice offer,
but it turns out not to be necessary.
The YARTS bus pulls up to
the stop, I throw my backpack into the belly of the bus, and I climb into a
lovely air-conditioned environment.
Dusty Springfield is singing, followed by Tony Bennett. Memories of that era come stirring. Riding down 140 along the Merced River, I see
the burned banks of the north side of the river from the recent Midpines fire
all the way to the point where the road departs from the river.
We arrive in Mariposa, and
as I get off the bus, I see Roger and Marie waiting, and I wave to them. The driver, a middle-aged beefy
African-American, takes out my backpack.
He looks familiar, and then he says, “Weren’t you at UC Merced?” I then recognize him as Troy, the driver who
occasionally took me to the San Francisco airport in the town car service
offered by the same company operating YARTS.
We hug and exchange greetings, talk a bit about his boss Curt and refer
to our conversations from several years past.
Small world.
Roger and Marie have their
minivan waiting. I throw the backpack
into the rear seat, and we head south on Highway 41 in the direction of
Oakhurst. Roger tells me what a great meal
I missed the previous night, and I’m sure it is no exaggeration. But they have an ice chest full of sandwiches
and beer. We stop at Bass Lake on the
way, and enjoy good food and company.
The final 30 miles or so of
road up to Lake Florence is an intense, curvy one-way affair with occasional
pullouts to meet the needs of two-way traffic.
This being Labor Day afternoon, just about all of the traffic is in the
opposite direction, including cars pulling boats and horse trailers. It is pretty hairy, and I’m glad Roger is
driving. We pass by a jerk who is
driving a yellow sports van way too fast, and he rolls his window down to tell
us to slow down. I think of what a good
friend Roger is, not complaining at all, though constantly remarking on the
difficulty of the drive.
As we approach the lake, it
is almost 5:00. I know that there is a
boat that takes passengers on the 2-mile length of the lake, and I am hopeful
that it is still operating. As we get to
the store, I am told that the last boat was at 4:30. I could either hike, or I could be lazy and
wait for the next morning. There are
plenty of easy camping options around the deserted lake. I opt for the lazy option. I bid my final thanks and farewell to Roger
and Marie, who look very worried, as though I might be eaten by a bear, but
they want to do the return drive in the light, so they take off.
I find myself a peaceful
spot above the lake, roll out my sleeping bag, and watch the sunset and enjoy
the sandwich they left me. I am thinking
about the long way over and around the Sierras, how many people I had counted
on to just make it over to do a hike that will exit on the other side of the
mountains a mere 50 miles or so on the other side. I count Derek, Jan, Richard, Mark, Esther,
Sol, Susie, Laurie, Ron, Brad, Jose, Troy, Roger and Marie – a cast of 14. It had taken my about 28 hours. I am happy about the experience, though I am
not sure I would do it again.
As the sun begins to set, I
begin thinking about my boots.
I had first noticed
something about the soles while I was in Roger and Marie’s car, that they
seemed to be cracking and peeling in several spots. I inspect them a bit more closely, and notice
that the separation is more serious than I had thought. I had dismissed it originally because the
boots, while over 5 years old, had not been used that much. They are high quality Merrell boots, and I
had used them only on about 3 long trips, so I still considered them relatively
new. But I now notice that the
separation on the left boot was to the point where I could put my finger from
one side to the other.
Through my mind are running
some problematic scenarios. Further
deterioration along the way could turn into a stupid and unnecessary epic. There are some extra straps in my backpack
that I could use to strap the front end of the boots with a full wrap-around,
but if the separation extends back to the heel, I would not be able to easily
extend the strap that far. I also have a
pair of Crocs moccasins which I could use in an emergency, and I have an extra
pair of sox so that I could give my feet extra padding against blisters, but
the poor fit and slippage would really be tough given the terrain ahead. Maybe the boots have been in this condition
for a while, and I had not noticed, and it would not get much worse over the
next several days. But then, maybe they
will fall apart when I’m too far in to retreat.
As I go to bed, my thought is that there is enough backup available to
proceed, because frankly I am in denial about going back to town for a new pair
of boots. Thank goodness for the straps
and the Crocs. I go to sleep.
In the middle of the night,
I have two dreams. The first is running
into someone named “Dellie” at the parking lot of the lake, who offers
enthusiastically to give me a ride into Fresno to get a new pair of boots. As we talk, we discover that we were
classmates at Harvard (in reality, no such person). The second dream is finding the last seat on
a bus that is making its regular run to Fresno.
The driver turns out to be Sevve, a friend with whom I had just climbed
the North Ridge of Mt. Conness a week earlier.
Even better, Sevve tells me that it would not be necessary to go all the
way to Fresno, because he runs a side business repairing outdoor gear, and he
could repair my boots for me on the spot.
I wake up just as he slides open the door to his shop.
These two dreams make me realize
that I should really replace my boots before leaving for the trip. How embarrassing it would be to seek a rescue
because my boots had fallen apart. I
tell myself that even if I lost a full day going to town and back to buy a new
pair of boots, the investment of time and resources would be worth it.
In the morning, I pull
together my pack and walk over to the store at the boat launch. A young man with shoulder-length hair, Chet,
is at the counter. “I have a
problem. My boots are falling apart, and
can you suggest how I might get to the nearest town where I can get a new
pair?” He almost frowns and says that
probably the nearest town would be Bass Lake, and that really the only way
would be to hitch a ride. “But,” he
tells me, “I think we have repair glue.”
FREESOLE. He shows me the tube
whose directions suggest 2-4 hours of curing time for minor repairs, 24-48
hours for major jobs. Mine is clearly a major
job.
I happen to also get a
fellow named Mike involved in this conversation. Mike is the only other passenger waiting for
the boat, and is hanging around.
Amazingly, it turns out, he works in the camping department at REI in
Berkeley and he is an experienced outdoorsman.
He first tells me that I would definitely get my money back for the
boots as an REI member – nice. He then
also suggests that I repair it soon, on the other side of the lake where there
is a meadow – Blaney Meadows -- and hang for a day. So that’s what I decide to do. I get a ride across the lake, steered by Chet
who sold me the glue, then hike for a few miles with Mike until we get to
Blaney Meadows, and then take my time to clean the boots and use the nasty
glue, and then wait for 24 hours before setting off on my cross-Sierra hike
back to my car. So now, after this boot
hitch, I have 16 people all total involved in getting me off, finally, on my
hike.
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