It was an aggressive itinerary I created for us to complete the John Muir Trail and exit via the Whitney Portal over the course of four days on the Labor Day weekend. With the use of an additional vacation day at the beginning, and another at the end, just in case, it appeared doable on paper. The itinerary was 12 miles the first day, 11.3 the second, 12.4 the third and 11.4 the fourth. The longest day we’d hiked the first week of July was 11.5 miles, this on our last day because we hadn’t made our intended miles on the first day nor had we been able to make them up until the last two days. So when I created this trek’s itinerary, I knew I’d have to work harder to be prepared for it’s intensity. The wild fires and their drifting smoke hampered my intent to hike Lovers Leap a couple of evenings after work, so Mike found me a stairstepper which I used in earnest for three weeks prior to our departure. And when a last minute family event took us to the Portland area, we took the opportunity to hike on the west slope of Mt. Hood. Just days before we left for the trailhead, I was feeling confident that our plan was doable.
I had been having some car trouble which had seemingly been resolved, until I exited the freeway en route to work the day I was to leave for the trailhead. The red overheating light came on again, and as I approached work there was a clicking noise that sounded like an electrical problem. I immediately called Mike; he reserved me a rental car and then drove to Lone Pine as planned to pick up our Kearsarge/Whitney Portal permit. This plan was viable, but would prove to delay my departure from home by 1 ½ hours, the first mishap. Mike had a planned stop to get Mono Trail Bars, “the only trail bar you’ll ever need” at the Lee Vining Market, but was only able to get 3 – we needed 8. So, I now needed to make a stop in Lee Vining, to pick up a few more, these trail bars were to be a large part of our lunch each day, so it was a necessary stop, and the second mishap. I arrived just before 9 pm at the Mono Market where I picked up the five bars. Because of my delayed departure and having been up since 5:30 a.m. instead of spending the night in Bishop, about an hour from our starting trailhead, we stayed in Mammoth Lakes instead, which was a better choice for acclimatization, but 2 hours from the trailhead, the third mishap. Onward to Mammoth Lakes – preparing for bed, I discovered I’d forgotten my overnight bag for before and after the hike – not critical, but it contained my lightweight mirrorless camera which weighed 1 lb less than the camera that I brought, the fourth mishap – not time, but weight, which can impact one’s hiking speed, in this case mine. Disappointed, I tried to let go of not having the smaller, lighter camera and went to bed around 11:30.
After breakfast and finishing the final loading of our packs, we made a couple stops for a couple more needs, the fifth mishap. We arrived at the Onion Valley Trailhead and although our departure was late at 12:45, I was still optimistic that we could make at least 10 miles. Up and over Kearsarge Pass at 11,792, down the Kearsarge Lakes trail, we hiked a mere 7 miles, .3 mile shy of reaching the JMT. We set up camp where we had a lovely view of a tarn and distant peaks.
In the morning, we set about our usual ritual: Mike gets up and boils water for coffee and hot cocoa while I pack our gear and load my pack and Mike’s sleeping bag into his. Because he carries the bear canister, which is the second item he loads, I then ready our food for breakfast and lunch so he can pack the canister when he’s ready. I laid out our day’s lunch, tuna fish packets, mayonnaise packets and a Mono bar, on a well-placed, low-lying granite table and returned to the tent to finish drinking my hot cocoa and loading my pack. Suddenly I heard a loud noise of breath and quickly looked out the tent door; what I saw was a big cinnamon colored black bear at the edge of my granite table! In a low pitched voice, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “go on, get out of here!” The bear looked up, piercing each other’s eyes, it then turned away and took off running! I didn’t see anything in it’s mouth, and there was not a bit of slobber anywhere, but I was sure he’d gotten something. I felt horrible and guilty for not being vigilant. The bear returned three times from different locations on the rocky hillside above us. Each time we yelled and threw rocks at it. Finally peering over the edge one last time, it turned away and left. A few minutes later, a hummingbird buzzed my burgundy cap and I sensed we’d have no more bear encounters. Shortly thereafter a threesome of guys came by whom we alerted of the bear – they were exiting over Kearsarge and one said, “yeah, I know, he got my pockets; I was just too tired last night to empty them”; his pack pockets had been ripped open and emptied. Not much later, a solo hiker walked by and asked if we’d had a bear; his story was even sadder. As he turned to pack his lunch, his canister was left open and the bear emptied the entire container, nearly getting his head stuck inside it! The backpacker hadn’t much knowledge about bear behavior, not realized he could yell, clap and throw rocks to get it to leave – he was fearful he’d make the bear angry and it would turn on him. He thanked us for educating him. The bear never returned but he had certainly caused a delay in our departure that morning, mishap number six.
We left camp passing the tarn and I stepped off briefly to shoot some photos. Turning to leave, somehow I suddenly found myself stumbling backwards at an angle such that I couldn’t upright and stop myself no matter how forcefully I tried. I plopped on my butt in the middle of the trail, and there I sat. I’d slit my thumb on a rock; now bleeding profusely, we had to take time to cleanse and bandage it, mishap number seven.
It was a matter of minutes to reach the John Muir Trail and passing the last of the tarns a snake slithered in front of me; I screamed and jumped and Mike cautioned me to “be careful”, not for the snake’s sake, but mine – he didn’t want me on the ground again! It was all downhill to Vidette Meadow; surprisingly steep, it slowed us down. The creekside trail was beautifully forested though, keeping us delightfully cool and comfortable. Reaching Vidette Meadow we climbed up to Center Basin Creek which was our goal for the night before, we readily agreed that we wouldn’t have made it there before nightfall. Ascending through forest and exposed areas, the day heated up and I’d pause whenever there was shade. It was a lovely section of trail and I enjoyed it immensely, it was also the day where we began encountering marmots, lots of them, scurrying about eating. As we gained elevation, I walked slower, and needed more rest breaks, but I was hiking stronger than in July. We switched and curved up toward the grueling pass named Forrester, which on this day we were to cross. We passed several really nice campsites and wondered if we should stop and tackle the pass in the morning; Mike, as usual, wanted to push on; I heeded his wish and we did. Tarns dotted the arid landscape; it reminded me a bit of the environment around Pinchot, and Muir Passes – treeless, wide open spaces and colorful earthen peaks. We reached the outlet of what we believed was Lake 12,150 in the shadow of a high western wall and checked the GPS to ensure we were at that elevation as we’d already passed a large lake with a trail that took off and wondered if we’d missed the campsites. Confirming that, we checked the campsite descriptions and turned back a few feet to locate the sites. All were shaded and windy, but we were the sole hikers, so we chose one, tossed down our gear, grabbed our warm clothes and water and rock-hopped across the talus to the sun where we sponge bathed and dressed warmly. Our view was extraordinary, above the lake, Junction Peak squarely in front of us, ridge lines to the west and east. On the west, occasional hikers from Forester Pass were hiking down silhouetted in the evening light. On one of my middle of the night risings, the Big Dipper rested on the curve of a mountainous hill. It sparkled and shimmered, and was a glorious sight. I thought of doing some photography, but the wind had been intermittently whipping, waking me through the night, and I was too tired to set up my camera.
I was excited about finishing our climb up to Forester Pass, a 13,200’ beast. It didn’t take long for my excitement to wane because nausea came on with every 1- 2 switchbacks and I’d have to stop to let my stomach recover. This worked well, but it cost us time. I’d forgotten to bring ginger, and I’d considered taking a Pepto Bismol tab, but I wasn’t convinced it would help and might possibly make it worse. We finally reached the pass and of course I was elated. We spent some time chatting with a couple of young men as they approached, Griffin and Brandon, who have hopes of starting a summer camp. The north side of Forester Pass is an engineering masterpiece; we marveled at its existence and considered the tremendous effort of the men who built it. Down below, the basin is surrounded by ranges of peaks and dotted with stream-filled meadows, and stunning tarns and lakes and I dreamed of lingering by one. And the trail, it is gentle down to the Shepherd Pass junction; this excited me too because soon I would see familiar terrain, Mt. Tyndall and Mt. Williamson, peaks that I’d passed on my first multi-day hike. Some of my favorite places in the Sierra are the otherworldly wide open spaces in the highest elevations, deep in the Sierra’s belly; oddly though, when we hit treeline, I felt a sense of comfort. We crossed Tyndall Creek and again began climbing, upward to Bighorn Plateau and down to Wallace Creek where the High Sierra Trail meets the PCT/JMT. This is where we would camp on our third night, now 8 miles behind schedule if we were to complete our trek in four days. Settled in a canyon with trees, for the first time, clouds floated in the sky creating a pretty sunset, Amazingly, we were alone in a designated camp with a bear locker.
With the morning came two things, a penny, which I picked up and dropped in the bottom of the bear canister, and a change in the weather. At 10,400 ‘ it had been a warm night, but pretty, white puffy clouds floated in from the west. This was worrisome as this was the day we would hike up to Mt Whitney and down to Whitney Portal if we were to accomplish my goal of a four day hike. Individually and quietly though, we’d both calculated the miles left to cover and agreed we didn’t have time to summit, and set our minimum goal to get over Trail Crest. If needed, we’d use that extra day to finish the hike and drive home. At the onset we began climbing, steeply, but then the trail leveled out, and it became a variable trail with ascents and descents in and out of canyons, gentler than the ones we’d climbed the previous sections. I think it was my favorite section of trail because of the gentle varied terrain, and we felt like we were making good time. We stopped in places where I was really moved ~ like when standing beneath a canopy of evergreens, at the edge of meadow across which stood formidable, triangular Mt. Guyot, where there was what I call “perfect silence”; at Timberline Lake, where it wasn’t truly timberline, where the sunlight broke through the clouds creating an afternoon alpenglow on a northern peak in this basin, on the west face of Whitney where the peaks reflected into the northernmost Hitchcock Lake and noticing that Guitar Lake really was shaped like a guitar! I didn’t know the beauty and isolation here would overwhelm me, causing me to stop, each time setting us a little further behind, creating little delays. As we continued our journey south, higher and deeper into the mountainous basin, the clouds began drifting into each other; I felt as if a shadow was following me. We switched up the trail on Whitney’s west flank, enamored by the tarns and lakes we passed, and again marveled that a lake could truly be shaped like a Guitar! If you want to carry extra water up the trail, there are some awesome, albeit exposed, campsites not too far below the summit trail junction. As we slowly climbed up, occasionally a tiny round white ball of precipitation would drop from the sky, but as we approached the summit trail junction, the clouds in the wind began to separate, the sun dimly shone through and holes of blue sky appeared. To the east however, and up the summit trail it was a dismal gray and even if we’d had time, would not have attempted the 1.9 miles to the summit for a healthy fear of the weather. We probably spent a half hour at the summit trail junction. It was here that my journey was complete because I’d already summited Whitney in 2008, “day” hiking up from Whitney Portal to Trail Crest where the John Muir Trail begins. It was here that I unleashed past history and miles of pent up struggle, sacrifice and suffering. This was not my first experience of this overwhelming emotion, but it was and is confusing, and I thought about watching accomplished athletes do the same. Yet another delay, I wanted to linger, to digest and process the magnitude of hiking this 211 mile trail, and more for all of it’s entries and exits over the past four years; but there was the potential for more weather to move in, and although unstated, I felt pressure to forge on.
We felt we had made good time, and with 9 miles left to descend, we figured we’d make it to the portal by 8:30, a 12 hour day, and not the first of those in our hiking careers! Cooler weather with the miniature white frozen balls moved in on Whitney’s east side in the midst of negotiating the 99 switchbacks, so we stopped to add warmer clothing. We passed one guy slowly walking above the cabled section where ice formed on the inner trail wall carrying a gallon of water, wearing shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops, no pack or fanny pack that I noticed. I asked “where you headed?” He replied “Summit”. I told him there was weather on the other side, and he asked “What kind? Hail, sleet, rain?” I informed him of the miniature frozen white balls; he said, “okay” and kept walking. I wondered silently if he had a death wish. A multitude of hikers were set up around Trail Camp and we greeted and waved to many of them. Mike asked one how he was doing; he responded, and asked Mike the same; Mike replied “great”. I replied “he’s lying, we’ve been hiking since Wallace Creek”. As we were clearly continuing to hike and not stop, the hiker laughed and said, “you guys are animals!” I grinned, and felt accomplished; I’d hiked 22-24 miles in one stretch, but had never backpacked 18 miles in a day, and I felt like it was going to happen, and in steep terrain with tremendous elevation gains above at 10-13,600’!
As we hiked down steps and granite, I couldn’t help but recall the beauty I’d seen all those years before on a sunny July 2. Consultation Lake where I ate a lunch of PBJ in a tortilla at 9:30 in the morning, cascades of water flowing off granite ledges, rock primrose, creek crossings, particularly the one below Consultation Lake where I’d dunked my head and kerchief just before 9:30 a.m. because it was so hot and my head was pounding. I noticed a line of trees below Consultation Lake, a beautiful line of green. I had stated I wanted to get off the granite before dark. It looked like we would accomplish that, just barely, and I set a new goal of hiking to treeline where we’d make the decision to either camp for the night, or continue hiking out.
Daylight was waning quickly. We started to stop and pull out our headlamps, but there was water flowing in the rocky trail, so I suggested we get through it and then stop to get out the lights. There had been one party of two and another of three just ahead of us, but then they split there was only one. He walked into a flat sandy spot with a tree (a campsite and my treeline goal), then turned around and started down the trail, rounding between two high granite mounds and he disappeared. We set our packs on a granite bench across from the sandy campsite and got out our lights – mine had warned me the evening before that the batteries were dying so we had to take time to change them, the 8th mishap. While we fumbled with the batteries, the lone man returned, stating, “there’s bears over there”. We encouraged him to walk on, instructing him to yell at them and they would move on; he gently resisted. I asked him where his buddies went – those two folks I had seen him with earlier weren’t with him – he was hiking solo. I offered him to walk with us and he said he’d like that, and then he told us he was really slow. I told him we had been considering camping along the trail that night, but we hadn’t yet decided. On the other hand, we had been hiking well and believed we would still be out by 8:30, able to get a good night’s sleep in a Lone Pine motel and then head over to Benton as I had my heart set on a soak in the hot springs. Then the hiker said he was really tired and wasn’t feeling so well. Mike asked him why he didn’t just set up his tent and sleep overnight – I thought that an odd comment as he was only wearing a day pack. The man replied he wasn’t carrying such gear. Somewhere in this midst of this slow, deliberate conversation, the man saw more bears, of which there were none – only bushes, and I told him so. I looked at this man’s eyes, which were reddened and glazed and realized we had encountered a very serious situation. I reassured the man he could hike out with us and we weren’t going to leave him and quietly told Mike the same or he might not make it out; I feared for his life. I poured a good amount of Himalayan pink salt in the hiker’s hand hand and insisted he suck it up and follow it with a good amount of water, he did. I asked the man his name, and so we began. There was a short uphill climb and almost immediately the man asked me to slow my pace, and I did. As we walked I began asking him questions and I learned he’d started at 5 p.m., 26 hours earlier, took 6 or so hours to hike to Lone Pine Lake with his buddy who realized he had to turn around and this man had decided to continue on alone and had made it within .9 of Whitney’s summit where he turned around because of fatigue, exhaustion and weather. I learned he had water, a water filter, had been drinking water and someone had given him some electrolytes. I learned he hadn’t eaten but one Lara bar all day (he had more but they didn’t sound good) and after dumping all that salt into his mouth, the only thing he could imagine eating was a piece of hard candy or a Fanta orange drink – I had neither. With heavy footsteps, I lead us slowly, for me, down the trail, slowing more, resting intermittently, slowing more when we went uphill, Mike in the middle and at his insistence, our new hiking companion at the rear. As we walked, I asked our new hiking friend questions – I wanted to make sure he stayed awake, so I engaged him in conversation. I learned about him, about his buddy with whom he’d been friends since college (he was barely older than I, so that was a remarkably long friendship), his wife of more years than Mike and I, and his daughters. At one rest point, I asked Mike the time – it was 8:00 p.m., we had miles to go and I knew we wouldn’t be out before midnight; we continued talking, and every once in awhile I would ask Mike if our friend was behind him – he always was. We stopped at one point and sat briefly on a granite shelf and our friend asked Mike if he saw a centipede. Neither Mike nor I never did – we saw granite stains, but no moving creature, and we laughed; we soon rounded a bend and began seeing a multitude of centipedes. Still gravely concerned about this man, I cautioned him that if he felt like he was going to collapse, I needed him to tell me before he did that so I could call for help using our Inreach. I shared little pieces of knowledge so that when this new friend attempted Whitney again, he might have a different outcome; I encouraged him that he’d physically accomplished quite alot and he most certainly could attempt Whitney again, and that even though he hadn’t summited, he was a mountaineer.
It had been ten years since I’d been on the Whitney Trail, and when I “day” hiked it I carried a small sheet of paper with landmarks and mileages – they were my checkpoints to mentally help me get to the summit. And before we’d departed on this trek, I’d studied the map for our planned descent; as we passed familiar landmarks, I shared information about where we were, it’s significance and how much farther we had to hike. I shared stories about some of my hiking and backpacking experiences and Mike shared stories too. We all shared stories. Perhaps my favorite was one after a particular creek crossing steadying ourselves on a bridge of logs with gaps two or three feet above the water and learning later there’s a waterfall on the other side of it. A story of inspiration, encouragement, and leadership which led one man to confidence and demonstration that he also had the ability.
Our new friend had not had any communication with his friend since he’d left him at Lone Pine Lake; and then he received a text that read “you’ve been on the mountain 30 hours, are you okay?” I was once 3 ½ hours late, after dark, from a hike with a friend in which we encountered snow; another friend and a fine dinner was waiting for us at camp and her worried concern was evident, thus I was also concerned for the man who’d parted ways at Lone Pine Lake. I could see lights on the other side of the canyon, so I knew we were nearing civilization; when I saw lights of Lone Pine, I surmised that our friend would be able to call his friend; he called and when his friend heard his voice he calmly responded “thank the Lord”. There was a brief conversation about cheeseburgers, a Fanta orange, a meeting place and timing, and although we had some distance still to hike, perhaps a mile or so, it was here I finally felt some relief, that we were going to make it and we would all be okay. We reached the Whitney portal just after midnight where a light rain fell, sweet rain. It was if the rain washed away all the fear, worry and concern, all the dirt of the trail. Our new friend was safe, 31 hours after beginning his Mt. Whitney attempt, and so were my husband and I.
It’s now Sunday; a week has passed since that 18 mile Labor Day hike from Wallace Creek, up the west side of Mt. Whitney and down to Whitney Portal, carrying all of our needs, and a penny, on our backs. I began writing this story on Wednesday evening and I still have not fully processed the events of our final John Muir Trail section hike; but this I know, the mere fact that I decided to finish the trail this past weekend, the series of mishaps and delays, the discovery of a penny – useless for opening our Bearikade bear canister or anything else in the wilderness, the moments of pausing in awe and perfect silence, the weather and not summitting Whitney again, they all had a purpose, and that was to be present in the moment when God called for a divine intervention in a man’s life.
Altitude, Aspens & Alpenglow 