The Mountains Are Calling.... So I Answered - Conclusion

The Mighty Sequoia Tree

It usually takes a while, but once I settle into a rhythm the daily routine becomes habitual. Wake up slowly as light begins to illuminate the walls of my shelter.  Recognize the now familiar seams and patterns of the tent roof above me and recall that I'm somewhere else, far from home.

Once I'm fully in the world, it only takes a few minutes before I'm moving, changing from camp clothes back into shirt, shorts, and socks from the day before.  When dressed I stuff the sleeping bag into a compression sack, deflate and roll up the insulated pad and pillow, pack loose sleeping attire into a stuff sack, and get the small items (headlamp, water filter, lip balm, earbuds, etc.) out of the tent.

Becoming upright, I begin heating water for coffee.  While I'm at it, I sort through the bear can looking for breakfast, and whatever snacks and food I'll want through the day, putting things where I can get at them.  Then I address the tent, remove the fly if I used it, set it aside so any overnight condensation can dry, and pull the stakes from the corners.

I like freestanding tents because you can fully open the door zipper, then lift the entire thing off the ground and invert it so any dirt or debris inside can be shaken out.  Once that is done, unclip the tent body from the poles, and pull the poles from corner grommets.  Collapse the poles, insert into the pole sack, and put tent stakes into their respective bag.  Gather the fly and place on the now collapsed tent body along with poles and stakes, fold and roll.  Into the bag and ready to attach to the pack.

It all comes together like a magic trick.  For trips like this the stuff I need fits into or attached to a 65 liter pack, and it's pretty compact.  When I reach my next camp, out it comes again, and in short order constitutes the necessities of home in the wilderness.  This is one of the things I enjoy most about the whole affair.  Go where your legs can take you, and what you have makes it possible to be comfortable when you get there. 

I am in Evolution Valley, with my next destination the junction with Piute Pass trail 7.5 miles away.  I won't climb to the pass today, in fact I won't reach the pass until the day after tomorrow.  Knowing I only have a few days left allows me to slow down and take time to enjoy my surroundings.  As mentioned in the previous post, Evolution Valley is a somewhat kinder, gentler manifestation of sometimes severe Sierra geography, and that makes walking at a more leisurely pace easy.

The elevation on this stretch is the lowest I'll see on this trip.  From the north end of McClure Meadow, the trail descends an additional 1400 feet, ending at an altitude just over 8000' at the junction.  But tomorrow when I begin the ultimate exit, I will be climbing once again towards the pass at 11,400'.  On the other side I'll be dropping back to 9200 feet at North Lake, the final destination.

Evolution Creek

Today's grade is easy and except for multiple rock hops over numerous creeks fairly uneventful.  There is an unbridged crossing of Evolution Creek which can be dangerous in late spring/early summer, but by this time of year it is usually only around 18 inches at the deepest point.  This is where having a good pair of quick drying camp shoes comes in handy, or you could do it barefoot if your feet are tough enough.

There is an alternate bypass that can be used if the main crossing is unsafe, however it traverses a sensitive wetland in Evolution Meadow, and Park Rangers ask hikers to use it only as necessary.

After wading through Evolution Creek the trail continues on the south side of the valley, and the canyon narrows again.

Evolution Creek begins to drop into Goddard Canyon

Not long after crossing the trail begins to drop with a series of switchbacks, losing around 600 feet of elevation as it leaves Evolution Valley behind.  This section is fully exposed with few trees, and despite the relatively mild weather it was a relief to reach shade. At the bottom the path enters Goddard Canyon and a union with South Fork of San Joaquin River.

Sunny switchbacks lead into Goddard Canyon

The trail immediately crosses the river on a sturdy bridge, then continues through the canyon for just under a mile before crossing on a second bridge back to the east.  Along the way the river cascades over several drops, and water plunging over massive rocks into deep pools fills the air with white noise.

Just before Piute Creek, the trail heads away from the river for a short distance before coming to a crossing of the creek on Piute Creek Bridge.  This is also the junction with Piute Creek trail, which leads to Piute Pass.  In just over 17 miles from here my journey will reach the end.  But for today this is as far as I go.

Over the last week and a half I have encountered numerous hikers each day, most JMT hikers heading south towards Mt. Whitney.  But today has been notably quiet, and so far I have seen only 3 other people.  At the junction there is a solo traveler taking a break before heading on, but no one else.  I have the place to myself and find a good spot for a tent near the bridge.  I spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sound of water rushing over boulders, while allowing a cascade of random thoughts to occupy my mind.

This spot marks the northern boundary of Kings Canyon/Sequoia National Park.  The trail continues some 70 miles north towards Yosemite, with the next section traversing part of the John Muir Wilderness.  This is my fourth time passing this way, and although there is still spectacular country beyond this point, I really enjoy the time I have spent in the National Park. 

North to Yosemite

The direction I came from

It's early September, and a few weeks from now the autumnal equinox will mark the end of summer.  For the most part the weather has been very mild, with some nights at higher elevation approaching freezing early morning temperatures.  But most telling is the shortening of daylight hours, with a few minutes at either end given over to later sunrises and earlier sunsets.

I've mentioned before having mixed feelings about the end of summer.  The transition seems to loom larger in my mind as I get older, probably because it's another measure of how quickly time is passing.  Sometimes fall seems melancholy as vibrant green fades to brown, and the skeletal frames of deciduous trees replace rustling canopies of leaves.  But the air is crisp and cool, and skies take on hues of deep azure.

The turning of the seasons along with the impending end of this trip make me reflective as daylight wanes.  It's not sadness exactly, just pensive contemplation of how it will be another year before I can return.  I find myself wishing I could stay in this moment just a while longer, but the rhythm of life demands constant change.  The consolation is I still have a couple of days to go.

Heading Out

I'm up early as usual, and packed to go within a short time.  I'm already at the trail junction so I turn east and begin the long climb to Piute Pass.  I don't know how far I'll go today, but since it's 17 miles to the exit I will try to make around half or maybe a little more of the distance.

The first hour or so is in shade as sheer mountains hide the morning sun.  The route follows Piute Creek nearly all the way to the pass, and water is never far away except for a short stretch higher up.

Looking ahead

Looking back

The canyon is narrow at first, but a long series of switchbacks rising through a bench covered in manzanita shrubs opens the terrain up for more expansive views.

Manzanita

Fun fact about manzanita:  Everybody has heard the word heliotropism, right?  That's where plants actively track the sun across the sky to maximize the energy received.  Except that manzanita does it differently.  Manzanita leaves need light just like all chlorophyll containing organisms, but it typically grows where it can be hot and dry.  

In an adaptation designed to reduce moisture loss from evaporation, manzanita turns its leaves away so they are perpendicular to the light, minimizing the surface area exposed to direct sun.  Pretty cool, huh?  (I'm sorry - once a tour guide, always a tour guide).

Once the trail reaches the level of the descending creek, it stays very close to the water for a while.  Here is where I take my first break of the day.  There is a shelf of granite that protrudes like a tongue into the creek bed, and water flows on either side.  It is so restful and warm sitting there I am reluctant to move on.  But as the saying goes, "miles to go before I sleep".

Upstream view Piute Creek

Downstream view Piute Creek

I shoulder my pack and continue on.  Alternating between trees and exposed talus slopes the trail continues an upwards trajectory.  Increased altitude brings about the environmental shifts seen multiple times on each day of the journey.

One very common feature I see day after day on Sierra trails is a hallmark of their construction.  The mountains are young, composed of varying types of granite, one of the hardest rocks on the planet.  Creating a path here for pack animals (and eventually humans) was a monumental undertaking, and prodigious amounts of hard labor was needed to make it happen.

But physical effort alone is not enough to move obdurate and sometimes impossible stone.  The use of explosives was an absolute necessity, especially when large outcroppings of granite blocked the path.  Using hand drills, the builders would bore into the rock, place a charge and light the fuse.  The evidence is everywhere, from unused holes to the telltale radial blast pattern where the dynamite was detonated.

Radial blast mark

Unused drill holes

When I walk here I marvel at the effort required to establish a navigable path through this rugged mountain range, and I am reminded again of the tenacity and determination of the people involved.

As the day progresses I approach a section where the trail begins to climb above the valley floor, and the sound of water starts to recede.  I estimate I have covered nearly half the distance and decide to start scouting for a place to settle in.  Below me I can see some nice flat openings in the trees close to the creek, and make my way down.

A likely spot

Near my chosen site there is a small waterfall, and easy access to the creek.  As I have done the last two days, I set up camp reasonably early then spend the rest of the afternoon basking in late summer sun.  All too soon the light of our companion star disappears over the western mountains, and I retreat to the warmth of my sleeping bag not long afterwards.

The next morning arrives on schedule, and I am quick to reassemble my gear into a coherent package.  As I said before I'm getting good at this.  Then it's back up to the trail and onwards to the pass.

There is an extended ramble through the forest, with the creek now quite a ways down below me.  Once I'm above 10,000 feet again the contiguous forest disappears, replaced by random stands of limber pine.

Piute Pass will be the eighth time I have transited a saddle through the mountains on this trip (I did Bishop Pass twice).  Like the others before, as I approach the high point trees vanish altogether, and a stony alpine basin surrounds me.

There is a strong breeze, and the wind definitely has a bite at this altitude.  I started the day in a short sleeve shirt and shorts, but as I move through the area am prompted to put on my puffy (down) jacket for warmth.

The pass is just up ahead, and immediately below it is a small body of water called Muriel Lake. I can see places where previous hikers have camped, but today would be challenging with the brisk wind and not much shelter.

Muriel Lake

Past the lake and one last uphill, and I am over Piute Pass and descending the eastern side.  I had hoped the wind would subside once I crossed over, but mountain orographics frequently defy conventional wisdom, and the stiff breeze is now blowing downhill.  Even so it's not as biting as before, and I am able to shed my jacket while moving on.

I know I have belabored this point already, but pass geography is like a mirror image, where landscape features found on one side are repeated on the other.  Dropping down into the basin below, I pass a series of alpine lakes, each having an outlet stream that feeds the next one in series.  As the altitude lessens, the stony barren granite surrenders to more and more vegetation, and trees multiply as I go.

Even though I could easily reach the trailhead at North Lake today, I want to spend one more day immersed in beauty.  If I break up the remaining distance, I will have about 5 miles to complete tomorrow, making the last day easy and giving myself plenty of time to find a ride back to Bishop.

There is an actual Piute Lake on this side of the pass, and that is my goal for the day.  The wind is persistent, so when I reach the lake I seek a place that is reasonably sheltered.  Fortunately several large granite outcroppings cradle the shore, and one of them has a space large and flat enough to set a tent.

Piute Lake

This is the last day of my adventure, and I take full advantage of the remainder of the day to simply absorb whatever thoughts, ideas, feelings, and sensations being here offers.  As I mentioned earlier, the end of a trip like this engenders wishful thinking, wanting the experience to last.  But I also know it will be o.k. to sleep in a real bed, to eat food that is not rehydrated, and to resume the normal patterns of my daily life.

The sun goes down, the day comes to a close, and before I know it I am awakening to a new dawn.  Packing up camp is so routine I scarcely give it much thought.  I am on the last section of trail as it drops swiftly to the valley floor below.  North Lake is also a popular recreation destination, with people coming for extended backpacking trips, day hikes, and camping and fishing in the basin.

It's just after noon when I reach the parking area and campground at the trailhead.  Once again I walk the road for a while to find the best spot for hitchhiking, and it takes about 30 minutes before I am offered a ride.  

As I sit in the passenger seat of a kind strangers car, I share stories of the last few days, the things I've seen, the people I've met, and thoughts I've had.  And although it's the end of this story, it's the also the beginning of the next one.

 

 

 

 

 

The Mountains Are Calling.... So I Answered - Part Two

 

On The Road (Trail) Again - Bishop Pass

The morning of my ascent and temporary exit from the mountains dawns mostly clear, with a few fleecy clouds passing overhead.  I've been over Bishop Pass several times on previous trips, so I know what lies ahead.

Right from the junction with the JMT/PCT, the trail begins an ambitious uphill on a series of switchbacks that roughly parallel the Dusy Branch, a vigorous stream descending from the subalpine basin above me.  Today I will hike just over 12 miles and climb 3200 feet to the pass before dropping back down 2100 feet to the terminus at South Lake.

After hiking for 5 days my body has mostly adjusted to the rigors of the trail, and I make good progress on the steady grade.  My spirits are also buoyed by thought of real food, a shower, and clean clothes.

I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression - I love being outdoors and spending time away from "civilization", but living out of a backpack for days has its limitations, and I can appreciate a few simple comforts on a regular basis.

The trail continues without interruption towards Dusy Basin, one of my favorite places I've visited in the Sierra.  I'm looking forward to seeing it again, but the view as I rise above the valley requires me to stop frequently to take in the current surroundings.

Glorious morning sun

Dusy Branch originates from the multitude of lakes below Bishop Pass, and merges with the Middle Fork of Kings River in the basin I'm hiking out of.  Around a third of the way up on the lower section there is a place where the stream sheets over a inclined slab of contiguous granite.  The rock is nearly impervious to erosion, and so far the water has yet to cut any kind of channel.

Dusy Branch flows directly on granite

Dusy Branch tumbles down from above

After a couple of hours I reach the lowest level of Dusy Basin.  This "hanging valley" is a broad area suspended above the terrain below, with a lake and stream filled landscape laid out beneath rugged peaks.  I have passed through here on multiple occasions, and each time I just want to stop and spend more time appreciating the aesthetically appealing topography.

Dusy Basin

Looking back at the upper end of the basin

Nearing the uppermost area of the basin

I did camp here for a couple of days on a earlier trip, and thoroughly enjoyed spending time rambling around the many rocky outcrops and blue green lakes.  Except for the marmot who stole and tried to eat my hat.  I can't really blame the little guy - many wild animals (mice, deer, marmots, etc.) are attracted to gear and clothing for salt residue from sweat.

The basin has a couple of tiers like stairs as it continues to rise towards the pass.  Each step contains myriad small lakes, ponds, and streams where residual snowmelt continues to feed the network that eventually emerges, providing vital water to the valleys beyond the mountains.

Upper Dusy Basin

Soon the topography of the basin yields to unrelenting granite.  Like all the passes I have tackled in previous days, Bishop Pass exists in a treeless, rocky saddle.  Because of the elevation and lack of cover the wind is a persistent and unwelcoming feature, and I don't waste much time beginning to head down.

Bishop Pass 11,972 feet

The descent begins with a series of rocky switchbacks.  As Bishop Pass trail is a widely used access point to the mountains as well as a challenging day hike, I pass multiple parties heading up.  Some overnight hikers are beginning a popular route known as the North - South Loop.   This 5 day backpack connects North Lake and South Lake, and can be done in either direction.

The subalpine basin below me contains many lakes.  Due to relatively easy access, people who live in communities up and down the length of Highway 395 frequently make the trip to fish, hike, or camp - sometimes all of the above. Their presence is a good thing, because eventually I need to find someone going down to Bishop who will offer me a ride.

The basin below Bishop Pass on the eastern side

 

South Lake at the Bishop Pass Trailhead

Though I started early, by the time I reach the parking area it is nearly 4:00 pm.  Fortunately many of the visitors who came just for the day are beginning to leave.  I walk down the road some distance to find a safe spot to stick out my thumb, and within a short time a kindly soul pulls over to help me out.  Once I am dropped off in town, I locate a place for the night then begin to organize a plan for resupply and return to the mountains.

Right Back Where I Started (Finished)

The next day sees me doing what I did the day before in reverse order.  Having replenished my food and fuel as well as making myself hygienically acceptable again, I stand on a main street in Bishop with my opposable digit extended.  

Hitchhiking is one of those things that I don't normally engage in as a regular practice, but when traveling away from home without a car it sometimes becomes a necessity - I definitely did a lot it of on my PCT attempt.

The good news is this area sees many transient backpackers, and the sight of someone with a large pack on the road to the mountains is common.  Since there is a steady stream of people heading up for their own recreational pursuits, it is only a matter of time before another good hearted person pulls over to give me a lift.

I always have great conversations with the considerate drivers who offer me a ride, and since both of us are heading for the same place usually have a lot in common to discuss.  I have met many interesting and thoughtful people in this way, and I extend my gratitude as always, since their generosity makes it possible to get where I need to go.

Once I reach the trailhead it's back up and over Bishop Pass, this time climbing a mere 2100 feet before dropping 3600 feet to the junction with the JMT/PCT.

Looking up towards Bishop Pass

Most of my backpacking trips are uneventful affairs, but I am in a wilderness setting and avoiding trouble requires paying attention.  The trails here usually see some annual maintenance, but near constant erosion and rockfall create numerous obstacles and challenges.  Making my way down the switchbacks I need to watch my footing, but even so I occasionally step awkwardly on a loose stone.

As I descend not once but twice I manage to twist my left ankle.  I hike a lot, and am prone to "wobbly" ankles, where my foot can suddenly turn to the outside.  It's almost never to the degree that I injure myself but I am always aware of the possibility.  In this case the first time I did it I the tendons let me know it was a bad idea, and mentally reminded myself to be more careful.

The second time it happened I definitely felt it, and immediately thought I might have done some damage.  I tested usability by continuing to walk, and to my relief the pain subsided after a short while, existing mostly as a residual twinge.  I've been a Wilderness First Responder (WFR) for over 20 years, and understand what the stakes are for backcountry injuries.

I make it the rest of the way to the junction without repeating the incident, and set up camp before removing my shoe to check the status of the ankle.  Thankfully I didn't see any obvious bruising or swelling, and decided to keep an eye on it for the time being. 

Muir Pass 

Although I slept reasonably well I could feel tenderness in the joint whenever I shifted around in my sleeping bag.  When I got up the next morning I tested it again by putting weight on it and walking around, and was satisfied that although sore, I was going to be able to continue on.

The Bishop Pass trail junction lies near the bottom of the valley, and as I rejoined the trail heading north it climbs immediately towards the next pass in line - Muir Pass.  Named for the famous Scottish naturalist who was to spend much of his life exploring and journaling his fascination with the range, Muir Pass sits 7.5 miles away at 11,970 feet - a gain of just over 3100 feet in altitude.

I have a love/hate relationship with Muir Pass dating back to my first encounter in 2018. At the time I was 800 plus miles into my PCT hike, having been on trail for nearly 2 1/2 months.  The winter of 2017/18 had been slightly below normal, but in mid-June there was still plenty of snow to deal with in the Sierra.

As I approached the pass for the first time, snow covered the trail at the higher elevations, and there was no obvious way forward.  People transiting before me had created a confusing network of paths, electing to go wherever they thought made the most sense.  The net result was a web of chaos, and it took me quite a while to find the correct route.

June snow - Sierra 2018

One thing that is critical for traveling the mountains in late spring is crossing larger snowfields early in the day, before the sun has a chance to soften the top layer.  If you don't make it in time, you will face a long, miserable slog as you posthole through crusty, thigh deep snow.  And that's what happened to me.

I reached the pass around 2:00 pm that day, and after a break tried to proceed into the broad basin beyond the pass.  I was already tired from my frustrating climb that morning, and the first several hundred yards was a struggle that left me tremendously discouraged.  Looking ahead all I could see was miles of snow covered landscape that would take untold hours to negotiate.

Wanda Lake is out there somewhere

Muir Hut - my refuge in 2018

After considering my options I looked back to the pass, where a memorial hut commemorating John Muir was erected in 1930 by the Sierra Club.  Both an homage to Muir and an actual emergency shelter, the building utilizes robust construction techniques to withstand extreme alpine conditions.  Feeling somewhat sheepish I turned around and retreated to the easiest alternative.

I slept in the hut that night, and as expected did not see another person for the rest of the day - no one else was foolish enough to attempt crossing late.  Despite feeling a sense of defeat, staying at the hut was a practical necessity.  Given the circumstances I now realize had I attempted to continue, I likely would have put myself in peril from exhaustion or injury.

In subsequent years I have returned to the mountains, but later in the summer when most of the snow was gone.  And last year when doing a hike similar to this one, I developed a sinus infection as I was starting, and it greatly impacted my aerobic capacity.  By the time I reached Muir, my congested head and chest made the ascent so difficult I had to tackle it over two days.

In any event, here I am again facing the same climb but with no snow and a healthy constitution.  The only potential issue is my ankle, which although functional is also warning me that another twist is all it will take to put me out of commission.

Being very conservative in my pace slows me down, and it takes longer to reach the pass.  Still I am grateful to be in such a beautiful place, and remind myself to stop frequently and appreciate the view.

Helen Lake

I attain the pass late in the afternoon without doing further damage to my ankle.  I pause for a brief rest while contemplating memories of my first encounter with Muir Hut.  I don't stay long - to find a place to camp I must continue for at least 3 more miles, as the broad alpine valley before me is nothing but rock.

The trail begins a lengthy ramble through the expansive basin before dropping to the next tier.  After a while I reach Wanda Lake, whose outlet creates Evolution Creek.  Along the way other streams converge from many alpine lakes, each contributing to what will join the South Fork of San Joaquin River in the valley below.  Wanda and Helen Lakes sit astride the pass and bear the names of Muir's two daughters. 

The name Evolution Creek pays homage to another man of 19th century science and discovery, Charles Darwin.  There are other features nearby that also bear his name - Darwin Bench, Mt. Darwin, and Darwin Canyon.  This area is well known to experienced Sierra travelers, and someday I hope to return to explore it for myself.

Wanda Lake offers the first place to camp, but at 11,500 feet I know it will be cold at night, and especially so in the morning.  I decide to keep moving until I reach Sapphire Lake, which is roughly 1000 feet lower.  I hope to find stands of limber pine there, which might offer shelter from the brisk wind blowing through the pass.

Late in the afternoon I reach the upper end of Sapphire and spot a place below the trail near the lake.  After carefully picking my way several hundred yards down slope I locate a suitable site.  It's been a long day and I'm too tired to do much of anything but get into camp clothes and make dinner before retiring to the tent.

I slept fairly soundly and awoke just after dawn.  It's near freezing and my determination is not to abandon my nice warm sleeping bag until the sun crests the mountains.  It doesn't take long, and before long I am on the trail again.  Like the night before, I could periodically feel discomfort in the ankle, but it's a minor distraction and reminder to watch my step.

The progression of environment as I walk is a familiar pattern.  Barren and sere rocky terrain eventually yield to scattered clumps of vertically challenged trees, then slowly other shrubs and taller trees begin to appear; sparse at first then more numerous.  This valley like the previous ones stays as close to the creek as geography allows.

Evolution Valley 

There's no Golden Staircase here, but by mid-morning the trail begins a drop on a series of switchbacks to quickly lose around 800 feet of elevation.  At bottom the trail once again joins Evolution Creek through a broad valley containing one of the least common environments in the Sierra -  lush riparian meadows.

Ankle turning rocks fill the trail on the way down

Referred to as Evolution Valley, this part of the region offers easier hiking in forested vales next to Evolution Creek.  Abundant stands of pine frame verdant meadows under spacious skies, and the creek winds placidly through marshy bottom lands in wide meanders.

Tranquil meadows and marshes

There is no pass today, or tomorrow, and as I mentally map out the next days decide to slow my progress a bit.  I will climb another pass the day after tomorrow, but I'm in no rush as it will mark my unavoidable exit from the mountains.  After eight days I am settled into the rhythm of the outdoors, but know all too well the trip will be over sooner than I'd like.

I reach McClure Meadow where an inviting spot along the creek lures me to an early end of the hiking day.  I can't resist the opportunity, and being able to set up camp just after lunch means more time to simply be in the moment - that's the reason I'm here.

Evolution Creek in a serene state

For me no greater pleasure exists than to just sit and observe the world around me. There's no deep pondering or contemplation of life's mysteries.... just peaceful repose while surrounded by majestic landscapes.

I did spend a few minutes looking at my feet - they're kind of beat up but they got me here.  The left foot is slightly swollen, but all things considered it could be worse.  I ask a lot of my pedal extremities and they have gone above and beyond.

Gotta love those feet

The afternoon inevitably passes with swiftness all too common in my later years, but I try to make the immersion linger as long as possible.  Watching shadows lengthen and colors shift on the peaks makes me appreciate my situation all the more.  I am very fortunate to be here.

Late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees

Still waters

The last light of day on the peaks

Tomorrow I'll continue on, content to ramble through the rest of the valley to reach the junction with Piute Pass trail, where the final stage of the journey begins.  But for now it's enough to sit and watch the stars come out, one by one, before the promise of a warm and cozy sleeping bag entices me to bed.

Next: The End of this Story