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 starts at North Lake and ends at South Lake, although some opt to do it in the opposite 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 "floppy" 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 also other features nearby that bear his name - Darwin Bench, Mt. Darwin, and Darwin Canyon.  This area is fairly popular with backcountry travelers, and someday I hope to return for more exploration.

Wanda Lake is around 11,500 feet and I know it will be cold at night, and especially 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 chilly 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 get to 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 sleep fairly soundly and awake just after dawn.  As I suspected 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 soon I am on the move again.  Like the night before the ankle was achy enough that when moving around I could feel discomfort, but it was still doing the job, so off I go.

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 midway through the 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 beautiful forested 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 leisurely hiking in a forested vale next to Evolution Creek.  Set amongst forests of pine, verdant green meadows offer bucolic settings with spacious skies, and the creek placidly winds 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 nearly 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, and 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 

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

The Minarets near Mammoth Lakes

I recently posted about my love affair with the Sierra to express how this amazing mountain range has come to inhabit my imagination.  Since my introduction to the Range of Light 10 years ago, my fascination with this rugged and remote environment has only grown.

The idea of returning is never far from future plans, and this year was no exception.  In June I started considering options for a late summer trip, and was fortunate in securing a wilderness entry permit for the last week in August.  Here is a detailed narrative of that visit.

The Heart of the Matter

The Sierra is more expansive than what I have seen up to this point. There are valleys and basins and peaks that will take years to explore, and so far I have limited myself to the "easiest" and most approachable regions.  Becoming comfortable with the territory is mandatory; like Grand Canyon, the Sierra is a place where the insignificance of a lone hiker is painfully obvious, and learning what sort of challenges you might face is just common sense.

 

In saying I have focused my last several trips on areas where trails and access are less difficult, in no way does it diminish the notion substantial effort is needed to traverse any part of it.

Visitors must tackle high altitude passes on steep, rocky trails just to enter.  If you want to travel any meaningful distance once you get there the process will repeat, sometimes on a daily basis. But real rewards require commitment, and that is certainly true in the Sierra.

For this excursion I chose a particularly well known route, covering 130 miles over the course of 13 days.  Because of limitations on how much food I can carry, I needed to exit the trail after the first 6 days for resupply.  This required climbing over a pass to reach a nearby town where I could restock, and then returning the next day back over the pass to continue the journey.

The John Muir Trail

One of the most celebrated and sought after hiking adventures for outdoor enthusiasts is the John Muir Trail (JMT). This 211 mile wilderness trek through the heart of the Sierra is the closest many people will come to completing a long distance through hike. It can be done either in a north or southbound direction, which for most hikers is determined by the availability of permits.  

For the full experience the terminus on the north end is at Happy Isles in Yosemite National Park, and the southern end is located at Whitney Portal.  One of the chief attractions for those who complete the trail is reaching the summit of Mt. Whitney (14,505 feet), the highest peak in the lower 48.

The popularity of the JMT makes securing a permit quite a challenge - numbers are strictly limited to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem.  The selection process is a lottery administered by recreation.gov.  If fortunate enough to be awarded a permit, hikers can take anywhere from 14 to 30 days to complete the trip.  The biggest challenge beyond conditioning for most participants is resupply logistics.

Many excellent guidebooks and online resources abound to assist the JMT hiker in planning and executing a successful journey - the Wilderness Press edition is among the best.

JMT guide from Wilderness Press

My 2018 NOBO (northbound) PCT attempt allowed me to experience nearly all of the JMT.  At the point where the PCT and JMT become the same trail, I was able to summit Mt. Whitney.  Near the end the two paths diverge in Yosemite, continuing for PCT hikers to Tuolumne Meadows instead of Happy Isles.

I did not have the time or desire to complete the entire JMT on this trip, so it was easier to get a wilderness permit for a different entry point along the way.  This allowed me to focus on the some of the best the JMT has to offer.

Kearsarge Pass

My wilderness entry permit was for the Onion Valley Trailhead, located at the end of a paved road about 14 miles west of Independence on US Highway 395. The starting elevation here is 9200 feet, so hikers with a full pack not acclimatized to altitude will definitely feel the physical effort of climbing 5 miles and 2500 feet to Kearsarge Pass (11,700 feet).  Thankfully the trail offers plenty of opportunity to stop, catch your breath, and enjoy looking east over the Owens Valley far below you..

Kearsarge Pass 11,700'

Once over the pass you officially enter Kings Canyon National Park, a showcase of some of the most spectacular landscapes on the planet.  Kings Canyon is administered jointly with Sequoia National Park, another crown jewel of exemplary beauty.  

At the apex the view of the basin and mountains seem to stretch into infinity, providing all the reward you could hope for in making the climb. It's worth the time to savor both the panorama and the effort.

After the pass the trail descends roughly 2 miles into the valley where it meets up with the JMT/PCT junction.  A turn south leads 40 miles to Mt. Whitney or head north to reach the boundary of Yosemite Park, 140 miles away.  I opt for north then take a short side trail that leads to Charlotte Lake, my destination for the first night.

Charlotte Lake

Nestled at just over 10,300 feet, Charlotte Lake is a convenient waypoint to settle in after the up and over of Kearsarge Pass, and a welcome respite from the strenuous beginning.  I arrived somewhere around 3:30 in the afternoon, and selected a spot to set up my tent. Afterwords there was a much appreciated interlude to just sit and reflect on the majesty of the setting.

My experience with backpacking over the years has taught me that the first day or so of a trip is often a restless one, with the body not yet accustomed to the rigors of the trail. Muscles that typically don't see much use make their presence known, and despite a good quality inflatable sleeping pad it takes a while for hips and shoulders to adjust to the change.  As usual my sleep that first night is shallow and intermittent, and waking multiple times through the night allows me to experience the absolute quiet that envelops the darkness.

Dawn arrives just as I finally manage a few hours of dream laced slumber.  Since I have places to go I'm quickly up and packing my gear, preparing to move on to the next objective.

Passes, Passes 

A primary aspect of hiking the Sierra is the truly up and down nature of the terrain.  Most days the hiker can expect to ascend and descend thousands of vertical feet, first climbing towards a mountain pass that allows for reaching the next valley or basin.  The goal for today is to approach, climb, and drop over Glen Pass (11,957), a relatively modest 1600 feet above the lake.

The approach to Glen Pass

The trip has just started and what I call my "pass legs" have yet to reach the point where going uphill feels comfortable, so I adjust my pace accordingly.  My general goal is around 10 miles per day, which sounds reasonable except for one small detail: Sierra miles are not comparable to miles hiked in other places (except possibly Grand Canyon).

In general most people walk a consistent pace of around 2 miles per hour on relatively flat terrain without obstacles.  Start walking uphill, add lots of loose rock, high altitude, and a heavy pack, and that average will drop significantly.  Despite a regimen of fairly strenuous physical conditioning and being acclimated to a higher altitude (I live at 7300 feet), I still have to pause frequently for brief moments of rest before continuing on.

Besides constant uphill, rocky trails, a heavy pack, and altitude there is another factor at play - what I call the dreaded Sierra Step.  

A typical Sierra Step

When trails were first constructed throughout the range, the primary mode of travel was the use of horses and mules, which have much longer legs than humans.  There are many places where the path goes up or down, and given that rock (granite) is the dominant material builders of the trail used what was at hand.  The steps exist in great numbers everywhere you go, and those of us not blessed with long limbs must repeatedly negotiate the stone risers.

Sometimes there is what I call a cheat, a rock or ledge on the side that offers the opportunity to shorten the distance, which someone who has been struggling with the effort to repeatedly lift their legs can truly appreciate.  But step or no step moving forward means accepting the trail as it is.

Despite the inherent challenges of traveling this rugged mountain setting, steady effort eventually delivers me to the pass and more stunning vistas overlooking the next basin 1400 feet below.  For Sierra hikers Rae Lakes is a well known and spectacular chain of alpine lakes set amidst the towering peaks.

Looking over Rae Lakes

Trail switchbacks across the talus

The descent towards the lakes takes nearly as long as the approach to the pass, as loose talus slopes require paying careful attention.  I'm not a fan of trekking poles in general; in sections where rocks are numerous pole tips are likely to get lodged in a crevice, quickly turning into a nuisance.  But if Sierra Steps are present a pole can be a blessing as a knee saver, and I carry a single adjustable pole for that reason.

Trailside along a beautiful blue/green lake 

The trail eventually delivers me to the shores of several lakes in the basin.  On previous visits during warm late summer days I have often pondered how inviting the cool waters appear, but so far I have resisted the effort needed to actually take the plunge.

Lots of great "pack rocks" abound

Taking a meaningful break every couple of hours is my approach to backpacking, and finding plenty of incredibly scenic spots to do so is very easy here.  I like to find a nice flat rock to dismount my pack, remove my shoes so my feet can breathe, and sit for at least 15 minutes while snacking and rehydrating.  Shoulders and feet both appreciate the respite, and when I'm ready to move on I can feel the difference in my energy level.

Moving past Rae Lakes, the trail continues on a steady downward track, following the South Fork of Woods Creek as it heads for the confluence with the mainstem of Woods Creek.  This lake outlet stream drops nearly 2000 feet more while the environment transitions from a subalpine Limber Pine forest to a continuous canopy of Jeffrey and Ponderosa Pine at the lowest point.

Down, down, down into the valley

The junction of South Fork and Woods Creek proper is the stopping point for the night, and once again removing the pack, changing into camp shoes (sandals), and setting up my home away from home offers a welcome change from the hours of steady walking.  The pause also allows me to fully appreciate where I am rather than constantly looking at the the tops of my footware.

Pinchot Pass

As mentioned before, Sierra travel is basically a series of big ups and big downs each day, and today is no exception.  I begin at the lowest point, where Woods Creek and the South Fork converge.  From here it is a steady climb up to Pinchot Pass (12,127 feet) some 7 miles away.  Because the trail gains 3600 feet over this distance, that translates to a slightly steeper grade overall and I mentally remind myself to adopt a slow, measured pace.

Travel in mountainous areas is generally easiest when following the contours of the landscape, which in most cases means a route carved by a stream or river.  Obviously there are exceptions, especially when the river plunges into a cataract filled canyon or if you need to exit the valley.  But early explorers tried to use watercourses wherever they offered the path of least resistance, and most of the well trodden trails in the Sierra use this principle.

Morning sunlight on the peaks

Trails usually follow the water

Cascades over granite

The weather is very cooperative, and sunny skies with moderately warm temperatures favor my passage.  Before leaving home I checked the forecast and there was a hint of precipitation at the end of the 7 day time frame, but I have enough experience to know that one or two days is about as much of a guarantee as you'll get.  Even so I'm not concerned because I know better than to venture into the wild without the right gear.

Getting to the summit of Pinchot Pass takes considerable effort, as muscles are still adjusting to continuous repetitive use.  For me one of the true ironies of extended backpacking trips is that by the time you reach the end all systems will finally be functioning at high levels, and you feel as though you could just go on forever.  But the trip is done and all that conditioning will fade - such is the tragedy of the part-time mountain (or canyon) man.

As the trail continues to climb unmistakable signs of environmental change appear, as altitude and the subsequently harsher climate influence what survives.  Summers are brutally short above 11,000 feet, and strong winds keep most vegetation from growing too tall.  Plants cluster together to retain moisture in the nutrient starved decomposed granite soil, and naked rock becomes the dominant feature.

Rocky tors gradually replace trees

 

Strong winds limit tree height  

 

Subalpine environments require resilience

Near the pass the trail begins a series of long, rocky switchbacks that gradually tackle the remaining elevation.  The last few traverses tease a weary hiker with proximity to the summit, but only determination and persistence will deliver the goal.  Getting there is all the excuse needed to take a break and survey where you've been and where you're going.

Pinchot Pass has the greatest elevation gain of any pass I complete on this visit, and the long grinding uphill was a physical challenge.  But now it's over and down into the broad valley below.  Once I leave the barren, stony alpine basin behind I start looking for a suitable place among the trees to pitch my tent.  With clear skies I elect to leave the fly off so I can see the stars as I drift off to well deserved rest.  Tomorrow is another day, and another pass.

A room with a view

Mather Pass 

After a decent night's sleep due to my effort of the day before, I wake at 6:00 (as usual) and get packed for another day of up and down.  The next height to conquer is Mather Pass (12,094 feet), and it won't be as much of a challenge as Pinchot since the lowest elevation in this valley is just over 10,000 feet.  Still, climbing 2000 feet at high altitude takes patience and determination, and I hit the trail as early as possible.

I follow the outlet streams of Lake Marjorie and several smaller bodies of water as they make their way into the valley.  After several miles they merge with the South Fork of the Kings River descending from the basin I'm climbing into.

Another beautiful day

Streams originate from alpine lakes

Heading down the change in landscape is the reverse of yesterday.  Stony, nearly barren basins slowly give way to more abundant vegetation.  This valley has a somewhat gentler profile, with a broader, more open feel.  Once I cross the South Fork Kings River the difference becomes more pronounced, with widely distributed forest landscapes and willow thickets crowding adjacent streams.

Seeing wildlife in their natural habitat is always an added bonus to the experience.  I came across three mule deer bucks grazing along the trail.  My presence did not seem to disturb them, and I'm guessing it's because they live primarily in the National Park, where they are safe from hunting.  In any event seeing these handsome fellows with antlers still in velvet was quite rewarding.

A relatively easy walk leads to a repeat of the environmental shift that has become a daily routine.  A remarkable man whose life spanned the late 19th and early 20th centuries named C. Hart Merriam was among the first to propose what he called "life zones".  The basic idea identifies similar plant and animal communities that correlate both to change in latitude and change in altitude.

This association is commonly used to explain how living things commonly found in Canada at areas near sea level will also exist much farther south, but at much higher elevations.  In my home state of Arizona 6 of the 7 so called life zones can be found as topography ranges from a low of 72 feet near Yuma (Sonoran life zone), to a high of 12,633 feet (Arctic/alpine life zone) atop Mt. Humphreys north of Flagstaff.

Walking along I notice the subtle transitions and observe how weather has shaped the vegetation.  Stunted Limber Pines display what I call the "flag" effect, where one side of the tree has almost no limbs while the opposite side is full.  In this way it is possible to discern the general bearing of prevailing winds, as constant pressure from one direction dictates how a tree minimizes its profile to create less resistance.

As I approach the pass the sunny blue skies of morning slowly disappear as low grey clouds begin to stream in over the mountains.  At first it doesn't appear too threatening, but as I descend into the opposite valley a few warning drops of rain fall from the sky.

Blue skies yield to dark clouds

The shift in conditions is somewhat unexpected.  None of the other hikers I've encountered over the last two days have mentioned anything about a storm, other than a very slight chance for a scattered thunderstorm.  But ready or not the occasional raindrop soon becomes a light drizzle, and I respond by covering my pack and donning rain jacket and pants.

I've nearly reached Palisades Lake, a high altitude alpine tarn set amidst a stark but beautiful granite bowl.  I've been here before and had hoped to spend part of the afternoon just enjoying the scenery, but Nature has other plans.  Increasingly heavy precipitation compels me to find a camp site as quickly as possible.  I locate a spot, but as the steady rain continues I'm only partially successful in erecting the tent while also keeping the rest of my gear dry.

Once the tent is up it's time to address the chaos inside.  After shuffling, reorganizing, and contorting myself into a pretzel in the narrow space I reach a state of equilibrium and settle in.  The rain has not abated; if anything it has slightly increased in intensity, and I give thanks for a mostly dry refuge.  I can hear other late arriving hikers also scrambling to get under cover, and feel empathy for those who struggle in the downpour.

The ground around me is visible as there is slight gap between the tent body and fly, and as the storm continues I notice the mix of poor soil and pine needles isn't absorbing much.  It soon becomes obvious the drainage around my selected site is not ideal, and become concerned as water gathers all around me. There isn't much I can do and before long my tent is sitting in a shallow pool.

Modern tents have a bottom section referred to as a tub, with a waterproofing agent infused or applied in some fashion.  The most effective barrier is a PVC coating, but attempts to make backpacking gear as light as possible rules that out.  The tradeoff is newer tents offer a high degree of protection from water intrusion, but given enough time and hydrostatic pressure all fabrics eventually "wet out".

The short version of the story is that it rained for 6 hours.  As I lay there listening to the insistent drumming of water on the tent roof, I reconciled myself to the fact that I can't change any of it, so I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.  I'll face whatever comes tomorrow.

Tomorrow (Now Today) 

As light began to illuminate the fabric of the tent, I awaken and hear..... nothing.  No rain.  I unzip the vestibule door and peek out, hoping for a clear blue sky.  It's overcast but dry.  I get up and start packing gear but now everything is wet and that adds a few complications.

The water that surrounded me is gone but the ground is saturated and shows signs of erosion from runoff.  I had pitched the tent near a small grove of limber pine, and wet needles stick to everything they touch.  All the gear inside my tent is slightly damp, and the fly and groundsheet will definitely need time to dry out.  Wet, damp, or dry I shove it all in the associated bags, and hope at some point today the sun will emerge and help remedy the situation.

The other people who camped nearby fared about as well as I did.  Everyone reported the same - standing pools of water that to some degree or another penetrated tent floors and caused some small discomforts.  But everyone is sanguine about the situation and ready to move on to the next destination.

My effort today will be somewhat easier as I am not climbing a pass.  After Palisades Lake the trail begins a steep drop into the valley below, and eventually reaches a junction with the Bishop Pass Trail.  I'll stay the night there before making an exit up and over the pass to reach the town of Bishop, where I can restock food and fuel before returning to complete the 2nd week.

Palisades Lake

As I get moving the sky remains grey but the clouds are moving fairly quickly to the south. Yesterdays "surprise" storm is no big deal but it's always more enjoyable when the weather is favorable.  The trail contours around the east side of the lake and looking around I recall previous visits under warmer and  sunnier skies.

Once past the north end of the lake the granite walls narrow, and the outlet stream is constricted to a narrow chute which begins a steep drop.  Where the stream is visible multiple waterfalls churn into a white noise symphony that fills the air.

Palisades Creek

The canyon narrows

Today I walk around 12 miles, losing 2100 feet in elevation, all of it while paralleling Palisades Creek.  The loss of altitude is very gradual with the notable exception of one area called the Golden Staircase.  Over the course of just over a mile, a series of rocky switchbacks drops the trail around 1300 feet as Palisades Creek tumbles down a severe granite rockface.

Lower section of the Golden Staircase (from a previous visit)

I have never ascended the Staircase, but as there are many Sierra Steps involved I imagine how difficult it is for travelers headed south.  Even going down requires sustained effort, tackling long strides and rock filled trail tread while fighting the pull of gravity.  It's a relief to finally reach the bottom and a more reasonable grade.

Easier grades at the bottom of the valley

Soon the valley is filled with stands of Lodgepole, Jeffrey, and Ponderosa Pine, with areas of significant deadfall from past winter avalanches.  Looking up at the steep sides surrounding me it's easy to see how slides would be a common occurrence, especially when the Sierra has a big snow year.

After an uneventful day I arrive at the junction that afternoon and locate a suitable site.  The rain has not returned, and although I haven't seen the sun temperatures have been mild.  Letting things air out for a bit at camp helps, and by the time I slip into my sleeping bag the storm of the previous day is a fading memory.  

Tomorrow I will take a necessary detour to the east, climbing up and over Bishop Pass for a gain of 3200 feet, and a total hiking distance over 12 miles.  My reward will be an actual meal (not backpacking food!) and a hot shower - maybe even a visit to the laundromat to wash some pretty funky clothes.  

Next: More of The Story in Part Two.