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| 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 stronger.
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. Upon coming home I decided the experience deserved a fuller narrative.
The Heart of the Matter
I'll begin with saying that the Sierra is more expansive than what I have seen up to this point. There are valleys and basins and peaks that would 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 traverse any meaningful distance once you get there the process will repeat, sometimes on a daily basis. But real rewards require commitment, and nowhere is that more accurate than the Sierra.
For this visit 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 exited the trail after the first 6 days for resupply. This of course required climbing over a pass to reach a nearby town where I could restock. I then had to return the same way, back over the pass to complete 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.
The hike can be done either in a north or southbound direction, which in most cases 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. Those lucky enough take anywhere from 17 to 21 days to complete the route. Many excellent guidebooks and online resources abound to assist the JMT hiker in planning and executing a successful journey.
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| Mt. Whitney 2018 |
My 2018 PCT attempt allowed me to experience nearly all of the JMT, with the trail diverging in Yosemite before reaching Happy Isles. I exited instead at Toulumne Meadows before continuing north, and was able to summit Mt. Whitney at the beginning, so I felt no urge to do it again.
More importantly, since I did not have the desire to do the entire JMT 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
The journey began at 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..
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| Kearsarge Pass 11,700' |
Once over the pass you officially enter Kings Canyon National Park, a showcase of some of the best scenery 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.
After the pass the trail descends roughly 2 miles into the valley where it meets up with the JMT/PCT junction. Here you can turn south towards Mt. Whitney (40 miles) or north in the direction of Yosemite Park boundary (140 miles). I opt for north then take a short side trail that leads to Charlotte Lake, my destination for the first night.
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| 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.
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| The approach to Glen Pass |
The body is still adjusting, and what I call my "pass legs" have yet to reach the point where going uphill feels comfortable, so I adjust my pace accordingly. I'm not in a hurry with a general goal of 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.
Reaching the pass is straightforward enough, but there is another factor at play which I usually grumble about when I come here - what I call the dreaded Sierra Step.
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| 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 obviously 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 the hardy souls building the trails used what was at hand. The steps exist in great numbers just about everywhere you go, and those of us not blessed with long limbs must grudgingly negotiate the stone risers again and again.
Sometimes there is what I call a cheat, where a rock or ledge on the side offers the opportunity to shorten the distance, which only someone who has been struggling with the effort to repeatedly lift their legs would 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 stunning vistas overlooking the next basin 1400 feet below. For JMT hikers Rae Lakes is a well known and spectacular chain of alpine lakes set amidst the towering peaks.
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| Looking over Rae Lakes |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Morning sunlight on the peaks |
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| Trails usually follow the water |
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| 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.
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Rocky tors gradually replace trees |
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Strong winds limit tree height |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Another beautiful day |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Palisades Creek |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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: The Rest of The Story in Part Two.
