WATERSHED

DAY 18 - August 25, 2010: As far as it goes

Today there was no hurry in getting out. Everyone else would be leaving early, the trail would be a freeway for awhile. If I just waited for an hour, I’d get the solitude, just me and the Great Spirit, and you could bet no one would be coming up behind me. The three youngsters I’d played leapfrog with since Evolution Valley had said they were leaving before the sun was up, and would hike all the way out today, giving them a 15-mile day. Not for me. All that really concerned me, I thought, was getting up to the Trail Crest Pass, then making it downhill to Trail Camp on the other side, leaving a quick hike out tomorrow. 8 miles tops, 12 if I left my pack at Trail Crest and bounced up to the peak and back, but plenty of time no matter how late I started.

So I took plenty time getting up, cooking and eating, breaking camp, didn’t get started till well after nine, waved at the other groups as they left (still no Anniell!) and then dawdled going up the trail myself. Lots of breaks, looks back, reflections. Didn’t feel like straining myself on the last tough hike of the trip. Also, I guess I wasn’t in the greatest frame of mind. Why?

Chalk it up to learning. It’s OK, really, the trip has just been too long for me in my present state. I was itching to be out at least three days ago, not because I had a short attention span, but because I’d overdone everything. I should have had more and better food, so I have low energy, pretty sure it’s the food. Actually I’m trying to tell myself I’m not exhausted, but I am. Have to climb 3500 feet, but don’t really feel much like walking today. My right knee has been hurting for the last three days, nothing intolerable, but a little troubling. Using the right leg to support me on a steep step up or down is jarring, so I’m constantly watching my step. The trail is rocky and uneven here, which means I have to watch my feet even more, leaving not a lot of space for enjoyment. I haven’t had a shower since Vermillion Resort, more than two weeks ago, and—except for the socks—haven’t washed my few clothes in that long, either.

All that said, this time the plan did work. Am about to make it out, and on schedule, too. If I can’t be more enthusiastic about it, that’s just part of the experience, something to remember and learn from. Doesn’t take away from the value of the trip.

And it really is beautiful here. Even now I’m awestruck every time I look around. There must be something to this “highest in the lower 48” thing, because the peaks and valleys do seem grander than anywhere else I’ve seen, and that’s saying something.

So I make my way up the tortuous switchbacks. There are a whole lot of them, and they get very steep. Have to be careful, because the drop-offs are often sheer and deep, and the track is slippery sometimes. I start counting: every 20 switchbacks I take a break. Then every ten. Then every . . . well, whenever it feels right. I turn around and look often, and it’s never disappointing. There’s no one behind me, but a number of hikers come down the other way. We almost always chat a little. Up here there’s great camaraderie. It’s not your average Joe who feels the urge to come up here: most I’ve met have been pretty interesting folks.

No need to dwell on the two or three hours or so it took to get up to the summit trail junction: they happened, that’s all, and when they were over I felt a huge sense of relief. Not elation. Maybe some satisfaction that I’d actually pulled it off, but mostly just relief. Here, if I wanted to go up to the summit, I could just leave my pack beside all the others that were lined up against the cliff, and do those next two miles (two up and two back) as unencumbered as a day hiker. And the rest of the trip, all of it, would be downhill! Relief. I still had plenty of water, which was good. Sat down, sprawled out, pulled out the bottle and drank deep. I always maintain that the water in the high Sierras is the most delicious in the world.

I had gotten up there by a little after noon. Even with a 45-minute break that left plenty of time to go to the top, come down, strap the pack back on, and hike the three miles down to Trail Camp on the other side. But such was my frame of mind that I said to myself, self . . . what’s the big deal about summiting? It’s only two miles, anyone can do it, and what for? Just to say I’ve been there? Just for a photo op? And the rationalizations flooded in: maybe it’s more principled to not go up, it would be letting the destination appear more important than the path. Or, it’s like the whipped cream on a sundae, who needs to eat that? Of course, the fact was, I was tired of hiking and didn’t want to go the extra four miles. Simple.

Fortunately, there was a guy also hanging out there at the trail junction, so I had someone to talk to. Good fella. Young, maybe a bit overweight, unhappy that he’d gotten about halfway up and had to turn back because his knee was giving out. That alone had me counting my blessings, at my age still no serious joint problems. He was waiting for a friend to come back down. He said, hey, you’re here, when are you gonna be here again? If I were you I’d do it.

Of course. There really was no way I could not go up to the top after walking 160 miles, 240 km, across 8 passes, having wanted to do this for more than a half century. Duhhhh. You knew this. Why didn’t I?

Hiking without a pack on my back was quite a novelty, and, also duhhhh, made hiking a lot easier. Didn’t feel the need to rest at all. Did, however, have to watch the feet, and definitely did not want to go too fast. The Whitney summit trail is not an exemplary model of safety engineering. It isn’t especially steep in most places, but there are long stretches where it’s narrow with a deadly drop on one side, and in a few cases on both sides. Sometimes the trail angles sideways towards the drop, and many times there’s sand or loose gravel to slip on. At two places I saw boulders or other detritus that fallen onto the trail and had to be clambered over or around. It was slow going because I was constantly looking down to avoid a foot fault with more serious consequences than losing my serve. How they avoid having more fatalities up there is beyond me.

Made it up, glad I did. Great view, great photo to remember. And it really is awe-inspiring to look out and see so many mountains covering such vast spaces. Great Spirit, you are aptly named. After 45 minutes or so hanging out and chatting with other hikers up there, it was time to head back, so again I carefully picked my way down the rocky path, taking way longer than I’d thought it would.

Back at the junction heaved the pack back on and trudged up, just one more short hop, two hundred feet and about a quarter mile to where the trail actually goes down.

A long down it was, about 3.5 miles and a hundred stretched-out, mean switchbacks, and I could see the Trail Camp, with little colored dots marking tents, long before getting there.

The sun was on the other side of the hills and it was freezing cold when I finally approached Trail camp. The first people I saw were some college-age kids getting dinner together in front of their tents. Some distance away, I stopped and shouted at the top of my lungs,

“Behold! I come from afar, seeking a place among you!” (I really did this)

They turned and just stared at me. No imagination. Oh well.

“This one will do!” I let forth, and put my pack down. I hadn’t chosen a great place, but it would work. No matter that this wasn’t a friendly place, I was just there for the night. My last night. I later caught those dweebs with iPods stuck in their ears, and talking about swapping dvds later. Basically day-trippers out here with tents by accident somehow.

It was so windy that I had a devil of a time getting the tent up. But up it eventually went. Dinner? It was freezing. I got some water from the lake, but didn’t feel like cooking. Why? All I had left was the freeze-dried teriyaki chicken I’d gotten from the supplies Jim had sent to Muir Trail Ranch. I’d tried one of those early on, and it had nearly made me throw up. I wasn’t hungry anyway. But I knew I should eat, so . . . the peanut butter sandwich! The dude ranch folks were good for something, anyhow. Dinner: one half of one peanut butter sandwich. Save the other half for breakfast.

No matter the cold and wind, I sleep soundly this last night. Next Entry: out and about

CATCHING UP TO THE JONESES

DAY 17 - August 24, 2010: To base camp

Woke appropriately early, as usual. Always to bed at or before last light, up with the earliest hint of dawn. Haven’t mentioned much about the moon, but it’s been mostly full or near full for a good part of the trip, a strong and glorious night light.

Have only really seen the moon here at that absurdly mundane moment, when leaving the tent in the middle of the night to pee: the paradox again, discomfort and great beauty, the sublime and the silly. But even then, the sight is uplifting, especially when you’re up high and have a view of lakes and peaks in moonlight and soft shadow.

A couple of nights ago one zipper on the bug screen broke. There are two, but I knew that if the other one went, I wouldn’t be able to shut the screen, and just saying “no” wouldn’t be enough: those female mosquitoes would have their way with me. Well, this morning, the second one broke. But only two nights to go, it could be worse. And, remember, there have hardly been any mosquitoes or flies since Muir pass, maybe the Great Spirit’s reward for my commitment to finish what I started. So the worst thing about this, really, is that it looks embarrassing. If there are other tents around tonight, I’m gonna face it the other way.

Instead of coffee I’ve been cooking up miso soup in the morning, a habit that may—if I ever make it back to that other world—perhaps continue, it’s great. This is my last packet of miso, however. What next, hot water? The trip teaches one to be endlessly creative, so I’ll probably think of something. I think back to a few days ago, when a hiker coming up behind me cheerily observed, “wow, great idea! Duct tape, 1001 uses, never saw that one before! He was referring to my carefully repaired shorts. I’d brought two pair, but they’re each made of cotton, and I’ve sat down on granite so often in the last weeks that both have developed serious holes in the seat. Actually the one was already developing them, that’s why I’d picked up the second one. Anyhow the older one had reached a crisis point, so I’d tried a new solution and learned that, as the American Duct Tape Council says, it’s “more than a miracle adhesive; it's a balm for the soul of the unprepared and inept.”


Got on the trail early this morning, before 8. Started up the first 400-foot climb wondering how Anniell and friends were doing. I’d expected to see them pull in around here last night, but I was the only camper in sight. They were planning on making Guitar Lake tonight, as well, so I assumed we’d see each other there.

The ascent to Bighorn Plateau was pleasant, I was hiking well in the morning, and the scenery was a cut above the norm, even for here. Tall trees, widely spaced, a comfortable trail with a decent grade, with views through the trees of ranges I hadn’t seen. Wondering if or when Whitney would pop into view, it seemed unbelievable that it was this close, the summit only 15 miles away or so.
Was hoping to see a bighorn sheep up here, but didn’t. Bighorns are an endangered species, but due to restoration efforts there are about 400 in the Sierra Nevada now, and supposedly two herds are ranging somewhere near here. Bighorn plateau looks to my untrained eye like a perfect grazing spot, you’d expect to see scores of them. Up near 11,000 feet, a huge wide open grassy space with a lake at the edge, and not far to the east are cliffs and crags where they’d feel right at home. But Aha! Whitney! You can just see the summit, the peak way over to the left on this wide picture below. Tomorrow.

Still, the only wildlife I see here consists of a few birds . . . and a bezillion grasshoppers! As I followed the trail through a long grassy section, they came to life, hopping right along beside me. Not sure why. Were my footsteps kicking up things they liked to eat? Doesn’t seem likely. As the trail moved into a barren area, fewer followed, until there were only a few, then only one, and then that one gave up, too. Too bad, I was enjoying all the attention. Told you I was getting punchy.

I did appreciate the surroundings—it was impossible not to—but each day it was harder to enjoy myself, and I thought more and more about getting out of the wilderness . . . now only two days away, but feeling endlessly distant. My old body was holding up pretty well, all things considered, though I still didn’t feel as strong as I thought I should, and my right knee had been hurting a bit for a couple of days. The Great Spirit was still there, and I realized that this journey was very important in my life, but I was weakening. No matter, this is just one of the facts I have to deal with, it doesn’t diminish the value of it all. Just keep after it. No choice in that, actually, I really have to keep after it. It feels as though it will never end, but of course that is just a trick my mind is playing on me. In a bit over two days I’ll actually be soaking in a hot bath and drinking a pale ale, it’s true, why can’t I believe that?

I’m reading maps better. Realizing how clueless I was before at estimating the difficulty of a given hike. Now I can see pretty clearly from the contour lines what’s ahead, it will make planning a lot easier if I ever do a long backpacking trip again. Somehow I think there won’t be another as long as this one, though. So, from Bighorn it was down to Wallace Creek, then up again, over a rise, and down again to Crabtree Meadow, then the last three miles up to Guitar Lake.

Nobody else was on the trail, or at least there was no one near me. This has been the first day in quite a while that that has been true. Did exchange pleasantries with the leader of a packtrain coming up the other way, but after that saw no one until after my final long break, at Crabtree. After that I did some leapfrogging up to Guitar with these two twenty-something Iranian guys who were doing a much shorter Whitney loop than mine. I was gratified that I made it up to the lake before they did, not because they were Iranian, but because they were young! Actually talked to one of them on a break, seemed like a really good guy. He was having trouble with the altitude, and that was also mildly gratifying, only because misery loves company. But while I was tired enough to not be overjoyed on finally reaching the lake, I really wasn’t miserable.

Passed beautiful Timberline Lake on the way up, and took a picture. No camping allowed. Would be a great place for it, though.
Another packtrain passed, going our direction. I stuck out my thumb, and they laughed. This one was some kind of dude ranch packtrain: some folks actually ride up and have their supplies packed in to Guitar Lake, then do Whitney as a day hike, no pack. Wimps! Ah, but maybe next time we’ll try that, no?

Keeping up with the Joneses. I’d been passed by a lot of folks in past days and even weeks who’d told me they’d be staging at Guitar Lake today, and sure enough, a bunch of them were here, and some greeted me when I pulled in. I asked one, “so this is the famous Guitar Lake?” and he laughed, “No, Peter, it’s the next one up, just keep on going!” A gal named Ros pointed me to a campsite down by the lake that hadn’t been taken. This was definitely the most crowded I’d seen anywhere on the trail, except maybe McClure Meadow. Strange how these people felt like old friends, though we’d only exchanged a few words here and there at different points. It felt good that I’d stayed with the program and caught up with them. But . . . so far, no Anniell!

I was running low on food, but still had enough for tonight and tomorrow, with a very skimpy breakfast on the last morning, anyhow. Tonight I’d get a bit more than usual, since tomorrow was a big day in a lot of ways: climb, altitude, and distance to the next camp. Had two of those freeze-dried dinners left, only one of which could be seen as halfway decent, had that one. Tomorrow’s breakfast? Endless creativity again: mashed potatoes mixed with corn, and mushroom gravy. Yum! Oh, and a dude lady from the horse camp just above me came down and gave me an extra bag lunch they had: a fresh plum, wow!!!! Can't tell ya how good that went down. Saved the Butterfinger for a snack tomorrow, and haven't decided yet just what to do with the peanut butter sandwich.


Next Entry: a dream no longer deferred