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

LAST GASP PASS

DAY 16 - August 23, 2010: The mother of all foresters

I knew when I crossed Muir Pass that there was no turning back. The road home lay through the passes Mather, Pinchot, Glen, and Forester . . . plus Whitney, as just a smidgeon of afterthought. That’s one way to get yourself to do something, hey? Put yourself in a position with just one way out.

I suppose it’s odd that after all these days and all these passes I’d think Forester Pass was tough. It’s no more than a foothill compared to Everest, or even Denali, that’s true. Be proud then, you lucky youngsters with great lungs and legs. Actually, looking back, I think that by the last few days I must have been not getting enough food, that was part of it. Keeping my energy up seemed an increasing problem. Figure out there you burn 5000 calories a day, and take in only about 1000 with the food you can carry. Lost a bunch of weight, which taken alone was good, but wow, I sure did tire fast! And if I was building muscle, where was the protein coming from? I remembered Bob saying he and Brad stopped every hour to eat. I didn’t have any snacks . . . too much to carry in the canister. If I were to do something like this again, I’d figure out a way of carrying more food.
It was OK, though. Most of my blue funk from yesterday was gone, I’d slept maybe 15 hours since that afternoon, and the old body was creaking along purty good, all things considered. The guy yesterday had been right about one thing: the trail was easy to walk on. What he apparently didn’t notice was that up where it started zigzagging back and forth it got a whole lot steeper. I said, OK, just take your time, took it at a pace I could handle, and got up in good time, maybe around 10AM, just before another group came up from the other side. And the scenery was spectacular.

I got passed by a couple of parties, and by a whole string of young folks wearing what looked to be Explorer uniforms, some of whom were just tearing along the trail, some trailing far behind. Some were carrying tools, and I asked if they were doing trail maintenance. The answer was yes, they were with the California Conservation Corps. Aha, no wonder there were kids of mixed ethnicities there, some Hispanics and three or four blacks. It struck me suddenly that I hadn’t seen any black folks at all on the entire JMT up to this point. Now why the heck is that? I did see just a few up around Tuolumne, and again a few Latinos, but it seems the huge majority of hikers are us honkey-types. There are some Asians, but it seems to me that most of those are visiting from Japan or Korea, not a whole lot native-born from here. I hope that changes. Everyone who can should see this world, it’s a crown jewel of this part of the world. More, it’s a jewel in the crown of the world.

Passed the CCC folks at work, looked tough, prying up boulders, clearing rock falls. Thought about the descent at the top of LeConte Canyon, it would be good to send a crew like this up there for six or seven months! Ah, but yes, California is in a fiscal mess. But leave the politics alone for now, the trip isn’t about that.

Could definitely feel the altitude, now that I was a thousand feet higher than ever before on the trip. If I hyperventilated, it really helped with the energy, but I found myself getting pretty dizzy, which never used to happen. I remember marching up 14,000-foot Mauna Kea with my Peace Corps group on the 4th of July, 1965, hardly breathing hard, and sure not dizzy. Wonder what the physiology of that one is?

(don't forget to click on the pictures that look too small)


The dizziness wasn’t a problem on the way up, because the trail, while steep, was gentle. But going down! Rocky, steep, often with a precipitous drop. I was feeling pretty shaky, and at one point I started feeling much as I had going up to Evolution Valley now well over a week ago: my pupils dilated, things started looking too light, and I felt way too close to blacking out. I did not look down, but sat down on a flat granite rock, and gave myself a little lecture: no matter what, I had to get to the bottom of this descent. No falling over the edge allowed. Composed myself, started on down, always watching the feet, kept a steady pace, and was rewarded with a nice resting-spot at the bottom right by a gorgeous pond and ice-cold stream running down from it. That water had as sweet a taste as I’d ever known. Took a nice long break, almost napped.

One of the problems with doing something as long as the John Muir Trail is that you have to keep going: you’re on a schedule. Food will run out in a certain number of days. You may have to be somewhere on a certain date (last time I’d had to get back to work). So you can’t really step outside the box and have serious play time. I really felt like jumping in the water here, getting clean, doing a little swim, but then I’d have to take the time out to do that, dry off, get organized and go again. At this point I was getting pretty antsy to get out of the wilderness, and focusing more on that, no matter how much I was trying to live in the moment.

The scenery there in the upper basin of the Kern River was also exotic and starkly beautiful, in a different way than the peaks above. I was taking it in, but it is a measure of my impatience to move on that without knowing it, I almost completely stopped taking pictures, something I now regret. It was much like the Kings River Basin after Mather Pass, or the basin after Pinchot, with the source lakes for Woods Creek: high desert, dotted with lakes. The lakes along here were numerous, and mostly small, lined with big rocks. Jumbles of reddish boulders Some were just ponds, stagnant but clear, and shallow to the point where by late afternoon the water would have warmed from the sun to a comfortably warm temperature. I hadn’t had a shower or bath since Vermillion, two weeks ago, and really felt like going in . . . but didn’t. Keep on slogging, gotta get as far as we can tonight, my mind said.

Also just as with the other two basins, it was a long march before getting down into the trees again. My strides and breathing fell into a rhythm which had become standard for these long stretches of flat or uneventful downhill, I breathed in with one step and out with the next, and my throat and palate would form a note or series of notes with each breath, making for the repetition of a simple melody of no more than four bars duration. I’d hear these melodic phrases in my head and—without thinking about it—while not actually voicing them, breathe them in and out in a singsong way. I was thinking that maybe this is the way work songs started, as a natural response to repetitive motion and breathing.

The phrases were usually very simple-minded, hardly ever anything interesting, and most weren’t original in the least, I’d picked them up somewhere or other, but I thought I’d try to remember them and write them down when I got back. Here are a few. There were maybe 10 of them that just kept coming back, no point in writing them all down. Actually, this just shows how punchy I am, to even think about this. You’re laughing. A little respect, please.

When the trail, amazingly after only7.5 miles, crossed Tyndall Creek, it was already late afternoon, and I was wiped out. I’d planned on going up the next rise, another mile and about 400 feet to the Bighorn Plateau, but I’d been hiking for over 8 hours and decided that was enough. Tyndall had been my goal for the day anyway. Tomorrow was just a staging day, no passes, but had several steep climbs and drops. It was a question of either a ten-miler or an eleven-miler tomorrow, so I figured what the heck, bed down early and get an early start.

This staging is going to be the final one: I’ll camp at Guitar Lake, and day after tomorrow tackle Whitney. Finally. OK, to sleep, to gather strength. To sleep, perchance to dream . . . oh, no! “Call me Denti.” Let it be dreamless.
Next Entry: The end in sight.