The Final Day

HIking out

When we began planning this trip, in the comfort of our home, at the expanded oak dining room table piled high with food, maps, data books and laptops, it seemed perfectly reasonable to expect that we would be able to cover 15 miles a day.  After all, we have done long distance hikes where we have covered up to 20 miles a day without much trouble- but not for weeks at a time, and not over 13,000 foot passes.  The PCT Planner site suggested that for every 1000 foot of climb we should add an estimated 45 minutes to our normal hiking pace of 2.5 miles an hour. That seemed reasonable, but still it did not figure in fatigue, blisters, the need for a morning off, and general pokiness.  So here we were with the carefully planned hike, coming up short on our days.  It was late in the afternoon on day 12, Tuesday.  We needed to be in Old Station on Saturday, an eight hour drive.  In order to make it there we would need to hike out Friday morning.  With 45 miles left, that meant we must do about 20 miles for the next two days and five more on Friday, with the toughest pass still ahead.  Mark didn’t like the odds.  It was important to us to attend the memorial service on Saturday, and if we didn’t take the side trail out tomorrow we would not have another chance until we got to the car, so we had to make a choice.  I say “we” generously.  Mark made the executive decision that we would hike out Kearsarge Pass the next day, thus ending my hopes of actually completing what we set out to do.  I understood it, I agreed with it (for the most part) but I still felt like an athlete whose coach had taken her out of the game in the final quarter.  I so wanted to valiantly hike right back to our car and proudly boast that we had finally completed a hike!! Instead I gave in to caution and reason and marched along quietly, trying to absorb the last bits of wilderness. I glowered down at the little ragged empty spot in my ring setting.  Somewhere along the way I had lost one of the small diamonds. My heart felt that kind of emptiness too, but I was a little comforted, and maybe a little jealous, that a part of me would always be here.

I tried using encouraging glances and cute faces when we got to the trail head, knowing already that they wouldn’t work, and of course, they didn’t.  We made the turn off of the JMT and up the trail that would lead us to Kearsarge Pass and out of the mountains.  We were carrying a fair amount of water, knowing we would have to dry camp, that is, camp away from a water source, and we had already had dinner back at the pond, so we didn’t have to worry about water for dinner anyway.   Finding a nice, broad flat place to camp wasn’t very difficult in this terrain, so we didn’t have to hike very far down the trail to set up camp.  Mark put down the tarp, we got what we needed out of our bags and then stared at one another.  It was really too early to make camp.  There were no wildflowers here for me to collect and label, no beautiful scene to sketch or paint.  There wasn’t any easily gatherable basket material, and no creek to play in, no dinner to prepare.  I was bored. Going to bed would mean I would have to yield to the fact that tomorrow was our very last day, and I wasn’t ready to concede.  Gradually though, the sun went down, the stars came out, and I fell asleep under God’s beautiful canopy.

The last packing-up was pretty sad.  I stuffed my sleeping bag around that nasty Bear Can for one last time- wouldn’t miss that. I dug in the bottom of my pack for the one clean shirt I had left; I would put this at the top of my pack for easy access so that I wouldn’t be so filthy undesirable when it came to getting a  hitch into town. There were granola bars for breakfast and a little bit of snack, but we wouldn’t have to worry about lunch for today because we would hopefully be in town by then.  Not having a ride down to town was a little bit of a worry- we might have to wait in the campground parking lot for a while before we could hitch a ride down.  But right then our biggest concern was getting over the pass and on down the trail.  We hiked alone all morning, but when we got to the lakes area over the pass we came upon a few others. One couple was a mother/daughter hiking pair.  They would be right up behind us, then we would pull ahead, then we would have to rest and they would catch up, but they never caught us completely.  It was pretty exciting to get to the top of the hill and finally see the parking lot, but the trail ambled and avoided and rambled its way across and down the hill- obviously it was in no big hurry to get back to civilization either. 

I must admit that as we got closer and closer to the cars, flush toilets and running water the Novocain of civilization began to dull the ache of having to leave the trail too soon.  Thoughts of clean, white sheets, warm showers and soft beds enticed me, and I started to think less of the disappointment and failure of what I was hiking away from, and more of what I was hiking to. I had clean clothes in the car!  There was also shampoo, cocoa body butter and there would be fresh fruit!  Mark had tried to put a positive spin on it earlier-“ it’s not a failure,” “everyone hikes their own hike,” “think of what we did accomplish”- all of those were pretty empty words without the lure of chairs not made of stone and a heated pool at the hotel.  By the time (and it seemed to take a very long time) our feet hit the pavement I was actually kind of excited about talking to my kids, scrubbing off all of the dirt and riding in a car.  We made our way straight to the water spigot and washed our faces, our feet and any other skin that we could reach.  We filled our water bottles- civilized water does NOT taste as good as the real stuff (no wonder everyone drinks soda and juice in town) put on our clean shirts and staked out a good place in the parking lot to find a ride down.  The mother/daughter team came up behind us and we exchanged polite hellos.  When the mom found out we had just done the JMT she was very interested and wanted to know everything we could tell her.  She and her daughter (who “haves very bad with English”) were visiting here from Italy, and they wanted to see the Wild USA, not the cities and museums that most tourists choose.  They had a small rental car, but it was filled with gear, she said, or they would offer us a ride.  We sat on our curb and then began to visit with a hiker who had just gotten dropped off at the trail head.  He had several resupply boxes to sort through before he could head up the pass.  Pretty soon I began to notice the Italian ladies restacking and repositioning things.  I sent Mark over to see if he could help, and sure enough, they were trying to make room for us. We were very grateful that the ladies not only gave us a ride down the hill, but took us all the way in to the town of Lone Pine.

Hikers in town all pretty much do the same thing- they head to the grocery store or nearest pizza parlor.  Our first concern was finding a ride back up to our car, parked at the Horse Shoe Meadow trail head. We stopped in at the backpacker store, but they didn’t have a list of trail angels who might offer free rides.  She suggested we ask at the chamber of commerce.  We ambled over there, talked to the nice ladies for a while and got a short list (2) of names of people we could call.  Unfortunately for us, this was the chamber of commerce, not the volunteer bureau, and Bob, the one man I was able to get ahold of, was a fully insured and licensed shuttle service that charges $160.00 for a ride up to Whitney Portal.  Yikes!  Over a huge pizza lunch we talked about options, and decided we would try renting a car, which would be lots cheaper than paying for Bob to take us.  Also unfortunately, there are no rental car businesses in Lone Pine.  The girl at the hotel told us that Lloyd, over at the car repair, used to rent cars.  A quick stroll in the 100+ heat and we were face to face with Lloyd, who no longer rents cars.  But he asked Tom, whose head was under a hood, if he would be willing to take us Portal Road.  “Sure, as soon as I am done with this radiator.”  Mark raised an eyebrow, “how much would you want?”  Tom’s answer, “how does $30 sound?”  Mark offered $40.

I took a long, hot shower while Mark and Tom headed up to get the car.  I had already cleaned up at the faucet at the trail head, but you would never know by the way the water ran down my back and legs, causing a muddy river to swirl down the drain.  I am usually pretty water conscious and take short showers, but there are certain times in one’s life when it is important to splurge.  I sudsed up a second time, rewashed my hair, noticed my nice tan legs becoming a paler shade of brown- “hiker tan” often washes off- and reveled in the warm water, soapy smells and clean skin.

When Mark returned with the car we headed over to the pool and found a few other hikers.  We shared some beer and some trail stories.  It’s always good to spend time getting to know people with whom you share some common interests.  These three young men were no exception, and we spent a pleasant few hours visiting, swimming and sunning.  When we tired of that we went back and put on clean town clothes and had a nice dinner at a local grill, enjoying the friendliness and relaxed atmosphere of this small town.  Lone Pine was the site of many old Western films, and they still celebrate that with John Wayne photos on the walls of all the shops and eateries, wagon wheels decorating the lobby of the hotel, and cactus as the primary plant in the landscaping.  When I saw a display case full of DVDs and videos, I assumed that they were old Westerns that the tourists could rent to watch.  But they weren’t.  I was confused.  Heading back from the restroom I noticed some more shelves of movies- I guess in small towns you have to double up on things and the grill and bar was also the local movie rental store.

               Back in the hotel lobby there were people lounging about, visiting- being small town.  A couple that we had seen earlier in the day was on the lobby computer, trying to find rides back to San Francisco the next day.  I talked with them while Mark was in the room. They had just finished the JMT too, were from London, had met some of the same hikers we had, and needed a ride to catch a flight. We engaged another hotel guest in our conversation about the trail- he tried to convince the couple to catch a flight out of Reno instead, in which case he could give them a ride to the airport the next day.  I retired to the room before their problem was resolved, hoping we could maybe help them- but we didn’t know our schedule for the next day and Mark wasn’t ready to commit.

               A soft bed and clean sheets are wonderful things, and we woke up the next morning refreshed and ready to go.  After breakfast at the café we saw our friends Bill and Dave again.  They had made it the whole way, despite Bill’s awful blisters, and were picked up by their wives who had joined them for breakfast.  It was great to see that they had made it- they even summited on Whitney!  It was finally time to leave Lone Pine and move on to our next adventure.  I had a whole head full of memories, sights, sounds and emotions to keep me busy on up the road.  I was still sad we hadn’t finished what we set out to do, but I was glad about the 160 miles we did see.  I had spent 12 wonderful days in the wilderness, observing, sketching, writing, hanging out with my best friend and walking, of course.  There are memories and sounds and feelings I will fall back on in quiet or lonely moments for a long time to come.  I have enjoyed sharing this experience with all those of you willing to read about it.  I think I will miss writing about it too, so I will need to plan a new adventure soon. 

Glenn Pass

Day 12  Wood’s Creek to Kearsarge Pass

               Sneaking out of camp with the morning mists this morning felt very stealthy.  Our cigar smoking, scotch drinking neighbors were still snoring and dreaming in their tents, and we were packed, fed and off before they even raised an eyelid.  They had been impressed yesterday when we told them we were going to do Glenn Pass today as they were only planning to go as far as the lake. It was difficult for them to conceive doing 15 miles in one day- it would take them three days to do that many miles.  Of course we make sacrifices to cover so much territory, little luxuries like sleeping in and drinking scotch, but we are able to see so much more of this beautiful wilderness by getting up early and hiking all day.  Sure it would be fun to hang out by the lake and fish, but everyone makes their own choices- “hike your own hike” as they say.

               Uphill all morning was really slow, but also really beautiful.  We are in the High Sierra still, even though we are no longer in Yosemite.  This area is a very popular weekend destination for people, the Rea Lakes loop being one of the first places people can hike in from the West side of the mountains, and I can sure see why.  The beautiful little alpine lakes are strung across the base of the mountains like inset jewels, set in green rather than gold.  The birds sing, the deer amble through, and the water is so clear you can see every little fish as it swims its way downstream. It is in some ways apparent that this area is well used by hikers of all sorts- there are big metal food lockers near the camping areas, fire pits sit in some of the camps, and we walked right by a Ranger Station out here in the middle of nowhere- but in other ways it is still very wild and pristine.  The trail through here is small and a little overgrown in places, there aren’t a lot of people visible- except for those fishermen down at the lake- and the place doesn’t have the usual signs of human occupation, such as trash and toilets.  We slowed our pace a little, not because the path was steep or difficult, but just because there was so much beauty to see. 

               We planned lunch at Rae lake- sometimes I wish I could carry a picnic basket and table cloth and all- but walked past the first and second Rae Lake and found a cozy spot near the third.  There were still fishermen about, but they left soon after we got there, hopefully because they were done in that area and not because we intruded.  Still, it was nice to have the place to ourselves.  Mark got out the tarp and curled up for a nap while the pudding was setting up, but as there was no room left for me and I wasn’t that tired anyway, I took a little time to explore.  We were on an outcropping that jutted out above the lake, and I was able to walk down around it to the shore below, but couldn’t quite climb back up the other side without risk.  I walked down the trail a bit to get a better look at the nearby islands, and found the isthmus where we would be crossing later.  Mark was still snoring away when I got back to our picnic spot, so I decided to go down to the lake and wash up.  I sat on a boulder sunning for a little while to get warm after that cold shock of water, feeling quite a bit like one of Peter Pan’s mermaids. My hat blew off in a gust of wind, and I was able to jump in and fetch it, but while doing so, left my shirt behind.  The wind decided that it liked the shirt, and gathered it up and tossed it onto the surface of the lake.  I watched in interest as the wind picked up the folded sleeves like sails, and scooted it quickly along, but knew I would have to act quickly if I was to get my shirt back. I couldn’t reach it with my arm, but maybe with my poles, so I ran up to get them, which woke Mark, and he followed me back down to see my lovely pink shirt blowing out to sea.  “Well, are you going to dive in after it?” he asked.  It was my only choice.  I could watch it slowly sink to the bottom- and the water was so clear I could have literally done that- or dive in and rescue it.  Not hesitating longer to think about it, I splashed in.  I had to swim out a ways to grab it, shivering all the while, and, with shirt in hand, swam proudly back to shore. 

               Now that Mark was awake it was time to move on, so we finished up our pudding, donned our wet clothes, and headed back to the trail crossing and on up to the pass.  I was expecting the climb to this pass to be as rocky and drab as the others had been, but I was pleasantly surprised to find rock springs, verdant growth and pocket lakes and meadows dotted all about the foot of the mountain.  What joy!  You can’t imagine what a lifter of your spirits it is to be slugging away on this hard, rocky trail and come around the corner to find wildflowers dancing in the wind and a trickling stream escorting the trail on up to the next bend.  It makes a tough journey almost pleasant (but you’re still breathing hard.) I found delight in identifying the wild beauties, checking to see where the stream was springing from, and looking ahead to see if I could tell where the next bend would lead. 

               There were a lot of trail crews out today.  We came around a corner to find one lone woman all dressed in green coveralls and a hard hat, sitting on the ground, pick in hand, hammering away at the trail.  They were taking out the pavers here to replace them with stone cribs (my current nemesis) because the horses on the trail avoid the stacked pavers and walk around them, causing trail erosion.  I, personally, think that they should find a better purpose for their sharp, blasted out shards of granite than pouring them all over the middle of the trail, even if they do make a stone hedge to hold them in, so I prefer the pavers to the cribs, but I do not have the same lobby power that horsemen associations do, so I will just have use the horses’ strategy and walk around the areas.  I am sure that one little hiker woman will not erode the trail the way a horse does.    Nonetheless, we greeted the trail woman kindly, visited for a few moments, and moved on up the trail.  An hour or so later we came upon a whole trail gang, taking a break from their arduous tasks.  Talking and laughing amongst themselves, this lot did not seem so friendly. They avoided eye contact with us, moved off the narrow trail as best as possible to let us squeeze by, and went right back to their raucous conversation as soon as we had passed them.  It wasn’t a big deal, except that I had to pee.  And there are no doors on the bathrooms out here.  When there is nothing but rocks on the landscape, it can take you a long time to find somewhere discreet and away from watchful eyes. Another lone worker was on the South side of the pass, and as we passed her she asked what time it was.  "oh good," was here answer.  "What time do you get off," we asked.  "Four, but it will take me the next half hour or so to walk back to camp."  I don't know, nor did i ask, how long they spent out here at a time, but one morning we passed a camp of sleeping trail crew- hammocks slung from trees, sleepy heads spilling out of tents, gnarly boots dropped all around.  One set of girls informed us that they get the weekends off- not that there is anywhere for them to go.  I am not sure if i would like working out here or not, but i can't imagine a more beautiful place to work.

               The last mile was tough- rocky, steep, dangerous.  We had to really focus.  Every once in a while we would look up though and try to figure out where the pass was on this broken ridge in front of us.  At one point we thought we saw a hiker walking along the ridge.  Nah- And then, Oh, yes, that is a person, but he doesn’t have a back pack on, so he must just be trying to do the peak or something.  As we got closer, and finally to the pass, we found the back pack, but not the hiker.  And we walked along the very narrow knife edged ridge, balancing with our poles, holding our breath most of the way.  We did not drop our packs or whoop or have high fives or toasts on this mountaintop.  We patiently and judiciously walked the several hundred feet of ridge until we came to the other side of the pass and stepped over the threshold and down the trail.  And then we breathed.  There were a lot of backpackers coming up the other side, and we were obliged to press ourselves against the mountainside more than once and let them pass.  One was an older Asian couple who smiled and bowed their heads at us- they were moving pretty slowly but surely under their bulging packs.  Two other couples and a small group passed us and I was very grateful that we were going down this side and not up it.  There was no vegetation, no trees, nothing to block them from the scorching midday sun. As we continued down, we could hear the whooping and hollering of those who had made it to the top. It’s amazing how far sound can travel across barren rock.    We squinted to see their silhouetted forms waving and dancing on the ridge high above.  Obviously they did not have issues with heights.

               We were both tired, hot and hungry.  Lunch had been nothing but pudding, hours ago, and we were out of crackers, cheese, granola bars… all things lunchy and easy.  There were no beautiful picnic spots on this side of the mountain- nothing but small pools of water and piles of rock.  We finally came to a nearly level spot near a clear pond and decided to cook dinner early.  I reluctantly went down and collected water, using the Steri Pen to make sure it would be free of bacteria and other nasties.  I haven’t used this ultra violet water sterilizing tool enough to really have confidence in it.  How do you know you’re killing off something you can’t see in the first place?  I turned it on, stirred it around in the water jars, hoped it was doing its job and returned to Mark’s perch. We were crabby and the food wasn’t very tasty, but we ate it because our bodies needed it.  He had been calorie deficient for a few days, and it was starting to effect his mood as well as his energy level. I could feel my mood profile line plunging again and tried to have a better attitude.  Mostly I just ate my meal and tried to keep quiet.  Since it wasn’t a very inviting location we weren’t tempted to stay too long. It was back on the road for us.  

Yet another Pass

Day 11  King’s River to Woods Creek

One of my favorite moments of the camping day is peeking out of my sleeping bag at the world outside. The delicate grasses just in front of the tent are dancing in the wind, their grain heads bobbing with each little whiff of breeze. Beyond them the pines stand firm and tall, their branches reaching up to the blue, blue sky.  Off in the distance the sun has just hit the top of the mountain, touching the granite with an early morning glow.  This is a privileged view on this trip, because so far we have been up each morning with the sun and have had no time for gazing at the world about. Today however we are taking the morning off to help my blistered feet recover, thinking we would move on later toward afternoon and do less miles. But right now I am happily lying in my bag, listening to the birds singing and the water rushing past in the river nearby.   I didn’t want to wake Mark, mostly because I was afraid that once awake he would want to get going, so I quietly observed the world around me, trying hard to ignore any bodily functions that would cause me to get out of the tent.   You know how well that works- the more you try to ignore it, the more you can’t, especially with all that water rushing by. I did manage finally to sneak out quietly, do what must be done, and then find a patch of sunlight.  For the first time in about a week, I unbraided my hair and brushed and brushed. That little common act is such a luxury out here, and it felt so good to stroke it until the brush moved through without any stops. It was so tangled and knotty that it took quite a while, so long, in fact, that I had to follow the sunlight to two different spots to stay warm. I sat down on a second log and found myself quickly deposited on the dirt below to the sound of a loud crack.  It hadn’t woken Mark, so I dusted myself off and found a more solid spot to perch and preen.  I even left my hair down for a little while, enjoying the look of the sun reflecting off the nice, smooth strands.

There is something comforting about doing mundane chores.  I enjoyed checking on last night’s laundry- moving socks and shirts to different branches to take advantage of the naked light.  I decided to cook up some breakfast (an absolute indulgence for us) and gather water for the day’s hike. I collected the Bear Cans, set aside the food I would eat for lunch and snacks, and tended to a few other camp chores, all in the lazy tempo of a rest day.  I have had some freeze dried peaches in my pack since VVR and also some oatmeal which we never take the time for in the mornings. Not having cooked in weeks I was feeling creative and decided to try a little peach cobbler, using the oatmeal as a crust.  The peaches were simmering nicely, adding a lovely fragrance to the morning air, when Mark finally crawled out of the tent.  As I had guessed, once up Mark was ready to get on the road.  He folded up the tent, took down the mostly dry clothes and had his pack ready to go.  He did slow down long enough to share the peach cobbler with me, although we ate it standing so as not to take too long. He liked it so much he drew a nice, even line across the top of the oaty crust to make sure that the shares were equal. I was pretty proud of having taken two unwanted ingredients and turned them into something so appealing, and it was very comforting to have warm food on that chilly morning.  Mark was out visiting with passing hikers and trying to make sure the way across the creek was clear to others while I finished cleaning up and packing. I braided my hair, got my feet taped with the bright pink ROC tape that my daughter Hannah had given me (so much more attractive that mole skin- and stretchier too), picked out some freshly washed socks and got ready to hike.  I sang the trail version of “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” to make sure I had all my equipment- “Hat, Glasses, Pack and Poles, pack and poles” and we were ready to move on down the trail. 

My first PCT hike with Mark was in 2004. We hiked from Walker Pass to Horse Shoe Meadow, a total of about 90 miles in 5 days.  The first day seemed exciting and fun.  But on the second day I realized what I had gotten myself into.  This wasn’t a very nice date.  I was tired, dirty and smelly, and miles away from anything.  I knew that the only way out was to keep going, and, overwhelmed with emotion (and a little fear) I just sat down with my legs dangling over the edge of the trail and had a good cry.  I was better after that, of course, mostly because I had let out all those emotions, and partly because Mark was a little nicer to me after he had made me cry.  I hadn’t done it on purpose, exactly, but pulling out the feminine card and having a good cry works sometimes. Later that day we took a nap on a knoll under an oak tree (see, I told you he started being nicer) and just as I finally relaxed enough to ignore the bugs and the buzzing flies and the noise of the birds and drift off to sleep, Mark was awake and ready to move on.  I groggily pulled myself off the ground, packed my mat, threw my pack on and followed him down the trail.  About a mile and a half down the trail I was being plagued by eye flies- pesky little things always wanting to hitch a ride with you and benefit from your moisture.  After brushing them off a few times I realized something.  I wasn’t wearing my glasses.  I had taken them off when I spread myself on the ground to nap, and hadn’t remembered to pick them up when I awoke.  It was a hard decision: walk a mile back to get the glasses and have to retrace the mile back again, or leave the glasses where they lay and hope some other hiker would find them.  I was too tired to walk an extra two or three miles, so I left the glasses there and moved along, swatting eye flies as I went.   Two years ago, hiking a piece of trail from Sierra City to Belden, I took my glasses off and set them on a rock in the middle of a creek so that I could wash my sweaty face.  Mark had turned an ankle and was keeping us moving along so that his ankle would not freeze up or get worse.  I don’t remember when I realized that my glasses were not on my face, but I know it was quite a while down the path. The first pair of glasses never came back to me, even though we sent a friend to find them a year later, but the second pair were picked up by a hiker named Sapcho and returned to me two weeks later in Old Station.  So now I wear a pair of croakies, keeping my glasses firmly on my face when I hike, and I sing my silly little jingle to make doubly sure I have everything I need before leaving a campsite or rest area.  I also have decided there are some things worth going back for- prescription glasses being one of them.  These are things I think about as we begin our hike, trying to remember which years we did which parts of the trail, how many miles we walked each time, whether we were alone or with kids, and any other details I can think of to keep my mind alert. 

My feet were feeling good, my tummy full and content, my pack, having been relieved of more food, was lighter and my spirits were high.  We had some downhill miles to do before we started the climb to Pinchot Pass, which I had heard was a beautiful, and my mind was busy filling in verses for my pass song.  I am a little tired of passes, actually.  You walk a long way, working your way up and over this mountain, then work your way over the rocks and switchbacks on the other side, only to descend into another valley and have to do it all again the next day.  The first few passes took us into more and more beautiful country, full of waterfalls, wildflowers, meadows and snowcapped mountains, but now it seems we are climbing up just to climb back down again and the new valleys are not prettier than the last ones.  It’s exhausting mentally and physically.  Mark is starting to talk about getting out a day or two early so that we can be sure to make it to the memorial service for our friend, Firewalker, and even though I don’t really want to quit early, it is tempting to miss that last, formidable, highest pass called Forester. You see the trail profile on the top of the page in my data book: a squiggly little line that traipses up and down, kind of like the line of an active seismograph.  It is interesting to note that my moods tend to swing up and down like that profile line, very much like it, in fact, although it tends to be opposite; when the line is crawling up the page, my mood sinks lower, and when the line is working its way down the page, my mood tends to improve.  Not quite like the mood swings we are subjected to when we bring our teenage daughter along, but pitchy, anyway.  And not likely to improve any time soon. 

And then we walked up a hill and into scenery straight out of The Sound of Music.  I was overwhelmed by beauty.  I wanted to drop my pack and walk around with arms outstretched, singing beautiful songs at the top of my lungs, but my husband frowns on public displays of joy (and affection for that matter) so I had to be content with just singing, and of course I had to sing the Sound of Music.  The contrast of the vibrant green meadows and the ultra-blue sky, the deep reddish brown of the cedar trunks, the aqua blue lake, all combined to bring tears to my eyes.  Here this is, and I am here, and it is more beautiful than I can imagine. I wanted to make it last longer but I was too thrilled to slow down much, and we had already started so late in the day so we couldn’t take too long here and still make enough miles before nightfall to stay on schedule, so I just tried to capture it in my memory and enjoy it as I hiked through, singing away as I went.  Mark tried hard not to notice.

Pinchot Pass was stunning and rare. The sun lit up a  mountainside of deep red rock, and the small lake at the base was a turquoise blue.  We inched our way up the trail to 12, 086 feet, made a small “Whoo Hoo” at the top, and inched our way back down the other side.  Rocky, steep and barren, like so many of the other high passes, it seemed to take as long going down as it did coming up.  The tread was steep and slick, with lots of sandy grit over the smooth granite, just the stuff my feet lose their traction on.  I suppose it was my own fault for admiring my nice, strong, tan, muscular calves earlier in the day, because the fall I took left some nasty scratches all across and down my right leg.  No real damage- just a little humiliation, and some scars that were going to ruin my even tan. 

The land here was barren, and rocky.  We took our lunch break behind a few boulders, trying to find a bit of shade.  It was so hot out that our pudding didn’t even set up well, and we had to drink the sickly green pistachio pudding- I’ve wiped way too many noses to be able to eat anything that color and consitency.  I munched on a trail bar instead.  When we moved on after lunch we could see way down into the nice, green valley where the trail used to wind through.  Mark remembered having used that trail before, but the conservancy group had decided that it was less of an impact on the land to take the trail through the rough, arid rocky crest than through that easily eroded meadow, so we walked along the ridge, gazing longingly down at the meadow below. We finally found a small trail leading to a creek and some fresh water, which we splashed around in and used to fill our water bottles.  It cooled us down and lifted our spirits, and within a few miles after that we began to see some little groves of cedar and ground cover.  As we approached the camp, there were several river fords in a row, just little creek hops, really, and the river in the gorge below began to gather momentum from all these creeks.  The water slipped, fell and cascaded over rocks and granite slabs, down the valley below.  There were a few dicey places on this trail that I was afraid it was going to be me slipping and sliding down into the valley, but I focused in on remaining on the trail, using my poles, choosing my steps carefully, and making my way down to camp.  We were distracted by a low, whoop, whoop sound, and finally got to see the bird that we had heard making that sound the past few days.  There was some talk of having Grouse for dinner with our stuffing, but that was just Mark’s hunger talking, the only way he really shoots things is with a camera, and he didn’t even get a really good shot with that. 

After an endless amount of miles, we leveled off with the river and knew we were closer to camp.  We came upon a huge suspension bridge, seemingly in the middle of nowhere.  The river here was too small to really call for this huge bridge, which we had to climb a ladder up to, so this area must really get a lot of flooding in the early spring.  Coming off the bridge we found ourselves suddenly in a camp ground.  There were people walking around, getting water, making camp, using the big steel bear cupboards to store their food.  We had seen only two other people all day, and now there were so many we had to walk on for a while to find a place to put up our tent.  We had to walk through the camp of a father and son from Santa Cruz in order to get down to the water, and they were quite interested in the JMT and in the fact that we harvested green onions from the creek to go with our dinner.  They were nice enough to burn our paper trash in their huge fire, and I got to warm my hands for a little while too. Our next door neighbors were a group of fathers and sons out for a few days.  They had so much stuff!!  But they were friendly and talky and let us have some powdered milk to add to our Fettuccine Alfredo.  They told us they might be noisy at night telling stories and enjoying some whiskey and cigars by the camp fire, but once we put our heads on the stuff sacks full of dirty clothes that serve as our pillows, we didn’t hear a thing. 

    

Mather Pass

Day 10  Deer Meadow to King's River

In every person’s hike, there seems to be one pass that ruins their whole day.  It might be the elevation, the time of day, the heat of the sun or a lack of calories, but one pass or another will kick your butt.  Ours was Mather Pass.  We had high hopes for Mather.  Not having heard anything about it from other hikers, and with Mark not really remembering it much from his last hike, we weren’t expecting much of a challenge. At last night's camp a hiker had passed by and stopped to visit, strongly suggesting we get up early to attack the Golden Staircase while it was early and cool out and we were fresh.  He said that  he had descended late in the day, and even people coming downhill were just dying- stripping off their shirts and wetting them, resting in the brush, withering in the heat of the full sun.  So we were up early, well fed and hydrated, and mentally prepared for the challenge that was The Golden Staircase.  And we dominated.  I have to say I was very grateful for all those Zumba classes and squat workouts that I had been doing over the past few months.  I approached each switchback as if it were an interval  of a mega workout, and though my gluts were burning, made it to the top in very little time without having to stop much at all.  We were very proud of having conquered this obstacle, and whooped and high-fived when we got to the top.   The lake would be just around the corner, and then we would approach the steep ascent to the pass.  But the lake wasn’t just around the corner.  We walked and we climbed.  We switch backed and we backtracked.  We consulted the map and the guidebook and looked for an alternate trail.  Our “just over the next rise” joke was no longer funny.  It became difficult to see all the beauty surrounding me because all I could see were more miles, and Mark was stopping and panting every few minutes.  That wonderful feeling of accomplishment at having aced the formidable Staircase had quickly faded away to utter exhaustion and an overwhelming sense of despair.   

But the trail, trusty as it is, took us to the lake, and when we finally reached the Shore of Palisade Lake we dropped our packs and collapsed.  After some cool water and a granola bar I began to feel revived and thought I would take a quick swim in the lake.  Glacial lakes are cold. I changed my mind.  Instead I watched trout swishing their tails downstream and got out my journal, sat in the sun on the sandy beach and wrote a little.  In seemingly no time at all Mark had recuperated and was ready to move on, so I pulled on my socks, stuffed my poor, sore little blistered feet back into my shoes, shrugged my shoulders into my pack straps and dropped into formation.  The nice break helped and I was once again able to notice the deep green of the meadow leading up to the edge of the lake, the beautiful clarity of the lake below, the deep blue of the sky that extended out to the edge of the pass above, and the amazing reflective shine of the granite above the lakeshore.  It didn’t last long.  Soon we were lagging again, stopping every few minutes to wipe our brows and catch our breath.  By now the lake was sparkling far below under the hot sun, but we didn’t feel so sparkly.  Spying a shady little grove of cedars, we slipped off the trail and onto our sleep mats.  Mark turned on the audio book and soon we were snoozing away in the shade, worlds away from the misery of the hot, dry trail.

It was over an hour later when we emerged from our oasis and felt ready to attack the summit.  We were rested and ready to go and thrilled when we quickly came upon a trickling creek.  Nice, clean cold Sierra water always refreshes me and this was no exception.  I plunged my Sierra Cup into the nicely aerated bubbles of the water falling over some rocks, loving the coolness of the water on my hand.  Getting up I slipped a little, and forced my left knee into a very deep bend.  With the extra pounds on my back I got a little unbalanced, and had difficulty getting back on the trail, straining my right leg in the process.  I was, therefore, limping a little when we came upon an older gentleman with a very big pack, sitting on a rock. He was splendid. Pots and shoes and water bottles all dangled from places on the back of his pack, which was wider than the old man himself.  It came up above his head, the sleeping back towering above the man’s floppy brimmed hat. We visited a few minutes, offering to give him a hand off his perch. We were very impressed with his fortitude, being out here with his “71 year old cardiovascular system” and all that stuff in his pack.  We left him behind as we hit the first few switchbacks and started up the hill, but we worried about him all the way up.

And here’s where Mather really got us.  Usually covered with snow, the rocks, boulders, stones and gravel were bare and hard and sharp.  The talus was loose and hard to manage as we stepped forward and then slid back.  As we climbed we kept looking at the ridge of the mountain ahead and tried to imagine where the path was and where we would pop over the top.  The path was so steep and the steps so high and irregular it was mentally difficult to want to continue. We weren’t exhausted any more, but we were definitely working hard. That strained leg muscle was aching and pulling with every contraction. We finally saw someone coming down, and then we were able to figure out where the path led. I developed a mantra of “one step at a time” which became a tune after just a little while and I started to write verses for each of the passes. This kept my mind distracted, which was good, though sometimes when it got hard again my mind reverted automatically to the simple "one step at a time" mantra. Stopping now and again to watch the others behind us, especially concerned about the older guy, we watched as the North bound hikers became smaller and smaller dots of color zigzagging down the mountain.  And then we were at the top!  We toasted with a little Vitalyte and visited with another hiker who was up on top, taking pictures of one another. 

As steep and loose and hard as the uphill was, the downhill seemed like a walk in the park-a steep and windy park, to be sure, but so much easier than the other side.  It had taken us four hours to do four miles coming up the mountain, and we were down the other side in just an hour.  We passed through a rocky landscape that held a few lakes and not much else, but at least the tread was even and the slope downhill. It was whistling, singing, striding along time, and we made good time as we headed toward the night’s camp.  A few miles later we stopped at a nice creek under some shady pinyon pines. I took off my shoes and socks and cooled my feet (ignoring my earlier prohibition of getting the moleskin wet) drank some water and consumed some much needed calories.  I even closed my eyes for a few minutes and listened to the water parading by.  After we started back up, I felt a pretty sharp pain in my left foot.  The blister that had been bothering me earlier in the day was now screaming at me.  Each step was like a knife poking me, and I had to stop a few times to adjust my sock and shoe to relieve the pain.  I popped some Advil. At one point when I checked, it looked like the whole ball of my foot was one big blister, and we were beginning to worry about me continuing on at all.  I covered about a mile this way, and we decided to make camp much sooner and see how my feet were doing in the morning.  Mark was busy thinking through how he would get us out of here quicker if I couldn’t continue on, coming up with plans b, c and d, I think. 

We stopped to chat to a young PCT couple who was just starting to make camp.  I was still wincing in pain from the blisters, and she and I had quite a conversation about them.  They had hiked so far  about 8oo miles, and she had been struggling with blisters the whole way. I don't know how she had the fortitude to carry on. She had just gotten back on the trail from town and had bought new shoes to try to combat the problem.  Along with telling me about sewing a string through the blister to let it drain and changing socks often to keep the feet dry, (which I already knew) she showed me her blisters and their subsequent callouses.  Having come in from Taboose Pass they had experienced some difficulty in finding the trail again, and had a really hard time fording the creek.  We could really see what they meant when we got down to the river- there was no clear way across.  We were either going to have to get our feet wet or hike way up the trail to find a narrower crossing.  Mark and I chose different routes across this time, I didn’t care about the wet feet because I knew I would be able to let them dry in camp.  We watched through the afternoon as other hikers came through, trying to find the way, and wondered if we should do some signing or something, but we found a nice little spot to pitch our tent (lots of mosquitos) and just let everyone work it out for themselves.

In camp I washed my feet well with soap and water, peeled off the nasty moleskin, and dried them thoroughly.  There was a tiny sliver or thorn lodged right in the center of my blister, and when I removed that, I felt instant relief.  The balls of my feet weren’t blistery, just really pruney; I would be able to hike on after all.  But not until we did some laundry, had a nice meal and relaxed for a while.  This would have been a nice night to have a camp fire, but there was a fire ban in this part of the woods, so even though there was a huge, safe, old camp fire ring in our site and a river rushing by, we passed on the fire idea and made hot tea and cocoa over the much less romantic Esbit flame. 

Good Critter Day

Day 9    Muir Pass

I squinted open my tent-fly eyes this morning to so much light.  Up here at elevation where the air is thinner, I think the rays come through stronger.  It was 4:45.  The sun was bright but still hadn’t lit up the white granite on  the mountain on the opposite side of the valley, and the moon was still so bright.  I wasn’t ready for such an onslaught of brightness and pulled my head way back down inside the downy softness of my cocoon.  Once Mark awoke, though, the getting up process kicked in to full gear and we were up, packed up, dressed, fed and on the trail by 5:45- am.  My feet still felt a bit tender and the recent trail work done up here launched another, rather whiney, verse to my Ode to the Trail Crew. 

Who hired the villainous Trail Crew
That spread all these sharp rocks 'round here?
I used to adore them, but now i abhor them
I'm walking in pain, without cheer.

It’s kind of unusual to be able to see where you are going and then watch as that destination gets closer and closer. The Muir Hut, which began as a little speck on the horizon, loomed closer and closer as we ticked off the miles, and before we knew it, we were up and over the pass and knocking on the door.  I thought it was a wonderful metaphor for setting and achieving goals, but my hiking partner was not up to philosophizing at this hour. The little stone Yurt was built in 1938 to honor John Muir, and stands as an emergency shelter for any who might get stuck out there in the snow or bad weather.  It is cool and dark inside, with a table, benches and a fireplace (that has been boarded up).  We ate our granola bars, rested a bit, and then got to sign our first trail register. Post offices, hiker hostels and certain way points on the trail keep a book for the hikers to sign-in.  The thru hikers use this is a way to leave messages for one another, keep track of the hikers that are in front of or behind them, and just make their mark on the trail a little bit.  I read a few pages, looking to see if anyone we had met had logged in, and then we made our way over the broken granite surface of the trail and down the pass.

I really wish there was a way to aptly describe the scenery of the next few miles.  There was nothing up here but rock, water and sky. Huge boulders, small stones and rocks of every size in between were piled, tossed, and lumped around.  The water trickled under and around the rocks, working its way down the mountain.  There were places where we were walking on the path and we could hear the water trickling down through the rocks below our feet, and sometimes around our feet.  There was still a little snow up here, and it was melting right into the waterways and collecting in the few small, crystal-blue lakes.  It was a little like being inside of a Britta filter.  Sometimes people ask us what we do about filtering our water so that we don’t get sick.  If they could see how clean and pure the water starts up here at the top of the Sierra, they might be as confident as we are about reaching down into a running stream and scooping out a cup of water.  One hiking friend of mine expressed it like this: “It is an insult to nature to filter the water that we are drinking here, as if man knows how to make a better filter than nature itself.”  The bad boys are protozoa, namely giardia lamblia and are produced by roaming stock and wild animals and are said, by a reliable doctor friend of ours, to be frozen off each winter.  They are also anaerobic, which means they live most happily in stagnant water (and intestines), which is not what we drink.  If we are in lower elevations and the water is a bit warmer or not running in nice, aerated bubbles, then we filter- otherwise, when we cross a cold stream on a dusty trail, I whip out my 1970’s style Sierra Cup and serve up a nice, cool drink.  It is one of the pure joys of my hiking trips.

We continued in the surreal landscape for many miles, sometimes nearly losing the trail because it didn’t look all that different from the rest of the landscape, and because there was so much to see it was hard to keep our eyes on the trail. Sometimes we spent time trying to figure out how to get to the next part of the trail over the rocks or around them. We needed to cross one small patch of snow, which made us a little nervous because of previous experience (an icy patch of snow abruptly ended our last long hike) but we crossed deftly and continued down the trail. Soon we began to see a wildflower here and there, or a crop of grass.  Then the plants and soil were more common, and we even got to walk on dirt! We heard the chirps of birds and the skitter of creatures once again, and it was like returning to earth from some other planet.  A quick grey flash on a boulder caught my eye.  I hoped it was a pika- another of Sierra’s elusive rodents that I hadn’t seen yet.  I stopped and waited, watching carefully, and it crept out from under a rock ledge and sat right in front of me for a few minutes, showing off its cute ears and whiskers.  They look a little like a chinchilla, only smaller and grey, with no tail.  Crossing a stream Mark noticed something in the water.  A frog jumped onto a rock and clung on desperately, hoping not to be washed away in the current. Does ambled along near the path, grazing on the greenery. It was a good critter day.

Over one rocky bit of trail I was mumbling or complaining or something, and Mark turned to look at me.  Gazing over my shoulder he saw a beautiful cinnamon brown bear.  “Turn around,” he said calmly, “There’s a bear over there.”  I turned and looked, and was able to watch him fearlessly- a very healthy looking young bear, just browsing his way through the greenery along the banks of the creek.  I asked Mark to get out his camera, and he did, but as he focused on the bruin, it was coming closer.  It wasn’t aggressive, but it also wasn’t scared of us.  We decided not chance a  closer encounter, so we turned and moved quickly and confidently down the path.  Once we felt we were at a safe distance Mark took a camera shot, but all you can see in the photo is a splotch of brown in the greenery.  This was the first bear we have ever actually seen on the trail, though we have seen plenty of footprints and other evidence.  We were very happy with the circumstances too, he was being a bear, doing his thing and minding his own business, and we were hiking along doing our own thing.  It sure made carrying that stupid bear can a little easier to shoulder.   

Lunch in Grouse Meadow was very nice.  Mark snoozed away on a slab of granite, and I spent time collecting wild flower samples and playing in the creek.  There was a big monster in the campground too- some other hiker had erected a set of teeth in a big, cracked boulder.  I was in great danger, but all my husband did was snap pictures. Another critter encounter happened later in the afternoon, as we waded through the grass in Deer Meadow.  The trail there is barely a foot width, and the grasses hem it in on both sides.  It was comfortable walking- no sharp broken rocks!  I was looking about the lovely meadow and had just looked down at the trail when a brown dash just escaped my footfall and ran between my legs.  Gasping in surprise, I turned to watch a little chipmunk, tail straight up in the air like a mast on a ship, speeding down the trail behind me.  My loud chuckling broke the silence of the meadow, and I continued on in great satisfaction.  

We stopped at the edge of the meadow to get some water and considered camping by the idle creek for the night. Fish were swimming lazily in the shallows and we could smell the pungent odor of wild onion, but since we had no fishing pole, we decided to push on a little farther so that we could get closer to the base of tomorrow’s big climb- The Golden Staircase.  We found an abandoned Trail Crew camp, spread out our tent, cooked some tamale pie for dinner, did a little laundry, washed up some, and were asleep as the sun set.  We had covered 18 miles that day, not too shabby for a couple of old tenderfoots. 

Evolution Creek to Wanda Lake

Day 8

My feet hurt.  Yesterday after the second long, hot, rocky downhill path I had to stop and put some moleskin on the balls of both my feet in hopes of preventing a blister. Too thin soles on my shoes and too many long, hot rocky trails have combined to leave my feet tender. I have three different kinds of socks with me that I can choose from for the appropriate terrain.  I haven’t always chosen so well.  Today it is hard to even want to put socks and shoes on.  But we hope to make Muir Pass today, and that means there are 15.9 miles and 3,525 feet of climb ahead of us. We also have to cross Evolution Creek today, which, in snowy years, has been a treacherous ford.  So, mustering some courage and a protein bar, I got up off the ground, donned my pack, and marched on. 

We had climbed up next to this cascading waterfall for about two miles before we had to ford, so I was really ready.  I knew that as the water crashed down, I had to continue climbing up.  We could hear the water the entire way, but couldn’t always see it, so when we got to a good spot for a view, I clambered over some rocks to take a peek. Mark was nervous about me getting too close to the edge, but I finally got a good look.  Soon after that the ground leveled out, and the crashing falls became a wide, swiftly moving creek. The Evolution Creek crossing was cold and a little tricky, but not treacherous.  All of my senses were alert as I carefully picked my way over and around wet, slippery rocks and moved against the current of water.  My skin prickled with goose bumps and my jerky movements tossed my braids from side to side.  The sound of the water crashing below was still in my ears and my eyes darted quickly from one big boulder to the next.  This was living!! I was ready to do it again.

Reflections Along Evolution Creek

I wish i were a drop of water

cascading o'er the falls

Slipping, dropping, sliding

down the towering rock walls

But i am just a hiker

Plodding up the hill

Breathless and foot weary

A part of nature, still.

The grasses sprout, then wither

Their beauty surely fades

flow'rs bloom just a short season

in a myriad of shades

My growth is just as certain

Be it measure off in miles

And the lessons that i'm learning

when i pause a little while

Even rocks don't last forever

The weather makes them yield

and their stony bits are scattered

along some sandy field

I'm a privilaged sojourner

passing through these granite halls

My time fleeting as the water

crashing down the rocky walls.

The adrenaline rush soon passed and we were back to the monotony of climbing.  Even in a beautiful landscape like this, with wildflowers dancing in the breeze and a creek burbling nearby, climbing can get old, fast.  I worked on a poem to while the hours away, and, as I worked on it, I also had to memorize it because I knew Mark wouldn’t want to stop for me to write it down. The morning’s hard work and high adrenaline moments had taken a toll on us, so by the time we reached Evolution Lake we were ready for a nice long break.  We both stretched out on the moss and heather-covered bank of the lake and were soon snoozing in the sun.  Usually when we get to a lake I want to dive right in, or at least soak my feet, but now that my feet are so tender and covered with blister protection, I don’t want to bother them.  Sun bathing, though, is not nearly refreshing as lake bathing, so when it was time to move on I was moving pretty slowly.  I ran a piece of thread through my blister to help it drain, stuck a band aid on it, pulled my dirty socks back on and resumed the march. 

As we passed the PCT and JMT North Bounders, the weekend hikers and the day hikers out from Muir Ranch, I began to long for the type of hike where you hike leisurely, just a few miles a day, from lake to lake-taking in the scenery, playing in the mountain streams, fishing and cooking.  I wonder, though, after training ourselves to walk so many miles a day,if we could relax enough to really lay back and enjoy it, or if we would get antsy and need to move on.  But it sounds wonderful.  We’ve been out one week and although I still love it and my senses still tingle when I hear a certain bird call or see Columbine or a Marmot, my body is getting tired. 

We made it to Wanda Lake, just three miles short of our Muir Pass goal.  The lake is glacier fed, though in this dry year the glaciers just look like little snow patches resting on the slopes of the mountain.  There are little to no trees up here- most years this whole area is still coated in snow by now. We found a place to camp between a large outcropping of rock, and even though it was really still too early to make camp, we decided to rest up for a while and tackle the ascent in the morning.  From here we could clearly see the pass and the little stone hut perched on top of it, so we had a chance to really get our minds around the climb.  It didn’t really look nearly as hard as much of what we had already done.  I used the loathsome bear can to haul water out of the lake, and set to washing socks, shirts and hankies.  It made a pretty good wash tub, I must say.  My plan was to let some more water warm in the container, then jump in the lake, soap myself up good (maintaining the required 200 feet from the water’s edge) and pour the warmed water over me.  Sounded good.  But the wind picked up, the clouds came in and my courage dwindled.  I ended up just taking a “sponge” bath with a wash-rag and a little soap. My hair would have to wait for another day. 

The marmots scurried and waddled about, checking out our drying laundry and our packs.  They don’t seem the least bit afraid of humans, nor do they seem to think we are the chuck wagon, coming in to augment their natural diet, which tells me that hikers have been conscientious about their approach to them, and that makes me happy. We snuggled down in our bags in a chill wind, and I decided I was not going to be warm enough through the night if I was already this cold.  I put on another layer of clothing and snuggled closer to my husband.  Still shivering.  We quickly erected the tent, which warmed us just in the flurry of activity, and when we settled back down I was much warmer.  I wouldn’t be able to watch the moon rise from inside the tent, but guess what? I wasn’t awake long enough anyway.

The San Joaquin River

Day 7

I awoke to see just a glimmer of a moon in the sky as it set and the sun was rising.  "As far as the east is to the West so great is His loving kindness…" Being out here where everything you see is  God-created is a constant reminder of His goodness and faithfulness.  The stars above, farther out in the Universe than we can imagine, speak of his greatness and the tiny wildflowers, so intricately designed speak to His Faithfulness as well.  I wake in His world, not my own, and it gives me the sense that He is so near.

Our sleeping bags were a bit wet and frosty having camped out so near to the river, but we wanted to hit the trail early, so we decided to pack them wet and lay them out in the sun later when we took a break.  I had been so cold last night that I had pulled my pack close to me, snaked my arm in the top and felt around for something else to wrap around me.  I thought my rain poncho might add a nice, dry layer between me and icy bag, and it actually worked pretty well.  I also found a pair of dry socks which, when slipped on, helped warm my feet nicely. I have always worn clean socks to bed when camping, because if you wear the same ones you hiked in, the moisture built up in them cools down and your feet get so cold. Lately I have not been wearing socks to bed at all because my feet are so hot and need a breather.  Also, I have been massaging Badger Balm into them and they want some air.  If you don’t take care of your feet out here, you are in real trouble. 

  The first challenge of the day was to ford Bear Creek.  We were expecting a swift river crossing after seeing the creek last night, but we travelled just a bit downstream and found a place that wasn’t too deep.  We took off our socks, rolled up our pants, and just sloshed on through.  It was a bit slippery and rocky, and cold of course, a rather invigorating way to begin a day’s hike.  Since we knew there were other stream crossings ahead, we just left our socks off and hiked along in wet sandals for a while, appreciating the cold straps on our usually hot, tired feet. 

We moved quietly through the tall pines, the hedges of wild flowers near the creeks, and the rocky patches.  I watched the water slide down the granite slabs and travel in glassy sheets and foamy white cascades as it hushed, rumbled and then thundered down over the broken boulders, stones and downed trees.  It crashed below, refining, polishing and rounding the hard rock to shining stone.  The flowers and grasses bent in the breeze, bobbing their little heads to the rhythm of the wind, and I just soaked it all in, bathing in the fresh morning beauty of this magical land.  My head is full of songs this morning, and my heart full joy.

As we approached Selden Pass we started to notice a lot more wildlife.  The first few days we had seen a lot of deer, but since then we have only seen birds and a few ground squirrels.  Today however, we saw a whole family of marmots playing around outside their den.  Mark spotted the mamma first, all golden and brown, soaking in the sunshine on a nice, flat rock.  Then I spotted another, smaller one peeking out from between some rocks below her.  Oh, there’s another little head, and another!  We watched and counted the five or six young crawling, eating, and digging around. One slipped down between the rocks and landed on his bottom.  I think he found something to eat, and was happily sitting on his haunches with his front paws near his mouth, chewing away at something we couldn’t see.  I don’t know if they are herbivorous or omnivorous, but hey must have plenty to eat because there are so many of them up here.  We watched them scamper around on the rocks just a bit longer and then moved on, not quite at a scamper, as we headed for the pass.  My mind began to wander, as it often does out here, wondering about marmot babies.  What are they called?  Pups? Kits? Cubs?  And what about other rodent young?  What do you call baby mice?  Baby beaver?  My mind churned around on these questions that I could not answer for myself for quite a while, naming off baby swans, whales, farm animals until I got tired of that game and began to think of something else.  A lot of hikers carry radios, iPods or other musical devices to help while away the time and keep them distracted from the monotony of hiking twelve hours a day, but I like just being with myself and thinking and singing and such. Besides, ear plugs drone out the birds and there is a favorite Sierra bird out here that has a sweet, trill, “Good Mor ning” song which always brings me a smile.  I often work on poems as I walk, or name the wildflowers I see, or try to describe the scenery I am passing in eloquent words.  Sometimes, though, when the terrain is rough or the path really steep, all I can do is repeat a phrase to myself or sing one little piece of a tune over and over.  I notice that when I am composing songs or poems or verse I walk a little slower than when I am singing tunes in my head, or even aloud, and I try to change it up if I notice I am lagging behind a little.  The trail is seldom wide enough for the two of us to walk side by side, so Mark is usually out front, thinking whatever he is thinking inside his head, and I am usually just behind him, playing with my own thoughts.  When I get a little lonesome I will try to strike up a conversation, but we usually save those for break time. 

We took a nice little break on top of Selden Pass.  There were marmots up here too, digging in the ground near the roots of the heather or waddling around on the rocks.  They let us get pretty close to them, or came close to us without fear, but they didn’t like it if we shuffled our feet too much.  We sat on some boulders and had a snack, drank some Gookinaid and observed the marmots until we felt rested enough to move on. I like this little tradition of toasting the top of the pass.  Sometimes the downhill side of a pass is rougher than the uphill one, because it is just as rocky and steep, and you have more momentum.  I always have to be careful not to slide on the sandy grit covering the path, as my soles are well worn and haven’t much traction left.  This pass was a bit of a blind one; we couldn’t see the other side well from where we had our break, but when we rounded a bend the view spread out before us and we gazed upon lake after glistening lake surrounded by grassy meadows and tall, tall pines.  At one point we stood on an outcropping on the edge of the trail and watched some trout waggling through the shallows of Heart Lake.  The birds were singing, wildflowers gave off a beautiful, warm scent and the sun rays sparkled on the waters below.  Every painful step and drop of sweat was worth being out here and taking in all this grandeur.

Around 10 it seemed time for an early lunch, or late breakfast, so we found a lovely lakeside spot and spread ourselves out for a while.  We had to sun our sleeping bags to make sure they were dry after last night’s frost.  I set up my watercolors, because the lake view was just pristine, and soon Mark was snoring away on the granite under his sleeping bag while I was trying to capture the true color of the flowers in front of me.  I don’t know how long we were stopped, but several hikers past by and I watched a deer grazing lazily on the far side of the lake.  Mark was suddenly awake and felt the need to push on, so I quickly used the pencil ends of my watercolor pencils and sketched in the scene to be completed later.  We still had plenty of miles to do before sundown. 

I knew this would be the last day we would see the Frenchies, if we saw them at all, because they were taking their resupply at Muir Trail Ranch.  I had heard from others that there were some natural hot springs there, and I was very interested in checking them out.  Mark, unwilling to get too far off schedule, checked the guidebook- it would be an extra two miles to the springs, and would set us back half a day or more, depending on how long we stayed.  I really wanted to go.  I thought I would just bide my time and bring it up again when we got to the trail junction; maybe I would catch him at a weak point.  Right now I had to concentrate on the steep trail in front of me. Here was another pass on which I was extremely glad we were going downhill.  We passed a group of seniors plodding their way up this sun drenched, dry switchback stretch, and they all looked miserable.  Whoever planned this part of the trail worked very hard to keep it out of the trees and in the direct sun.  Somehow in the heat of the afternoon and the work of making our way down the path, we got off on our mileage and missed the Cutoff Trail to the Hot Springs all together.  We had passed a junction to Florence Lake, which was supposed to be about two miles away, and thought that perhaps we just hadn’t seen Cutoff Trail and we were farther along than we had surmised.  We ambled on.  Soon, we passed another sign to Florence Lake.  We were all off.  There were another two and a half miles of trail between us and the next water source; my water container was empty,  I was hot and tired and had no hope of the hot springs, and the mosquitoes and gnats were out in full force today.  I worked hard against a grumbling spirit, took a little rest on a log, and rested my heavy head against my husband for a few minutes.  Nibbling on trail mix was a good idea too. 

I was nicely rewarded a few hours later when we came upon the San Joaquin River- such relief!  The river was wide enough to have earned it a foot bridge, and the water flowed in torrents over the granite, forming little pools in the indented parts of rock.  It was cold and wide and wonderful.   We dropped our packs, shed our shoes and picked our tender-footed way carefully down the weedy, rocky path to the river.  I drank a few cups of the glistening water, sipping it like a man who had been lost in the desert for days. I made some pudding in my wide mouth bottle and put it in the stream to cool and thicken.  Shedding most of my clothes, I sat on the rocks like a native, washing and scrubbing several days of grime and trail dirt out of the collar, cuffs and the front of my once pink shirt.  I soaked up sun like a lizard and let the sound of the rushing water revive my weary brain.  We could just camp here, but it was too early in the day.  After we had visited with another set of hikers, had our fill of pistachio pudding and gotten our wet clothes back on, we skipped over the bridge and down the hot trail.  At least now we had the river for company. 

When we finally made camp that night we had covered 16.3 miles.  We found a sandy spot near the river and put up our tent against the mosquitos.  Mark cooked up a pot of Navy Bean soup which was quite welcome and filling.  We thought we would have to bury the left overs, but kept them out for a while hoping some other hungry hiker would pass.  I finally finished it off, thinking the calories might help me get a good night sleep.  We dozed off just after twilight to the sound of the river, and our audio book, thinking about the creek ford we would have to make tomorrow, and the ascent to Muir Pass.  I hoped my kids were tucked safely in their beds at home.