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.

Civilization, sort of

Day 6

It is pretty much impossible, or at least very heavy and unpleasant, to carry fourteen days of food.  At home, before we took off for this trip, we measured, planned, organized and shopped.  We had piles of freeze dried dinners, granola bars, bags of trail mix, pudding and hot chocolate.  We portioned the food out so that each of us had three meals a day, plus snacks, that added up to about a pound a piece and discovered that two weeks of food was just too much to carry at once.  Plus it didn’t fit in the dumb bear can.  So, using our guidebooks we picked out a spot that would allow us to send ourselves the rest of the food and keep it until we got there.  I had often heard about this place called Vermillion Valley Resort.  Tucked in the back side of the Muir Wilderness, south of Yosemite, this old fishing resort has become a favorite of PCT hikers as well.  They pick you up on this old party boat and ferry you across Edison Lake to the resort where they feed you, put you up for the night and deliver to you your re-supply food.  So we hiked down to where the ferry picks you up, waited on the granite for two hours, and then hopped on the ferry when it came.  These guys have it figured out.  There were at least twenty hungry hikers on the boat and as soon as they really got started across the lake a portly man stood up near the bow and asked “do you want to know what we’ve got for dinner tonight?”  He was the head chef (I think he eats a lot of his own cooking) and he listed off all of the meat-heavy entrees on the night’s menu.  My husband was salivating, along with quite a few others.  Apparently we were not eating our last trail meal tonight. 

We all trudged off the boat and up the long, sandy shore.  Since this has been such a low snow year, that means it’s a low water year too, and the lake was pretty empty. Crusty green remnants of algae clung to the rocks and there were bath tub rings of former lake levels all around the shore line.   The owner said he’d probably even have to take the ferry out in a couple of weeks, and people would just have to walk in- only another five miles.   The resort was quaint, if not a little of a red neck paradise- small, old trailers were tucked in among the trees, a few shingle sided buildings were dotted about too, and the air smelled like camp grounds.  They rounded us all up, introduced Debbie, and gave us our indoctrination:  Each hiker or set of hikers would be given a tab- anything you wanted from the store or restaurant would be added to the tab- honor system style; our first drink, be it a soda or a beer, was free; showers, complete with towel and soap, were six dollars; restaurant opened at four and closed at ten; electricity was by generator and would be turned off at 10:30, (this was to be very important information later); anyone with a resupply box could pick it up in the morning because there were active bears in the area and they didn’t want all that food out in “tent city”; and the ferry left at 9:30 tomorrow morning to take hikers back to the trail. 

After a heavy meal of rib eye steak and bland fettuccini Alfredo, Mark and I set up our tent and I found a nice little spot to do my journaling. Soon I could hear him snoring away, even though the sound of hikers and campers laughing and talking was pretty loud.  Then they turned on the Karaoke machine.  Socially deprived people with a social outlet and lots of beer= VERY loud karaoke.  One girl was actually pretty good- she sang House of the Rising Sun and Debbie told her if she scored a 98 she would buy her a beer.  Not that any of them really needed more beer- I saw twelve packs and six packs coming over that grocery counter in a steady stream all night long- but the challenge had been set.  I crawled in next to Mark for a little while and let my dutiful wife side wage war with my outgoing side.  Despite the noise, I snoozed for a little while, but woke up on a particularly screechy note and couldn’t get back to sleep.  Participating would have been a lot of fun; trying to get to sleep while they were having fun was not. Finally, just as Mark was ready to give up, the generators shut off at 10:30, right in the middle of a rousing “Ruby don’t take your love to town”! Had it not been for the large circle of drunken hikers by the fire pit until two am, we would have slept well.

My first actual resupply (one year we mailed out our food boxes but never hiked to them because of an injury on trail) was much anticipated.  I thought it would be like Christmas.  It was a lot less thrilling.  We spent about an hour unpacking and repacking food.  I was really glad to see trail mix again and there was a new chap stick and a few other nice items (like Mark’s birthday cheesecake mix) but mostly it was a logistical challenge.  We only had a few items left over that didn’t fit, like that last meal that got replaced with a steak dinner, but that was ok, as I got to contribute them to the Hiker Box.  Almost every resupply point, and lots of back country post offices, have a Hiker Box.  When you receive this lovely new food, you don’t want to have to continue to carry your old food around (usually there is one meal you haven’t really been looking forward to anyway- sort of an emergency stand by which has been sitting in your camping box in the garage or someone gave to you as a free sample), and when you pack things in April or May, there’s no guarantee you are still going to want to eat those things in July. So, people toss their cast-off food into the hiker box so that other hikers can vary their diet, make it to the next resupply, or just grab a quick meal.  The good stuff gets grabbed up right away- we once put in a bag of Snicker bars that disappeared in minutes, and there was even a small scuffle over who got to the box first, although hikers are fairly amiable people and it was settled reasonably.  What mostly remains in the boxes are unlabeled zip lock bags of unidentifiable grains, powders (which usually turn out to be mashed potatoes) and corn pasta. Ray Jardine, a hike/author of some notoriety, insisted in his books that corn pasta has the best protein and calorie rating per ounce.  Hikers were heading to health food stores and combing their local supermarket to buy the stuff and packing it into their resupply boxes so that they would gain the nutritional benefit of the preferred pasta over the next few months of their hike only to find that corn pasta doesn’t cook up very well, especially not at high altitude, and it really doesn’t taste so great either.   One hiker complained that he could never find any corn pasta to put in his resupply, but on the trail he hadn’t any trouble finding it at all.  Probably a lot of it is buried across the wilderness from Mexico to Canada as well. 

Fully reloaded (my pack now weighed 26 pounds!!!) we made our way down to the shore, hopped on the ferry and readied ourselves for another day of trail.  Was it tempting to stay another night in the luxury of civilization?  Maybe a little, but after one rousing night of reveling hikers, we didn’t want to chance what a real holiday would look like.  It was Fourth of July, and we were going to celebrate our Freedom!

It was a hot day and we had a 4.2 mile climb up a 2,000 foot ridge.  The trail was exposed to the sun, hot and dusty, but not too rocky.  I had all my heavy clothes in the pack because I did not want them on my body, plus the nine pounds of food and water for the day as we were told water was sparse in this area.  Whoo!  The water we carry in our packs is in those handy hydration systems where you have a water tube clipped to your chest strap and you can just sip at will.  I sip a lot when I am climbing because my mouth gets so dry, and because it gives me a reason to stop a second.  There is a drawback to that of course.  On the other side, going downhill, my 55 year old bladder doesn’t hold up so well, and I could easily be the poster child for the “frequent and sudden urges” commercial.  Today I got sick of the usual protocol of having to find a tree every twenty minutes, where I have to drop my pack, undo my belt…  So I learned to just answer Nature’s call with my pack on.  Then, after another little while, I kicked my underwear off and just hiked in my skirt.  That was a revelation!!  After that I was almost as quick as Mark in watering the trail’s trees. No wonder skirts are becoming such a popular thing to hike in!

We passed a young couple sprawled out under a tree dead asleep, and kept on marching.  Later, as we stopped for a snack break, they caught up to us.  They live in San Diego, pretty near the PCT, and he had given rides to scores of hikers to and from town- forty four of them as I recall.  I asked him if he had drawn little stick figures on the side of his car with a grease pencil- “no” he said, but that was a great idea!  He had taken their pictures though, and gained an interest in hiking the trail.  So he and his wife decided to do the JMT this year.  They had been camped below us in tent city at VVR, and although I didn’t remember them right away, she remembered us.  She thought we were Thru Hikers-that’s a big compliment.  She was the one that sang House of the Rising Sun so passionately the night before, and it was then that I got to name my first hiker.  As I related before, she was pretty happy to have her trail name, and though she had been drawing hearts in the dust with her poles earlier, at that point she started drawing little sun shines instead.  We leap frogged them all the rest of the afternoon- doing creek crossings together (whoever told us this was a dry stretch was either delusional or lying)  and even helped Rising Sun find her way back to the trail at one point where a downed tree blocked the trail completely and you had to walk way around it. 

We are Cowboy camped on the granite out under the stars near Bear Creek.  No fireworks, no Star Spangled Banner, no home-made ice cream or s’mores to celebrate, just a clear, clear blue sky and freedom as far as the eye see.  And lots of mosquitos. So we shrugged down into our bags before the sun even set, put on our head nets,  and turned on the audio book.  I have no idea whatsoever what happened in that chapter.  Woke up in the night to find the bright, bright moon reflecting everywhere off the smooth granite. It was as bright as sunrise but with a cooler glow, and there were long shadows emanating from my water bottle, my pack, the trees, and then myself as I got up to do what one does in nature in the middle of the night.  Of course I snuggled back into my bag softly humming the Moonshadow song, and it was so beautiful and soulful that I lay awake  quite a while trying to settle that feeling into my soul so I wouldn’t lose it on the long walk tomorrow.

Over Silver Pass

Day 5

We broke camp very early this morning to get a head start on a long, hard climb.  I love the early morning air- so fresh and crisp. I wore my gloves for quite a while even though it wasn’t really that cold, and hiked in my “jammies” with my skirt pulled over the top.  Out here I never have to worry about what is fashionable (not that I worry about it at home either, really) and just wear whatever works.  My thermal top and bottoms were just too cozy to loose today, so pulling my skirt on over the top of the leggings made me feel like it was day wear, and I used my long sleeved hiking shirt to cover my wool thermal top so it wouldn’t get so dirty. 

It is intensely beautiful, and hard, like all things in life that are worthwhile and good.  I have those blissfully golden moments when I look around and I am keenly aware how good life is and that I am doing exactly what I was created to do; I breathe in the rare air, listen to the birds waking up, pan the horizon for all its green and dramatic beauty.  The rest of the time I am just working so hard to keep going.  We have passed through ideal territory today- next to burbling creeks and water falls, through towering trees, past fields of wildflowers and green meadows.  My heavy feet and hard breathing remind me how hard I am working, but my heart and soul soar.

We stopped at Squaw Lake, just before the pass. I sat and grabbed my journal while Mark went off to do what he had to do.  I am busily collecting wild flowers to press between the pages- I want to adorn my journal with them later. There is heather all over here, with its little bright pink flowers peeking out from under the needlelike foliage, but it doesn’t press well.  I am reminded of Heather, my niece and send off a little prayer for her.  I feel like my prayers are heard so much better here where there is no interference from all the radio and TV waves and noise and traffic.  Less interference in my soul, too.  I am just reveling in paradise- nature as pure and clean and harsh and real as it was made to be.  But then Mark returns and I have to put my pack back on and keep walking.  The reflections stay with me for quite a while though.

It is only 8 am. We have walked three miles already.  Breakfast is already a distant memory and it is hours before lunch.  We have already stripped off our warm clothes and are down to just shirts, shorts and sunhats.  No matter how beautiful this all is, there are still ten miles left to go, and I am already running low on energy with no snacks left to munch on.  So on we march, over the rocky terrain and up over the pass. 

We took an early lunch just after the pass because we were both tired and hungry.  The other side was rocky and barren and steep, but this side is velvety green land dotted with trees, sloping down to little green lakes. We tucked in behind a little cluster of trees and got out our bagels and cream cheese. A few hikers passed by and we greeted them in between chews and swallows.  One set didn’t even see us right away and I think we scared them a little.  We sat and watched them fade into the distance- it is amazing how quickly you can make distance out here.  One minute, you are looking down into a valley that seems so far away, and just moments later you are down in that valley looking back up into the hills where you came from.  Those hikers quickly became little dots of bright color on a ridge far below.  When we got up and walked to that same ridge, I mused that now we were the bright bits of color bobbing along the ridge.  Your perspective changes out here.

In one narrow passage of rocky trail we were met by a group of three trail workers from the Forest Service.  The young man was friendly, but a little officious, and after he had greeted us nicely and asked if we were enjoying our evening camp fires, (which was a bit of a trap as there is a fire ban in this area) he asked if we had our wilderness permit.  Each of the trio carried a work implement- an axe, a bow saw, a shovel and a hefty pack and we chatted about trail work and such while Mark dug in his pack for the permit.  We’d never been asked to show ours before, and since you must apply for, pay for and carry a permit, I’s nice to know that they check them sometimes. I read the three of them my trial crew poem and they appreciated it- the guy even said he got tingles. 

The next seven miles were the most beautiful I have yet seen.  I am really glad that hiker at Red’s Meadow encouraged me to keep going.  Little creeks trickle down the smooth granite, or rushing torrents stream over large granite stones.  In one area water trickled, rushed slipped and fell over huge boulders and small stones.  In wetter years this would have been an amazing waterfall, but this year it is a small falls and a lot of trickles. Its moist and cool here, very pleasant.  We stopped and enjoyed the beauty of it for just a while.  I took my time picking my way over and around the boulders and through the water, which had pretty much covered the trail here, just so that I would have a little longer.  Mark had a bit of a headache, so we made sure to tank up on some water, and then we moved reluctantly on.  Further down we passed another part of the river where the water flowed over the granite in sheets and ripples.  I pictured us lying on the sun-warmed stone with our heads and feet in the pools of water, but Mark wasn’t ready to stop.  There were still a lot of miles to go to catch the ferry for the resupply.  We did stop later where the creek crossed the trail and it was so hot out Mark plunged into the creek fully dressed.  I took off my shoes and socks and splashed my face, arms, legs and necks, then perched myself up on a rock in the creek with a cup full of granola, mixed up my powdered milk, added a last little bit of nuts and fruit that I found in my pocket and fully enjoyed a bowl of cereal in the most beautiful eatery ever.  The Frenchies came by- they had camped just near us last night- and spread themselves out for lunch.  We shared a piece of Sonoma cheese and worked on communicating for a little while, trying to tell them we were from the wine country.  We were surprised to hear that they had reservations in Napa when they were finished with the JMT- apparently she loves wine. 

Here is my creative effort for the day. It kept my mind busy while descending the rocky trail. 

Down Silver Pass

Soft feet on hard rock
I descend
Step
after carefully placed
step
down the glaring
granite path
The sun's stark rays
bake the back of my neck
as i continue on.
The trail turns
water trickles, rushes
a cool breeze bursts on my hot face
The path explodes in green
Yellow, purple, pink blossoms
waft in the wind
I linger,
naming each wildflower friend
Shooting Star, Columbine, Larkspur...
The visit is brief
the cruel trail turns into the heat  again
Through mountian goat country
Though we see none of them here.

Day 4- Red Cones to Fish Creek

You will notice the title of this thing is “Veggie on the JMT.”  That is not because I am a staunch vegetarian trying to proselytize the hiking  masses and spread the message of more healthy eating choices or trying to prove that vegetarians can have a better hiking experience than anyone else.  I have been vegetarian or quasi vegetarian most of my life, but it is a diet I choose for myself and not something I go about trying to force on others.  I hardly even feel very vegetarian these days, because I will eat fowl when there is not a lot else to eat, and with my crazy digestive system lately there is not a whole lot I can eat.  Anyway, the point of all this rambling is to explain the Veggie thing.  It is very common for Thru Hikers to take on trail names.  Much like counselors at a summer camp, the hikers either name themselves with something that appeals to their alter ego, or they get named by someone else, usually for something distinct about them or something (usually stupid) that they have done.  Einstein, for instance, stowed his pack high in a tree so he could go drink and party in town, and upon trying to retrieve it fell down a ravine into poison oak and landed himself in the hospital. Birdman found a fledgling Peregrine Falcon that sat on his hat or shoulder for a few days until it got the courage (or strength) to fly off.  Our German friend Free Refill was thrilled to find out about the American phenomenon of getting a free refill when you buy a soft drink, and was always eager to fill up before he left a restaurant. My husband is called Snickers because he always had a Snicker bar in his pocket, and at the end of a hike would pass out any extra to other hikers.  He named me Veggie.  For someone who has tried hard to maintain a vegetarian diet but not make a big deal of it, it is a little humiliating, but, it is my trail name none the less, and it has launched one or two meaningful conversations, as well as getting me served tofu instead of burgers.  The first few days on the trail when you meet someone and they ask your name, you pause, looking a little stupid, and fumble. Should I give them my real name, my trail name?  Unsure at first, we almost always offer both names and explain the whole thing.  But after a few days on the trail I notice we just cheerfully introduce ourselves by our trail names, and I do think people remember them longer because they are unusual.  I actually got to help name a JMT hiker this year, which was pretty cool.  She  had been singing Karaoke the night before, House of the Rising Sun in fact, and had done an awesome job.  We decided to call her Rising Sun, which pleased her very much- she was drawing little sun shines in the dirt with her poles the rest of the day. 

We got dressed in the tent this morning.  It was a little awkward, but we had neighbors. We don’t set up the tent very often; usually we just lay down our ground cloth, place our sleeping mats on top of it, and put our sleeping bags on top.  That way we can watch the sun setting and see the stars at night.  This trip we put up the tent fairly regularly, mostly due to the amount of mosquitoes we were dealing with and also due to the fact that the JMT has quite a few more hikers on it than the PCT in general.  When we were finally packed up we said goodbye to Bill and Dave, but not before Bill showed me his fancy Jet Boil cooking system.  I gave Bill a Hello Kitty band aid for his blisters, we watched the sun reveal its morning light on those same beautiful mountain spires, and Mark and I headed out for the day. 

The first three miles just flew by as we hiked through some pretty nice country.  The creek that we camped by stayed with us for quite a while: sometimes right near the trail, sometimes running across it, and sometimes far away in the valley below.  It’s amazing how quickly a stream can fall off and be way below you, or how quickly you can catch up to a stream you hear in the distance.  The air was cool, the sun was bright, the wild flowers numerous, and the hiking pleasant.  After a nice water break we left the stream behind, headed into more sparse woodland and started ascending.  The heat and the incline of the trail definitely slowed us down and we spent the next five miles expecting to see the creek again at any minute.  Finally, about four hours later, we stopped at Duck Creek.  I waded in to cool my feet and fill up our water bottles, and in doing so found a nice stand of wild onions.  I picked and cleaned a few and cut them up to serve with our Wasa and cheese.  Bill and Dave were at the same creek.  We visited, compared blisters, shared a little wild onion and then they moved on and we sunned for just a little longer before we were ready to hit the trail again. 

We climbed again, up to Purple Lake, still going slow and making our way around, under and over downed trees,  but not as bad after the rest, water and food.  We saw quite a few PCT hikers too, which slowed us down as well, because we always like to stop and visit with the friendly ones, and most of them are.  We share trail conditions and water availability, talk about the upcoming weather and usually share a story or talk about our destinations.  Sometimes they ask if we have seen a particular hiker, and we are always happy to tell them what we know.  I have never met people so comfortable in their own skin as the thru hikers.  They are tan, lean and seldom out of breath.  They strike a comfortable pose as they stop to visit and move fluidly on as they resume their hiking pace.  I am often stretching out sore muscles or working on regulating my breath as I stop to talk.

Arriving at the lake we made some pudding, soaked our feet and said hi to the Frenchies.  (I guess I gave them trail names too) I thought about going in for a swim, but the wind had picked up and the water was pretty cold.  Instead I took a few minutes to do some laundry- just socks and my shirt.  It seems our breaks are a little longer and more frequent this hike, which is fine with me! Then it was back on the trail and up and over and around half a forest of trees. While doing so I composed and addendum verse to my Hail to the Trail Crew poem.  

Oh Where is our Valiant Trail Crew?
Their saws have been buzzing all year                                                                                                            But from these branches I’m scaling                                                                                                                
   and the dead trees left trailing                                                                                                                         
     I’m guessing they’ve not gotten here.

As I mentioned before, the Mammoth area had gotten hit with some pretty fierce wind storms this winter, and there were a lot of downed trees.  At first we were told we wouldn’t even be able to camp in that area, and that some of the trail might even be closed, but those trail crew are fast and sure, and had most of it taken care of before we got there.  One OCD friend of mine counted 97 trunks that he had to either step over or around.  I didn’t double check his figures.  I was too busy scrambling over tree trunks and watching where i was going.

Lake Virginia was another nice spot.  We had been told by a PCTer that there were a lot of people camped in and around there, but it is a big lake and we didn’t see anybody.  It was kind of cool to have the place to ourselves.  There was a lot of heather on the banks, and small butterflies dashed about, as well as a few dragonflies. The trail goes through, literally, one end of the lake, so you have to rock hop from boulder to boulder to get through dry.  That looked kind of fun, but with my coordination issues i would probably end up wet anyway, so I just took my socks off and slogged through in my shoes.  It felt pretty good, actually.  But then there’s the whole ordeal of drying feet and toes on the other side and making sure everything is in place before you move on. We took the trail around the lake, and then got to the top of a steep downhill section.  You could look down to the bottom and see all these trails zig zagging steeply back and forth in front of you, like the steps of a Mesopotamian Ziggurat or something.  The cool thing about this particular downhill stretch was that there were streams on either side, so we scurried down the path, rested momentarily in the shade of all the greenery that grows by the stream, and then scurried to the other side where we rested a moment again.  All I can say is I am sure glad I wasn’t climbing UP that stretch in the heat of that 90 degree day. 

Our original plan for the night was to camp at Squaw Lake, but since we were pretty tired out from the rigors of the day’s trail,  we found another spot close to a creek- actually seemed much more like a river to me- and made camp for the night.  We weren’t really very close to the water source, and I was actually a little grumbly about having to walk back so far (over some more downed trees) to that mosquito-haven to get water. I put on my long sleeved shirt, slathered on some repellent, grabbed the water containers and headed off. After we had made our dinner, some Thru Hikers stopped by, settled themselves out of the wind at the base of a big boulder at the edge of our camp, and made themselves dinner too.  We visited a little and found out that there was another creek just a few hundred feet down the trail the other way, which made me happy, because I still needed to get water for washing up and tomorrow’s supply.  Mark was pretty wiped out and started snoring, so I got to spend some time playing with my watercolors.  Tomorrow we hike in to VVR for our resupply, which is good, because my snacks are down to a meager supply and I am completely out of trail mix.