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.