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.