Sierra Odyssey

Day 7

Tuesday, July 22.  Duck Creek Crossing.  10,200 feet.  12 miles.

As if we were planning our rendezvous with military precision, Drew and I arrived at the parking area near the restaurant just as Renee and Vanessa pulled up.  Based on the joy I felt at seeing them and the warmth of our greeting, you'd think we hadn't seen each other in years.  But it was genuine all around.

We had breakfast at the restaurant, then returned to our campsite to sort gear.  Pack the new food, the fresh film, toilet paper, insect repellent and the rest.  Leave the exposed film, the finished book and the like behind.

Family dynamics this morning were a pleasant contrast to life at home lately.  The frequent parent-teenager tensions and sibling battles were replaced with good humor and kindness.  Where was the sarcasm and bickering?  Teasing, you bet, but spoken with a smile and received the same way.  It's nice to know that if we get away from the battlefield with its parent-mandated responsibilities and limits, we can be a loving family.  Renee and I can take heart.  Maybe there will be sunlight at the end of the teenage dark time.

Near noon, we shouldered our heaviest-yet packs (nine days of food), said a difficult good-bye, and turned south toward the remaining eighteen days and 170 miles of walking still ahead.

Drew and I walked in silence for a long while, each of us alone with our thoughts.  The country immediately beyond Red's Meadow is an eerie open forest of black-burned snags, remnants of a devastating 1992 fire that extends down to the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River and beyond.  It was desolate and cheerless - scenery that matched our mood as we left behind smiling, loving faces for a trail, the end of which, seems so far away.

Finally, Drew broke the silence.  "Dad, I'm not sure that meeting Mom and Vanessa was a good idea," he said, acknowledging the melancholy we both felt after leaving them.  I agreed, but I was glad to see our sometimes indifferent and tough-talking 18 year-old express those feelings about his mother and sister.

Our attention turned to the steady, pitiless climb through more soft volcanic ash up and along the Mammoth Crest.  We left the fire's devastation and entered a thriving forest of red firs and lodgepole pines.  The grade eased and we began traversing the crest as much as climbing it.  Seven miles out we reached Deer Creek knowing that it was five miles to the next water at the outlet of Duck Lake where we are now.

I had hoped that the clear weather of the past two days meant an end to the rain, but the sky grew more threatening and thunder constantly rumbled in the distance.  A hard rain hit a mile before camp casting a dreary veil over the views across Fish Creek two thousand feet below toward the peaks of the Silver Divide beyond.

Hurried by the rain, we have set up camp in a marginal spot not far from the trail next to the unnamed outlet creek from Duck Lake.  We met another Scotsman on the trail today who is our neighbor for the evening.  Moments ago, he came by with a friendly offer to share some hot chocolate he had made.  Too warm and comfortable to emerge from the tent, I politely refused.  Drew felt the kind gesture deserved a kind response.  I can hear them getting acquainted in the wet darkness.

Legs are sore, but our strength continues to grow.  I dressed my new heel blister in a Band-aid secured by a cover of duct tape, but it slid off.  It looks ugly, but did not hinder today's walking.  Likewise, the Bridalveil Falls injuries on my left foot still look bad but have not been troublesome.  Other than that, we only have the normal peripheral aches and pains - nothing that hampers us.

9:00.  Good night.  Miss you, Renee and Vanessa - warm and dry in a motel somewhere just over the hill.  Damn rain.

Day 8

Wednesday, July 23.  Tully Hole.  9,200 feet.  6 1/2 miles.

I am sick, downhearted and angry about how this trip is going so far.  It features everything that makes backpacking drudgery.  Mosquitoes in droves pursue us everywhere.  If we weren't pitching the tent daily on account of the weather, we would have to do it to escape the mosquitoes.  Even a quick entry into the tent allows a half dozen of the buzzing bloodsuckers in.

And the weather.  Rain, rain, rain.  For four of the eight days we have spent on the trail so far, we have walked through steady rain.  Today we stood under a tree while it hailed harder than I have ever seen it hail.  The trail turned into a river, mini-landslides slipped all around us - wet boots, wet socks, wet everything.

We left camp at 8:00 this morning under cloudy skies, feeling strong.  The rain held off while we traversed to Purple Lake, then crossed a small divide over to beautiful Lake Virginia.  The great view toward the Silver Divide was gray with threatening in-bound clouds.  We snacked there on hummus, crackers and cheese before pressing on.  We were just underway again when all hell broke loose.  Hard rain, hard hail, topsoil washing away.

After waiting out the heavy downfall under a tree, we descended to Tully Hole.  When the skies opened up again, we decided to call it a day. 

As annoying as the discomfort of this weather is the constant preoccupation it requires.  We must constantly assess options.  Should we wait it out?  Should we walk through it?  Will things improve or deteriorate?  My first thought in the morning is to check the sky.  If it is clear, I feel a frantic urgency to pack and get underway before the rain comes.  I don't want to be crossing a high pass when lightning is cracking all around.

We stopped at Tully Hole because lightning was very close.  One strike, simultaneous thunder and lightning, was so loud and close that Drew leapt over and grabbed my arm, feeling the same alarm I did.  We are in a relatively low spot here and next is the climb to Silver Pass.  I don't want to walk with my son toward an 11,000-foot pass over open granite in this.  It's best that we wait here. 

I had hoped to make Squaw Lake just below Silver Pass.  Here, we are five miles from that goal - additional distance to make up in order to meet Peter on schedule for our next resupply at Bishop Pass a week from now.  We set up our tent in a downpour, climbed in and waited out this latest punch of weather.  We are warm and dry, but brooding.

Drew's resilience under these trying circumstances is impressive.  When the rain stopped, he emerged from the tent and pulled a couple of trout from just-born Fish Creek that twists through this meadow in the gorge between Mammoth Crest and Silver Divide.  I was not motivated to leave the comfort of my sleeping bag to be mosquito food in this cold, saturated and dreary place.

Later, after an hour of persistent effort, Drew coaxed drenched wood to ignite into a mood-lifting fire.  It might even be pretty here if it were lit by the sun.

The word we have twice heard on the trail is that a tropical storm somewhere in Texas is causing this wet weather.  Heard it rained in Los Angeles - something that virtually never happens in the summer.  They say it will end soon.  Oh, please.

Please, Great Spirit, I didn't mean those irreverent comments I made earlier.  Restore us to normal summer Sierra weather.  I feel a sense of responsibility to Drew for this trip.  I want him to remember this as a special experience, not the trial he endured.  So far, his buoyancy exceeds mine. Who's leaning on whom here?

It's 8:00 and mostly clear.  What will tomorrow bring?

Day 9

Thursday, July 24.  South of Silver Pass on the North Fork of Mono Creek.  8,800 feet.  9 miles.

My threshold of satisfaction on this trip has been so pummeled by bad weather that sitting here under total cloud cover, in a brisk wind, thunder and lightning on the surrounding peaks, and occasional timid rain is a grand delight.  I'm outside, dry and warm, and not under siege from mosquitoes.  Glorious.

Last evening, I worried about the prospects for completing this trip.  The persistently bad weather, falling behind schedule, wet boots, socks, sleeping bags, tent, shirts, pants.  Do we have the heart for more of this?

When I emerged from the tent at Tully Hole to answer nature's call at 5:00 this morning, it looked like more of the same - gray skies.  I rolled through the options again:  When will it start?  Should we pack up and go now or wait for things to improve?  I don't know.  Drew was sleeping hard.  I decided to wait awhile.

I want Drew to have a good time on this trip.  That is part of why this weather upsets me so.  I am the experienced backpacker, the father, the person he looks to for security and assurance here.  I am supposed to know what to do.  I can't let him know that I don't.

There is more than that though.  I have not responded well to this unusual stretch of bad weather.  Summer Sierra weather is famous for its dry days interrupted only occasionally by a brief afternoon thundershower.  Full-blown storm fronts are virtually unheard of in summer.  My experience in these mountains has confirmed this, and frankly spoiled me.

The essence of backpacking is to adapt to what nature deals you.  The natural elements are in charge here.  I have not eased into the Zen of this lousy weather.  Instead, I have whined.

True Confessions:  Drew has been more adult that I have.  We might be setting up the tent in a downpour and, my frustration getting the better of me, I spew a long blue line of invective.  Drew is the one with the words of comfort.  For all the confounding curve balls he can throw us at home, he has been a better man than I through all this.   

Rejoice.  A couple of hours after my cloudy-skied pee break, the sky held more blue that gray.  I roused Drew to action.

Packs loaded with wads of wet stuff, feet trying to warm wet socks and boots, we headed for 11,000-foot Silver Pass.  This morning:  strong bodies, good walking, mostly sun.

We walked quietly.  Drew was a little tired and irritated by my persistent prodding to awaken him this morning.  But beautiful scenery eased the climb.  As we neared Silver Pass, Banner and Ritter were visible four days and 40 miles behind us.

We stopped for a snack and a repair of my right heel blister dressing.  I am surprised that moleskin covered with duct tape won't stay secure.  This stuff pulls paint off my deck at home.  Why won't it stay firmly on my foot?

Crossing Silver Pass, we left the drainage of the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River and entered the watershed of the South Fork of the San Joaquin.  High on the south side of the pass were stark glacial lakes and open alpine country.  Then things grew very steep.  We both remarked that we were glad to be descending this side and not climbing it.  But the show was grand:  beautiful meadows, steep powerful cascades, and the freshest and most varied flower show yet:  Leopard lilies, Davidson Penstemon, Cone Flower, Crimson Columbine, Lupine, Mountain Pride Penstemon and more.

We made camp a mile or so above Mono Creek, fearing people and mosquitoes below.  Good choice.  Water, but no bugs.  Expansive view across Mono Creek to Bear Ridge.  Haven't seen a person. 

Such an evening is what I had hoped for on this trip.  Dinner was prepared casually, not hurriedly in the rain.  We played our hack-sack game exchanging the normal teasing and ridiculing that accompanies any male contest of skill.

This is the first time we have not been preoccupied with bugs and the weather, but instead with the pleasure of sitting here, being here and being together.

Shoulders and hips are tender from the pressure of the load, but not unbearably so.  My new pack is a vast improvement is this respect.  Crossing Silver Pass did not raise any altitude problems.  We are acclimatizing.  My feet are feeling the miles and my muscles complain, but only mildly.  However, after a short rest in the camp chair, I stiffen up and appear to be doing an imitation of Walter Brennan as I grope and groan attempting to stand.  I am getting used to black toenails and general filth.

Day 10

Friday, July 25.  Marie Lake.  10,500 feet.  12.6 miles.

The setting here at Marie Lake is certainly our most spectacular campsite so far.  Nestled in a broad granite basin, the lake is situated only one mile and three hundred vertical feet below Selden Pass.  The peaks of the Mono Divide are visible several miles to the north.  We are wrapped on the remaining three sides by nearer peaks dominated by Seven Gables topping 13,000 feet.  Though peaks surround us, we are not hemmed in.  This is an open expansive place.

Polished granite, wind-sculpted whitebark pines, and the lake's islands, coves and peninsulas combine in a stunning setting to sit and enjoy the heights beyond.  Our constant companions, the rain clouds, have separated enough to add a spectacular sunset to this incredible show.

This morning we broke camp, our most enjoyable so far, with ambitious plans to gain back some of the miles we have lost to the weather.  A bright sky lifted our spirits and the chatter flowed between us.  We descended the remaining two miles to Mono Creek (7,800 feet) and climbed Bear Ridge on the other side.  I have made this climb before and was dreading doing it again.  It is a seemingly endless series of switchbacks through forest cover.  When I last walked here, it was near the end of the day and the relentless climb was drudgery.  This time, fresh and more fit, Drew and I easily reeled in the elevation.

It couldn't last and it didn't.  Enshrouded in trees at the top of Bear Ridge, we hadn't noticed the gathering clouds.  But on the long traverse of the ridge, the persistent rain pattern returned.  Thankfully, it never rained hard.  It was just a nuisance.

After descending 1,000 feet on the far side of Bear Ridge, we joined Bear Creek that we followed six more miles to our camp here.   The walk along Bear Creek was truly enjoyable.  Up a gentle gradient, we ascended painlessly through classic Sierra landscape - a beautiful open forest, protruding granite monoliths, all beside a rollicking creek.  The only obstacle on the walk was a hairy crossing of Bear Creek through fast moving thigh-high water.

I cannot recall ever seeing such a spectacular sunset as this.  Under the warm light of the setting sun, powerful clouds with a tremendous vertical reach are dancing on a persistent cold wind for an ever-changing show.

How do you tell people about such places?  Words can't do it.  Pictures only approximate it.  What is finer than a spent body with a full stomach sitting here watching this show?  There is satisfaction in knowing you have earned the right to see such a spectacle - way up here - all alone.

It is 9:00 and Drew is in tears.  This is the first time that being stuck out here with Dad is reaching him.  Earlier, he sat on a rock, fishing in aggravated silence.  "I don't want to be here.  It's nice and all, but it's a long time."  I stupidly mentioned the coming start of the school year, and that sent him into a tailspin of depression.  Drew faced some truly difficult times in school last year.  In his mind, school is directly responsible for the pain in his life.  He is worried that when school starts, he will descend into despair.

Too late.  Too tired.  Goodnight.