Sierra Odyssey

Day 20

Monday, August 4.  Wallace Creek.  18 miles.  10,200 ft.

What a day.  Our world has changed since this morning. 

The day dawned beautifully clear, but our gear was soaked from the evening dew.  The sun did not clear the Kearsarge Pinnacles until 8:00 or so, and it took some time to dry things out. We weren't underway until 9:45.  We must be the latest starters on the trail.

The climb to Forester Pass follows Bubb's Creek which tumbles down a broad glaciated valley with sweeping views that grew more spectacular the higher we went.  The pleasant grade along the creek made for comfortable walking until we reached the steep cirque a couple miles beneath the pass.

Drew is jazzed and excited and strong.  It is a delight to see.  He is rarely chatty and never shares his feelings, but this morning Drew offered that he is enjoying the trip in a new way.  Certainly, part of the change is due to his growing strength.  The climb to 13,200-foot Forester Pass is much more fun and far less drudgery than it would have been three weeks ago.  He shot up the pass as if gravity were an unfounded rumor.

At 1:30, six miles and 3,000 vertical feet above last night's camp, we stood on top of Forester Pass.  It is our highest point on the trip so far and marks our departure from King's Canyon National Park and entry into Sequoia.  Below are the headwaters of the Kern River.

After descending the south side of the pass, we decided to treat ourselves to a hot lunch, but the stove would not start.  All the remedial measures I have taken before were fruitless this time.  Dead stove, period.

For some reason, the fates have decided that Drew and I must deal with one trip-threatening preoccupation or another throughout this walk.  Until yesterday the weather wielded the baton forcing us to constantly anticipate its uncertain whimsy.  Now, the stove won't work.  We can't cook any food.  What do we do?

As we had with the weather, we discussed our options.  The weather had washed out earlier layover days we had planned in order to climb Mt. Lyell and Mt. Goddard.  I had hoped to camp tonight near Mt. Tyndall and take a day to walk to its summit.  That's out now.  We decided that our best option was to push hard for the finish line eating what dry food we have.  We shouldered our packs and set out to cover as much ground as possible before dark.  There is a backcountry ranger cabin at Crabtree Meadow.  Maybe the ranger (if he is there) has a stove we could use.  Who knows?

Bless Drew.  When I get frustrated and angry at confounding situations like this, Drew steps in to say everything will be just fine.  "We'll just to such-and-such, and things will work out.  It'll be OK."

We walked like we were possessed, but as evening approached, we realized Crabtree Meadow was out of reach.  By a stroke of luck, when we arrived at Wallace Creek, we ran into Bill and Irene from Reno who we have seen on the trail several times.  I asked Bill if I could trade him some fuel in exchange for the use of his stove to cook our dinner.  No problem, he said.  After cooking their dinner, he came over and chatted with us while we cooked ours.  Awfully nice.  What a lifesaver.

Suddenly, Mt. Whitney is tomorrow.  We will climb over 4,000 feet and walk 13 miles to its summit, then camp somewhere on the other side.  On Wednesday, we will hike out, arriving in Lone Pine two days before our Friday motel reservation.  I made that reservation because I have exited the wilderness at Lone Pine before only to find a town with no motel vacancies.  Please, not that.

For now, lovely sleep.  Tomorrow, our biggest day and our ultimate goal.

Day 21

Tuesday, August 5.  Trail Camp.  17.4 miles.  12,000 ft.

Today was the culmination of our trip and it could not have been better had I scripted it.  It would be a long day, so Drew and I started early.  We were up, packed, and on the trail at 6:30 walking through a beautiful morning.

The terrain we have crossed since leaving Tyndall Creek yesterday is extraordinary.  The sandy but firm ground supports open stands of foxtail pine.  These rare trees are simply enchanting.  Living here in particularly hostile surroundings - high, windswept, exposed places - their limbs are contorted in the most amazing and artistic ways.  Their massive trunks stand erect giving way very little to the intense winds that rake these bare slopes.  The foxtail's reddish brown bark is often ripped away on the windward side revealing the tree's  gnarled and twisted grain - evidence of the constant struggle against the wind.  Needles are born at the end of branches (resembling a fox's tail) that twist in every different direction.  The overall effect is magical.  My favorite tree, by far.  There is a wonderful open feeling walking through their widely spaced stands, while up above, the occasional dead foxtail snag stands like an eerie lonely monarch.

We walked fresh and strong through the morning.  At Timberline Lake, we left the trees and entered the world of granite.  We ascended easily along the base of Whitney's rounded back side that rose steeply on our left, constantly looking ahead for the spot where the trail would veer left toward the serious switchback climbing to the summit.

After a rest and a snack at Guitar Lake, up we went.  The fitness gained over the past three weeks and 200 miles served us well.  We easily climbed the 2,000 feet to Trail Crest (13,480 ft.), the pass to the other side and the junction to the Whitney summit.  Dropping our packs there, we stuffed a few items in a fanny pack and were off.  We rambled up the 2 1/2 miles to the summit, on our way peering between Whitney's spires down the Sierra's steep eastern escarpment to Lone Pine and the Owens Valley 10,000 feet below.

Up the broad rounded back of Mt. Whitney until it finally gave way to the sweeping summit plateau.  There, beyond the summit hut, the mountain dropped away offering an unsurpassed view.  Finally, a  perfectly clear and windless day.  In every direction, the view was clear and limitless.  Though we could see an immense distance northward, we could not see nearly the entirety of the distance we had walked.

I never experience deep emotional responses in my personal life.  No tears...ever.  Yet, surprisingly and inexplicably, as we neared the crest, I could not suppress the tears.  On my approach to the summit, I had not been sentimentally reflecting on the trip, just mindlessly plodding as I had been for weeks, when uninvited and unexpected, they came.  The fact that Drew, my son, and I had done this special thing, and that this was the pinnacle moment, overcame me without any of those conscious thoughts.  Though I tried, it took awhile to control.  I can't remember a better feeling.

Drew was openly excited and proud for what he had done - walked for three weeks and 210 miles over incredibly difficult terrain, at high altitude, through lousy weather, with a heavy pack on his back.  An now, at 14,494 feet, every point in the contiguous 48 United States was below the soles of his boots.

We lingered perhaps an hour at the summit taking pictures and enjoying the view.  The top of Mt. Whitney can be quite busy, but thankfully we enjoyed relative peace there.  Excited and energized, we bounded down the 5 miles to Trail Camp, reeling in plodding unburdened peak-baggers along the way.

Trail Camp.  Sheeesh.

For three weeks now, we have enjoyed peace one can rarely experience in everyday life.  The wind, rushing water, occasional thunder, and each other's voices are nearly all we have heard.  Granite, pines, lakes, rivers, and a changing sky are nearly all we have seen.  To us, arriving at Trail Camp where we will spend the night is like being dropped in the middle of a three-ring circus.  We have barely spoken since we arrived.  We just sit in amazed silence, turning our heads this way, then that, to catch the next attraction.

We are surrounded by bright and shiny people decked out in crisp logo-laden clothing fussing endlessly with their equipment as though playing "house."  Drew and I are a mess.  We are unshaven and filthy.  Our hair hasn't been combed in three weeks and it shows.  We are wearing dirty sweat-stained generic clothes.  We stand out like serial killers at a party for REI manikins.

Trail Camp is a rocky, windy, dismal place.  Each individual campsite is a small discreet spot that has been cleared of rocks that were then used to build a protective wind barricade.  How many are there?  30?  50?  We have claimed one for ourselves.  It is the only site without a tent - just two sleeping bags rolled out on our ground cloth.

It is nothing to be proud of, but neither of us can disguise our disgust with this scene.  After all, these people deserve credit for choosing to come here rather than the mall.  But we can't help watching the show, occasionally exchanging can-you-believe-it glances.  Earlier, a fully erected freestanding tent blew by, rolling like a wind-driven beach ball.  Giddily triumphant hikers return from Whitney as though from the summit of Everest carrying no load and wielding brand new trekking poles in a useless fashion.

Shame on us.  Such judgment is harsh and unfair.  But sitting here, seeing this, it is hard not to measure the efforts of these weekend peak-baggers against our trip.  In some small way and for a short while, we were more than just visitors.  We began to feel and move to the rhythms of this place.  The weather made sure of that.  For three weeks, many things we control down below were out of our hands here.  We are glad to be nearly through.  We are looking forward to a shower, a porcelain toilet seat, a great meal.  But we both know that because of this experience, a little part of us is transformed. 

We're off to Bill and Irene's tent.  We are sharing some extra food and they are once again sharing their stove.