Sierra Odyssey

Hello and Welcome

In the summer of 2003, my teenage son and I hiked the John Muir Trail.  In an age where every sport must be "extreme" to be notable, hiking the John Muir Trail seems rather tame.  It is, after all, just walking.

Outdoor adventure literature is all about the extreme.  It's too bad.  Most of us are regular people whose aspirations for adventure are modest.  We know we will never summit all 14 of the 8,000-meter peaks.  It's beyond our physical capability and it requires a sacrifice and commitment that we are unwilling to make.  Though these amazing accounts are true life, for us regular folks, they are a wild fantasy.

But we can imagine ourselves undertaking an adventure like Colin Fletcher.  With no experience or special skills, Colin simply decided to walk the length of California and later, the Grand Canyon from end to end.  Nearly all of us can walk.  The critical difference between Colin Fletcher and the rest of us is that he went and did it.  We have reasons, real or imagined, why we never get around to it. 

When I browse the bookstore shelves, I keep looking for a tale told by a regular person like me of an adventure I might take.  For example, if I trek to Everest Base Camp, what should I expect?  How will I feel?  Will the altitude trouble me?  I have a guidebook; there are plenty of those.  But I'd like to learn from another person's experience what to expect and how I can enhance the trip I am planning.  What did you enjoy?  What was troublesome? 

So, I thought the story of a man and his teenage son walking the John Muir Trail together might interest other would-be adventurers like it would have interested me.  Beginning at 4,000 feet in Yosemite Valley, the John Muir Trail travels the Sierra crest for 220 miles over eleven mountain passes culminating at the summit of 14,494-foot Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the lower 48 states.  People considering such an adventure might wonder:  What is it like to backpack for three weeks?  When I take a four or five-day trip, I am always anxious to return.  Can I walk all day every day for three weeks - at altitude?  If I do it with my child, will we grow together or will we just bicker?  Perhaps our experience will give you an idea of what to expect.

I hope you will find this to be an entertaining and lively journal with some nice photos to light the way.  If you are contemplating such a trip, I encourage you to go.  If you do, along the trail, you will surely wonder what the hell possessed you to go.  Hopefully, the stunning beauty will see you through, because no matter how full your life might be with great memories, this trip will be among the sweetest.

The Night Before

Tuesday, July 15.  Backpacker Camp, Yosemite Valley.  8:45 P.M.

Tonight my son Drew and I are at Backpacker Camp in Yosemite Valley anticipating tomorrow's departure on a trip we cannot fully comprehend.  The numbered  campsites, flushing toilets, and running water we are enjoying here are luxuries we won't see for nearly a month.

Along with the excitement, I feel a sense of nervous anticipation.  There are so many questions to be answered that will end up defining this trip.  Do we have enough food, toilet paper, moleskin, insect repellent, camp stove fuel?  Or, maybe worse, do we have too much?  Are we up to the task ahead?  Or will we be done in by the heavy load, the altitude, blisters, the lousy food, bad weather, the bugs, crapping in a hole, or just the painful tedious effort of walking this rugged trail all day every day?

My nervous anticipation is magnified by the fact that I am doing this with my 18-year old son, Drew.  We made a deal.  If he comes along and carries a video camera (I have a commercial idea for its use and am carrying a still camera and lenses), I will help him purchase a second hand car he longs for.  Drew reluctantly resigned himself and now seems to have warmed a little to the adventure ahead.  But will the realities of backpacking for three weeks, with your father of all people, quickly cool that warmth into resentment?  Resentment that will be directed at me - and there is nowhere to hide in the backcountry in a two-person tent.

Tomorrow we will begin to answer these questions.  In the morning, we will shoulder our 45-pound packs and begin a 21-day 220-mile walk over eleven mountain passes reaching as high as 13,600 feet to our goal, the 14,494-foot summit of Mt. Whitney.  After weeks of planning, checking and double-checking our gear, there is nothing left to do but go.

Yet I know that all the careful planning cannot eliminate the possibility of a trip-shortening problem.  In the backcountry, a small oversight or careless mistake can have huge consequences.  I was reminded of this fact today in a powerful way when I jeopardized our entire trip through my own stupid carelessness.

We needed to come to Yosemite a day early in order to obtain a Wilderness Permit in-person.  When I decided to do this trip, I went online to check availability of permits for the month of July at the Happy Isles trailhead.  Advanced reservations for every day in July were gone.  The demand for overnight trips to Little Yosemite Valley and Half Dome makes this a popular backcountry access point, but reservations are only given for 60% of the permit allocations.  The rest go to applicants who appear in-person the same day or the day prior to a trip.

So, our family decided to come up a day early and spend the night at Curry Village.  That allowed me to be at the Wilderness Office this morning at 6:00 A.M. to be sure of obtaining a permit when they opened at 7:30.  Once that was done, we spent the rest of the day sightseeing.  On our way back from Glacier Point, we stopped at Bridalveil Falls and walked the short path to a viewpoint below the falls.

Signs warn of slippery footing on the rocks above the trail caused by the constant glaze of mist from the falls.  But like many others on the rocks above, the lure of getting closer to the falls was more than I could resist.  I scrambled up a less-traveled portion of the steep talus that Bridalveil Creek flows through below the falls when I came to an impasse.  I turned around and walked down to search for an alternate route when instantly, I was falling.  I knew I was in trouble, because it was the kind of fall where you have time to realize you are falling and wonder when it will stop.  The fall is jumbled in my memory, but I do recall a head-over-heels somersault.

Finally, I stopped.  I lay face up, my feet below me, reclining on a smooth inclined rock as though I had come there to sunbathe.  I lifted my head to get my bearings and take stock.  Amazingly, I appeared to be all right.  I waved to my daughter, who had seen the whole thing, to assure her.  I sat up and put my head between my legs to fight the onset of shock I was feeling.  I had a growing bump on my head, abrasions on my legs and a sore left foot, but that was all.

I was at once amazed at my good fortune and my outrageous carelessness.  I should be in the hospital. The trip should be scrubbed.  But miraculously, there didn't appear to be anything wrong with me that would jeopardize our plans.  After carefully descending to where my daughter was, I told her and Drew not to tell my wife.  She would worry enough while we were gone without adding this to the mix.

So, this day is done.  The steely-dusk sky is fading to black.  After dinner at Curry Village, Renee and Vanessa dropped Drew and I here at Backpacker Camp.  Good-bye kisses and hugs were exchanged with a little more feeling than usual, and I made no progress in assuring away the worry in Renee's eyes.

They are halfway home by now, while Drew and I, excited and nervous, quietly anticipate tomorrow like some adventurers on the verge of an unknowable epic quest.  But this trip, after all, is just walking.  Yet, I worry.  All evening, Drew has been the sweet and considerate kid that has been hidden behind the combative shroud that descends when kids on the verge of adulthood flex their budding independence.  He is clearly excited about the adventure ahead, but how will he feel after a week on the trail?  Two weeks?  Three?

When this is done, will Drew and I warmly remember the experience of a lifetime or shake our heads in disgust recalling our agonies, arguments and misadventures?  Some of that warmth from Drew comes from a reliance on me to provide safe passage - the one with backpacking experience who will make everything OK.  I feel the responsibility.  I want this to be good.

Day 2

Thursday, July 17.  Cathedral Lake.  11.5 miles.  9,585 ft.

These mountains are beating us up.  The heavy load and steep terrain took their toll again today.

After finishing my entry last night, we were visited by the two other "crazy" bears that the ranger had told us about.  In the dark, they were quite close to us before we noticed them.  Thrashing into action (Where are my glasses?  Get the flashlight.), we spooked the bears to a safe distance where they glanced back in frustration. Four green retinas eerily reflected our flashlight back at us, one pair higher than the other.  I threw a couple of rocks harder than Drew thought appropriate, but I wanted the locals to know that they were not welcome here.  One stone elicited a pathetic bear-ouch sound and off they went.

When we shouldered our packs this morning, our tender hipbones and shoulders reminded us how much we had relied on them yesterday.  But the early going was shaded and moderate - a night's sleep and two meals had restored our strength.  We felt fresh and strong along the mostly flat upper reaches of Sunrise Creek, which offered occasional dramatic views across the Merced River drainage to Mt. Clark and the Yosemite high country.

Sunrise Creek dwindled as we rose to its source.  Here the shoulder of Sunrise Mountain steepened dramatically and we climbed from 8,000 feet to 9,600 feet in a mile or so.  Drew had no problems with the climb while I struggled, stopping often.  But Drew was the perfect companion, letting me think that my plodding pace was his preference.

After a pleasant flat mile beyond the climb, our finest view so far opened in front of us.  Rousing us from our plodding stupor, the forest unexpectedly opened and the land ahead dropped away revealing the sweeping reach of the Cathedral Range.  A half-mile directly ahead, peaceful Long Meadow served as a striking foreground and contrast to jagged Cathedral Peak beyond.

Some photos and a snack later, we dropped down into the meadow.  The views in every direction were stunning:  the lush meadow delicately intruded by a lazily twisting creek; the peaks beyond.  It was an Eden-like setting spoiled only by swarms of mosquitoes.

Our energy was renewed by the views and the level going.  Drew was anxious to fish and therefore adamant about reaching Cathedral Lake.  I wasn't sure I had the stamina to make it, knowing that we still had to cross Cathedral Pass.

Passing under Columbia Finger, we reached our high point of  10,000 feet just before we crossed Cathedral Pass.  After nine miles, I was still struggling while Drew felt strong except for tender hipbones.  I told him to go on ahead so he could start fishing.  Off he went.

At Cathedral Pass, the view of Cathedral Peak is spectacular  From there, the trail crosses, then drops down two large steps to Cathedral Lake.  The tread of each step is a half-mile meadow with Cathedral Peak always the dramatic backdrop.

We chose a campsite well above the lake for privacy and for refuge from the mosquitoes, which are bad everywhere but unbearable near water.  While Drew fished, I bathed and washed clothes on a sun-splashed granite slab beneath a gentle cascade of snowmelt. 

Drew returned empty handed from fishing just as dinner was ready.  He could only get down two bites before he was down on all fours vomiting.  Oddly, we have reversed roles.  I fell renewed, but today's effort had obviously taken its toll on Drew.  Perhaps the sprint to the lake at the end of the day did it.  Poor kid.

There is nothing to do but make him comfortable.  I rolled out his bag, made him some lemonade and told him to rest while I went looking for a place to photograph Cathedral peak in the evening light.

When I returned, Drew had set up the tent to escape the mosquitoes. He had vomited again.  A good night's rest and he'll be as good as new.

Good night.    

Day 3

Friday, July 18.  Lyell Canyon, 1/2 mile before the junction to Ireland Lake.  11 1/2 miles.  8,800 ft.

Writing these entries at the end of a long day is a chore.  The burdened walking strips me of the will and turns my brain to mush.  Already, the day seems like a jumble of snapshots that I can't reassemble into the day's sequence of events.

I awoke at 6:00 as usual and decided to let Drew sleep in.  Since he was sick last night and I didn't feel much better, I felt the rest would do both of us some good.

By 10:00, we were on the trail.  In a reversal of yesterday's pattern, we began the day feeling poorly though the going was easy.  The first four miles of the trail work around the base of Cathedral Peak and then drop 1,000 feet to Tuolumne Meadows.  Over the easiest terrain we have walked, I felt the worst.  A searing pain knifed through my back - my load seemed huge.  The continuing heat and the loose footing on the sandy glacial moraine were aggravating, but it was not enough to explain my difficulty over such easy going.

Tuolumne Meadows is one of only two places where a road intersects the John Muir Trail.  But we were delighted to reach it because we knew the Mountain Grill was there.  A couple of burgers, sodas and shakes revived our bodies and spirits.  We bought a few items at the general store next door (ibuprofen for the back, more insect repellent).  Clouds enclosed the sky and rain began to fall.  Typical afternoon thundershowers in the Sierra are short lived, but this one persisted.

Drew and I debated our options.  Considering the weather and how poorly we felt, should we call it a day in order to rest up and wait out the weather?  Or should we venture into the rain - an unwelcome prospect.  Convinced that the rain would soon pass, we donned our rain gear and walked through the Tuolumne Meadows campground looking for the point where the trail picked up again.

Now it was pouring.  Lightning and almost simultaneous thunder rattled the campground restroom we ducked into.  What the hell, let's go.

We entered Lyell Canyon through a steady rain and enjoyed the best walking on the trip thus far.  A full belly, cool temperatures, firm footing and easy going more than compensated for the rain which itself invigorated and energized us.  Drew's feet got soaked in his new Gore-Tex boots while mine were bone dry in silicon-treated non-Gore-Tex boots.  I should have treated Drew's boots.  What is the Gore-Tex for?

Lyell Canyon is a ten-mile long valley that divides the Kuna Crest from the Clark Range.  Its entire length is a broad meadow dotted with lodgepole pines and bisected by the Lyell fork of the Tuolumne River.  Here, the river meanders peacefully, gathering strength for the drama in the canyons below Tuolumne Meadows.

On a granite outcrop by a stunted lodgepole growing from a crack, I looked into a quiet pool and saw, even in the dingy light, every luminous shade of blue and green.  Just upstream, the river broadened a moment and rushed over a uniform granite slab in a thin glassy sheet, churned briefly below and then rested into the pool by which I stood.  All the moods in Lyell Canyon are peaceful.

Somehow, the rain refreshed us and dissolved the pains in our feet, hips, shoulders and backs.  Add to this the glorious setting, and we were exultant.

Five miles down the canyon we decided to pitch camp.  Drew could no longer resist walking by the promising fishing spots.  The rain had stopped, but the sky still threatened.

I could see Drew fishing below me while I set up camp.  I finally responded to his constant calls to come witness his fish-every-cast luck.  What a transformation there has been in him.  The confounding teenage Drew that inhabits the lowlands has been replaced here by a model companion.  He is considerate, determined, proud, helpful, and a source of encouragement when things are grim.  Last night,  when he was sick, he didn't complain; he was only sorry.  Earlier this evening, I was frustrated when some silly things got to me.  Drew spoke up in a constructive way, "Dad, I know I'm the worst, and I hate it when people say this to me when I'm frustrated, but...," and he proceeded to tell me exactly the right thing in the right way to adjust my attitude.

Recently, at home, there have been many reasons to wonder whether Drew has lost his way.  We have faced serious confounding issues.  But here, our uncluttered life of just walking is revealing the solid core in Drew that my wife and I worried was lost.  Between Drew and I, he is often the more grown-up.

Day 4

Saturday, July 19.  Lyell Base Camp.  10,300 feet.  6.5 miles.

Saturday.  I didn't realize it until I wrote it here.  People are mowing their lawns, washing their cars, taking their kids to soccer games and watching baseball on TV.  That all seems so distant, almost otherworldly, in this mountain setting.

Once again, I couldn't bring myself  to wake Drew from his well-earned sleep.  So, once again, we got a late start.  No complaints from me though.  I enjoyed watching the morning sun slowly light Lyell Canyon while sitting in my camp chair sipping hot chocolate.  These are the reasons we backpack - a moment of quiet luxury surrounded by pristine beauty.  I also had a chance to dry our still-wet boots and socks. 

In the morning we continued our level walk along the Lyell Fork of the Tuolumne River.  We followed the canyon's long gradual right turn until glacier-cloaked Mt. Lyell and Mt. Maclure came into view.  Here the gentle valley ends abruptly, and after a brief lunch break, we began to climb in earnest toward Donohue Pass 2,000 feet above.

The day had dawned bright, but as we climbed, the clouds began to dominate.  We stopped to talk to a northbound backcountry ranger.  He said the weather report was the same as yesterday:  30% chance of rain.  "It all depends on where you are," he said.

The climb was a pleasant surprise.  I was no longer 53, I was 30, easily gobbling up the trail.  Am I rounding the corner toward fitness?

The gathering clouds made for cool temperatures and ideal walking conditions, but the sky was continually darkening.  Drops began to fall.  We caught up with two southbound hikers and exchanged the usual trail pleasantries and weather talk.   They chose to wait out the rain there while we said we would push on.  I hadn't walked ten paces when lightning flashed and thunder rumbled close by.  I glanced back to our two new friends.  We wordlessly exchanged, "Uh oh, here we go" smiles.

Drew and I put on our rain gear and pushed on.  The rain was modest and there was plenty of tree cover, so the going was tolerable. 

We emerged from the trees here at Lyell Base Camp, a beautiful but overused site.  Despite having walked only 6 miles or so, we are staying here for the night.  Going any higher is impractical.  We are near timberline, and I don't want to be in high open country when lightning is in the area.  Tree cover and adequate campsites will be rare above here.

It's raining.  Drew is fishing while I take refuge in the tent.  We share this popular site with others stranded by the weather.  It is a beautiful setting:  a roaring cascade feeds a lakelet bounded by a meadow lavishly decorated with paintbrushes, shooting stars, red heather, white heather and elephant's heads.  Above are Mt. Lyell and Mt. Maclure.  Surging power, delicate beauty and mighty strength visible in one frame right before us.

Drew and I planned on being here yesterday.  We are meeting Renee and Vanessa in three days at Red's Meadow for a resupply, so we cannot be late.  We are making up the time by foregoing our plan to take a day and climb Mt. Lyell.  The weather precludes it anyway.  We met two hikers heading down earlier today who had come to climb Mt. Lyell and were turned back by the rain.

Ernest Hemingway is back from his fishing expedition.  I had better assemble the kitchen and "Just Add Water" to our dinner.  Light is fading and there is still housework to do.

Day 5

Sunday, July 20.  Thousand Island Lake.  6 1/2 miles.  9,880 feet.

The time of year a person chooses to walk in the Sierra involves some fundamental trade-offs.  Early or mid-season, visitors like us enjoy the fresh wildflower display - a variety of penstemons, a couple heathers, Leopard lilies, paintbrushes, Monkshoods, delphinium and on and on.  Breathtaking beauty.  The price one pays is mosquitoes, and we are growing damn weary of them.

Drew and I have pitched camp here in a beautiful spot just above Thousand Island Lake.  The view over the lake to Mt. Ritter and Banner Peak - a classic Sierra Vista - is spectacular.  The island-studded lake looks like the creation of a Japanese landscape architect - too perfect to be natural - with gardens of granite and wind-sculpted whitebark pines.  But the cloud of mosquitoes that constantly surrounds each of us almost spoils our enjoyment of this site.  We chose this spot above the lake and away from a running stream to lessen their impact, but to no avail.  Our only defense is to pickle ourselves in DEET that keeps the swarm from landing.  It is tiresome and annoying.  So far, the only relief is at the highest elevations, above the meadows and streams.

After signing off last night, while Drew and I were in our bags writing and sketching, Drew got frustrated and down for the first time on the trip.  Drew takes some regular medications for ADD and depression.  He has noticed that a side effect of the drugs is the loss of his creative energy - a high price for a boy who was born a gifted artist and used to draw constantly.  He has been trying to draw and just can't.  He was frustrated to the point of despondency.  "I feel soulless," he told me, "I have no passion for anything."

We talked about stopping medication and discussed homeopathy.  "What about the 'lows' that the drugs fend off?" I asked him.  He said he would gladly endure the lows in order to relight the fire inside.

Drew rarely opens up and I was pleased at such a substantial talk, but seeing his pain and dealing with the frustration and futility of being a parent wanting to make things right is, and has been, hard for Renee and me.

Last night's dismal weather passed by and this morning dawned bright and clear.  The beautiful setting at Lyell Base Camp is even more impressive lit up by the sun.  Sleepy Drew Van Winkle and photo opportunities delayed our start until a shameful 10:00 once again.

The first mile or two was a steady climb to Donohue Pass at 11,000 feet.  With the help of a little Diamox, we were fresh, strong climbers the whole way.  The climb is above timberline on open granite past cascades and lakelets fed by Lyell Glacier.  Mt. Lyell and Mt. Maclure were an impressive backdrop.

At Donohue Pass, we lunched and looked across the Rush Creek drainage to gentle Island Pass a few mile south.  The short portion of the trail between Donohue Pass and Island Pass is the only place the John Muir Trail crosses the Sierra crest onto the east side.

To my eye, the area just south of Donohue Pass is supremely beautiful.  Though barren and treeless, it has the feel of an expansive friendly countryside rather than indifferent wilderness - cascading creeks, glacial pools, and short grass meadows. 

A brief climb to Island Pass brought is to one of the classic Sierra views.  Here Banner Peak and Mt. Ritter are first revealed in their full splendor to the southbound hiker.  Wow.  In the foreground, prime Sierra lakelets, granite outcroppings and twisted whitebark pines completed the postcard.

Here in camp, the sum effect of heat, mosquitoes and fatigue are sapping our enthusiasm.  The housekeeping chores of backpacking; getting water, cooking, washing dishes, personal hygiene, setting up the tent, properly storing food and equipment for the evening seem tedious and endless.  Where is the communing with nature part?  It seems like we do endless chores, then hide in a nylon casket to avoid mosquitoes or rain.

Tonight we are eighteen miles from Red's Meadow where we will meet Renee and Vanessa for resupply.  Our plan had called for walking most of the way there tomorrow and getting an early start the following day in order to meet them around noon.  Drew and I have decided we will start  very early and hike all the way to Red's Meadow tomorrow.  Restaurant food and showers are available there, and it would be nice to linger there and awaken at our rendezvous point.  I'll need a stick of dynamite to wake Drew before sunrise. 

Five days into this adventure, Drew and I are getting along very well.  At home, the main job of the parent of a teenager seems to be setting unwelcome limits and enforcing rules.  Will the constant and inescapable father/son intimacy of this trip exacerbate the tension that comes with battling over boundaries at home, or will we unite to achieve our simple common goal and deal with our common difficulties?  We are 10,000-feet above and two hundred miles away from the things we battle over at home.  No father and son here.  Just two smelly tired guys dealing with bugs, rain, and discussing whether or not to hike all the way to Red's Meadow tomorrow.  So far, it seems we have left behind the difficult feelings that sometimes attend those home battles.  So far.  So far.

Cumulus clouds all day and thunder in the distance, but no rain on us.  Glad to see it was 30% chance of rain somewhere else.  Hope that the stormy weather has all passed.  The tent is up but only for bug protection.

Drew has trouble falling asleep at night.  Reading aloud to him is effective anesthesia.  Reading aloud to my eighteen-year old son - this is great stuff. 

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.

Days 13 and 14

Monday, July 28 and Tuesday, July 29.  Le Conte Canyon.  8,700 feet.  14 miles.

Yesterday was all I hoped this trip would be as well as a continuation of what it has been.

We woke early at Evolution Lake.  We were camped in a community of weather weary backpackers who all seemed to be here more due to weather conditions than choice.  However, the compensation is that this lake is, I think, the most beautiful on the trail.  The curling shoreline, the small just-so islands, the wind-sculpted whitebark pines that manage a living in the cracks of this glacier-raked granite.  All warmed in soft morning light.

We walked through a crystal clear morning to Muir Pass - perfect walking and so far, the most memorable part of this trip.  By 8:00, we were on our way.  We are now both feeling fit and strong, so we enjoyed the manageable gradient past Evolution Lake, Wanda Lake up to the Muir Hut at the summit of Muir Pass.  The morning was glorious, perfect weather.  The surrounding peaks, the crystalline lakes and the perfect cascades connecting them - all combined to make a magical scene for two rain weary walkers.  We stopped at Wanda Lake (named for one of Muir's daughters) for a snack, some photos, and frog watching.  All alone at Muir Hut atop the pass, we made entries in the register and started down the other side.

Several times on this trip I have noticed that on the south side of the passes, the terrain is far tougher than the north from which we have come.  Silver Pass down to Mono Creek, Selden Pass to the South Fork of the San Joaquin River - Drew and I agreed that both would be horrible to climb.  The descent from Muir Pass to here, Le Conte Canyon, at the junction of the John Muir Trail and the Dusy Basin/Bishop Pass Trail was likewise relentless.  I was glad to be descending.

The summit of Muir Pass marked the daily decline in the weather.  Once again, I hoped the gathering clouds were just mountain fluffies blowing innocently by.  Drew and I stopped and cooked a hot lunch just beyond the pass.  As we were packing to leave, one of our constant companions, thunder, gave notice that something serious was brewing.

Having crossed the pass, we vowed to walk through whatever might come.  What came was a repeat of yesterday's torrential hailstorm.  Hailstones were big enough and came hard enough to be uncomfortable on our heads.  But we walked through it - five miles or so - to here.  Eventually, the hail turned to rain, but the intensity did not abate.

So, here we are a day early.  We had set aside a day to climb Mt. Goddard, but as with Mt. Lyell earlier, weather has ruled that out.  This morning, our first in Le Conte Canyon, dawned cloudy robbing us of the hopefulness that came with past clear mornings.  The additional day here will be a nice opportunity to wash clothes, bodies and just rest.

Our physical state is good.  Drew is strong - no foot or boot issues - only soreness where his pack rests on his shoulders and hips.  Even then, those complaints are occasional and faint.  We've noted that each of us appears to be losing weight, but we eat all we can.

The effects of my Bridalveil Falls tumble persist but ease.  My left little toe is still twice the size of my right one.  My left foot is still swollen, as are both of my knees, but remarkably these things don't seem to hamper performance.  Though our strength grows, I do notice that late in the day, my walking gets sloppier and full attention must be given to each step.

My new internal frame pack with its more contoured carrying system has been a joy to carry.  It virtually eliminates the raw, highly tender pressure points I experienced with my old external frame pack.

Tomorrow we meet Peter for a resupply.  He will leave from the trailhead at South Lake and meet us in Dusy Basin just this side of Bishop Pass at noon.  Will he be there?  Will it hail or rain or thunder and lightning when we meet?  Is he prepared for that?

The weather is at the center of all we do and any logistical consideration.  How long can it last?  It is uncanny - almost unbelievable.  So un-Sierra-like.  It can't last.  It can't last.