Eric is a reluctant mountaineer.

His childhood in Oregon’s Willamette Valley offered ample opportunity for time outside: picking blackberries, fishing for trout, chucking dirt clods and the like. His family took regular trips to Tokatee Lake, and Cousin Jeff was a willing partner for adventures of every kind. The latter days of his adolescence found him applying his natural gifts as an athlete—blazing nine-patterns down the gridiron and tossing up three-pointers for the South Albany Rebels. Although new priorities emerged during college (namely girls, beer and football), it was his migration south, to the paved-over landscape of San Francisco, that completed his degeneration into a bona fide city dweller. Corporate job. Convenient bus routes. Twenty-three restaurants in a two-block radius. The transformation suits him fine. His wife is very understanding. A Northwest native herself, Jen spends her Saturdays bouncing from yoga class to surf break, casually asserting herself over her urban trappings. Eric, meanwhile, is content (nay, positively delighted) to spend his day on the couch, tracking twelve different college football games on three screens.

This is why I found it so surprising that he was one of the first to sign on as I organized a group climb in the High Sierra. It helped that OSU had a bye that weekend, and I’m sure Jen offered more than a little encouragement. Mount Langley is not the most majestic summit in the Sierra. Nor is it a technically challenging climb. Sitting just four miles south of Mt. Whitney, it is usually overlooked by the casual explorer. The twenty-two mile round-trip hike to the summit requires a bit of commitment or a friend like me who is willing to gloss over the details.

Jody and I were repeat visitors to Langley, the memory of our 2004 escapade still fresh in our minds. Neither Jen nor Eric had spent any time in the High Sierra. Climbing a fourteener is certainly one way to get your feet wet. We made a three-day weekend of it. An all-night drive on Friday was quickly followed by a six-mile hike into the Cottonwood Lakes Basin. After setting up camp, most of Saturday was spent napping, eating and checking out the line over Old Army Pass. The Cottonwood Lakes Basin is a stunning slice of the Sierra Nevada. I harbored a wish that spending the weekend in such a great locale would get Eric & Jen stoked for future trips. Were it not for the slag heap that is Mount Langley, I’d have more confidence in this outcome.

We woke early on Sunday and cooked a hot breakfast before leaving camp. The most challenging part of the climb came early as we made our way up and over Old Army Pass. Once we reached the pass, our goal was more visible. We took it slow, stopping every few minutes to catch our breath and “consider the view.” Despite tired legs and heavy breathing, we kept moving, one foot in front of the other. Eric looked haggard like the rest of us, but never once complained. Steady progress made up for a bit of misdirection that found us scrambling through some Class 2 sections of rock. Past the worst of it, Eric took more interest in the route-finding and studied the map every time we stopped. Our wobbly legs pushed us to the top around noon, and we enjoyed the views from the 14,026 foot summit. I pointed out the craggy summit of Mount Whitney, just four miles to the north, hoping Eric & Jen would show some interest in another trip next year. Of course, aligning the Mount Whitney lottery system with the OSU football schedule is easier said than done.

The hike down was uneventful until Eric twisted his knee with just a half mile to go. He took a pair of trekking poles and walked gingerly back to camp. That night we celebrated our success with freeze-dried lasagna, box wine, and dark chocolate. As the sunlight faded from the summit of Mount Langley, so did the burning in our lungs and the soreness of our legs. My friend Eric was in good spirits as we toasted our success. I’m proud of him, and I hope our trip offered a taste of his past, a bit of adventure for the skinny kid from Albany.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in October, 2006 (or thereabouts).

Standing sentinel over the Tioga Pass area, Mount Dana casts an impressive profile for all who pass through the eastern reaches of Yosemite National Park. The route to her lofty summit is a no-bullshit affair; the trail climbs well over three-thousand vertical feet in just four miles. It is a must-do for any Yosemite regular, offering unrivaled views and a good physical challenge.

We had this hike on our list for a number of years before it reached the top of the batting order in August of 2006. An early morning start from San Francisco found us blazing through the Yosemite high country in the wee hours of the morning. Apparently, we were blazing a bit too fast, as I got pulled over for going 10 MPH over the limit around Tuolumne Meadows. I’m convinced the Yosemite Bear Project sticker on our back window saved my butt, and the ranger let me go with a stern warning. We grabbed a campsite in Lee Vining Canyon and spent Saturday doing a couple of warm-up hikes. A hike to the top of Lembert Dome offered unspoiled views of Tuolumne Meadows and our goal for the following day, Mount Dana. On our way back to camp we solicited a bit of route-finding advice from a seasoned ranger at the Tioga Pass station. He pointed out a few landmarks on the upper reaches of the peak and wished us well.

We woke early on Sunday and broke camp while it was dark. The air was still bitter cold when we hit the trail. We made our way through Dana Meadow and began the long, slow climb up countless switchbacks. The hike reminded me of the slog up the lower reaches of Mount Shasta: one rocky switchback after another, terribly slow progress, and a goal that seemed no closer with every step. We took ample breaks and were amazed by at least two specimens who jogged past us en route to the summit. The last portion of the hike is a Class 2 scramble with an indiscriminate number of routes up the rocky slope. We got a bit off course and found some exciting views along the exposed northwest ridge of the mountain. We got ourselves back on course and reached the summit by mid-morning. At 13,057 feet, Mount Dana is the second tallest mountain in Yosemite National Park, but views from the summit were second to none. The entirety of the Mono Basin lay at our feet and the spiny backbone of the Yosemite High Country drifted south toward the giants of the High Sierra.

We took our time up top, signing the summit log, eating snacks and taking photos. We weren’t looking forward to the hike down, but before long we started the reverse slog back to the car. As we approached Dana Meadow, we passed a number of groups who looked ill-prepared for such a hike. One woman exclaimed, “Well, it must stop going up at some point. I really wish they put in more switchbacks.” No problem, Honey, it levels off just ahead, right around 13,000 feet. We got back to the car and knew there was only one way to finish the day. Ice cream sandwiches from the Tuolumne store brought smiles to our faces and closure to another beautiful Yosemite weekend.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in October, 2006 (or thereabouts).

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: Jody is a damn good sport. How many wives would wake up at 5:30 AM to pose for photographs in the early-morning cold, wearing next to nothing, all while being eaten alive by a thousand hungry mosquitoes? I offer, very few. Great artists make sacrifices for their work. Lesser artists marry great models who are willing to make those sacrifices on their behalf.

Labor Day weekend of 2006 found us in familiar terrain. The long weekend almost guarantees a trip over to the Mono Basin or Yosemite High Country, and this year we were looking forward to a couple of new day hikes and ample time behind the lens. We employed our patented alpine start from San Francisco and soon found ourselves sailing down Lee Vining Canyon as the sun broke over the Great Basin. It can be hard to snag a campsite in Yosemite during a holiday weekend, but Lee Vining Canyon offers several Forest Service campsites that are filled on a first-come, first-served basis. It’s a great place to stay, with easy access to the spoils of the Mono Basin, Tioga Pass and Tuolumne Meadows. We found a good campsite and eased our way into a solid three-hour nap.

Well rested, we decided to go hunting for a ditcha very special ditch, in fact. The Clover Ditch is a long-forgotten piece of Mono Basin history, but one that has special ties to Jody’s family. The relation itself has more twists and turns that Highway 120, but J.B. Clover was family, no doubt about it. And being the visionary that he was, Mr. Clover saw a great opportunity in the Mono Basin around the turn of the century. Looking to populate the area, the federal government was parceling the land around Mono Lake for homesteaders. Unfortunately, the earth around Mono Lake is about as arable as a sandbox, better suited for sage brush than any crop.

J.B. Clover noted this problem and envisioned a great irrigation ditch that would channel the clear, fresh water of the Sierra down to the Basin and around Mono Lake. He developed a plan, solicited investors and hired a crew to begin excavation for his great ditch. The steam shovel used to dig the ditch can still be found at the Schoolhouse Museum in Lee Vining. Unfortunately, Mr. Clover had the mind of a visionary, not an engineer. His plans called for a twenty-four mile ditch. They only dug twelve, and the water only made it to mile seven.

Looking at the rocky, sandy soil around Mono Lake it’s hard to believe that someone could think it would hold water. But there is no stopping the mind of a dreamer, and Mr. Clover was clearly that. Taking direction from the docent at the Schoolhouse Museum and anecdotes from Jody’s grandfather, we are pretty confident we found portions of the Clover ditch near the Mono Craters area off Highway 120 East, just south of Mono Lake. We look forward to many more trips to this area to piece together this odd and interested bit of family and California history.

Returning to camp in the early evening, we grilled up some righteous cheeseburgers and got to bed at a reasonable hour, knowing that we had an early wake-up call for our photo shoot at the Panum Crater. The shoot itself was part of an assignment for my Photo Lighting class. The assignment was titled “Amazing Light” and Mama Nature sure did deliver that morning. We took another rest day and spent the late afternoon exploring and photographing the incredible sand tufa around the Navy Beach area of Mono Lake. The sand tufa are more striking, if more subtle, than the traditional tufa around the lake, and this is the first time we had seen them. Jody was in her element, racing around the area with camera and tripod, taking photos in the warm evening light. The Whoa Nelli Deli came through with another delicious meal, and we settled down for the night.

After two days of loafing, we decided to pony up for a hike on Monday. We had planned two hikes for the weekend: one to Parker Pass and another to the Twenty Lakes Basin. We opted for the latter and were treated to a beautiful day in the Sierra. The hike to Twenty Lakes Basin starts at Saddlebag Lake, just outside the eastern boundary of Yosemite National Park. The area is very popular with fisherman. Many hikers opt for a ferry ride across Saddlebag Lake to cut three or four miles off the round-trip mileage. We took the long route and hiked around the rocky shore of the lake. A bit of climbing puts you over Lundy Pass and into the Twenty Lakes Basin proper. The area is stunning, dotted with a number small lakes (twenty, perhaps?) and fenced-in by massive peaks. A short loop through the area offers countless views and at least one tricky snow-field crossing. We took lunch along the shore of Steelhead Lake and admired the massive profile of North Peak. The hike back was slow, but we were treated to a front-row view of Mount Dana, our conquest from the weekend before.

The familiar drive home lulled us into a sense of relaxation. From one home, we return to the other.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in September, 2006 (or thereabouts).

Selecting a weekend backpacking destination in Northern California in mid-June is a tricky task. Elevation too high? Snow. Elevation too low? Scorching. At the beginning of the year we penciled in a “Northern Sierra” outing for this particular weekend and I wasn’t quite ready to give up on our goal despite the lingering snow at approximately 5,000 ft. After a bit of research and some phone calls we found a location that was just right: Feather Falls.

Technically, Feather Falls is not an overnight trip; Matt wasn’t even sure this was really in the Sierra (it is, barely). Ask the good folks at Plumas National Forest ranger station and they’ll tell you no backcountry camping is allowed since much of the land near the falls is privately owned. However, we did some prior web research that suggested poaching was a viable option and we decided to chance it with the knowledge we may need to turn our five mile trek in to a nine mile round tripper with oversized “day packs”.

Opting for the clockwise route, the hike in offered more visual variety than expected. On the way, we passed several large granite rocks with mortar holes used by the Maidu Indians to grind acorns, and we discovered Frey Creek is a popular spring hang-out for lady bugs in Northern California. The lower section was a bona fide rain forest, complete with rich fern ground cover and waterfalls. Higher up, the terrain became drier and more exposed; Manzanita flanked the path and watching for rattlesnakes felt necessary.

We could hear the main attraction of this trail well before we could see it. Although not well known, 640 ft. tall Feather Falls is said to be one of the tallest waterfalls in the Lower 48, although there is some controversy on this subject. (For more information on misconceptions about the largest falls in the US check out this interesting website.) The winding and sometimes hard-to-follow trail leads up then down to a viewing platform. The platform is roughly halfway up the height of the falls and provided us with front row seats to Feather River’s roaring spill.

After baking on the exposed overlook for lunch and photos, we continued uphill and followed the trail along the river’s edge. Just a short way from the falls we found a few well established campsites that were likely too snug to the water’s edge for a by-the-book backpacker, but a brief push forward yielded no other options. So, despite the signs noting Private Land, we decided to chance it and agree to make up our zero impact infraction by packing out the excessive trash deposited in the area. Our private / public land concerns were put to rest when an old timer rolled in noting that he had camped in our spot for the last 30 years. We, uh… didn’t offer to move and after having the same luck we encountered further up the trail, he returned to set up camp near the other established sites.

If you did the math earlier you probably noticed this hike wasn’t exactly an Ironman training session. Since the trip was relatively short on mileage and elevation gain, we matched our camp activity level to the same leisurely pace. Napping, reading, and hanging out together occupied our weekend and provided a peaceful escape from our frazzled weekday lives. We returned home feeling refreshed and pleasantly surprised that Feather Falls offered more than we expected.

Next time we’ll go in summer proper and aim for a higher elevation in the Bucks Lake Wilderness for a slightly more demanding weekend in the Range of Light’s northern reaches.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in June, 2006 (or thereabouts).

When our friends Eric and Jen announced their destination wedding in Tuscany, we grabbed my college art history books, a fresh stack of Post-its, and went to work on our Italy trip itinerary. We were thrilled to be included in their special day. So were twenty of our closest friends, and we spent the first week all together in a seventeenth century villa. The following week was spent seeking out the art and architecture we had only been able to appreciate from the stacks of books in our living room.

This was supposed to be a plush “front country” trip for a couple of seasoned backpackers, but adventure found us minutes off the plane in a Pisa rental car lot. Our wagon was a stick (we had reserved an automatic), it was pitch black outside, and the directions to the villa soon had us lost in a maze of nameless Tuscan dirt roads. Although the dashboard sported a warning in English, “Driving on Unpaved Roads Prohibited”, Matt and I did our best Bo and Luke impressions as we flew around rutted corners and left dust clouds to settle under the stars. Our midnight arrival was straight out of The Amazing Race. Our friends and their family were nothing short of shocked that we had managed to find them. We were rewarded with the first, of what would be countless, glasses of vino consumed during our stay and a hike up eighty steps to our lofty bedroom.

Tuscany looks just like the pictures on wine bottle labels. Bullet shaped Cypress trees outline hilly paths to hilltop villas perched like little terracotta crowns. We were a bit drunk on the vista, but managed to grab our cameras and stagger out the door nearly every morning. The first day we traveled by car, boat, train, and trail winding through the five coastal villages of Cinque Terra. We discovered the best pesto we’ve tasted to date in small café on a hill in the third village, Corniglia. I was immediately thankful the dress I brought for the wedding was stretchy and would forgive the gastronomic tour this vacation was turning into. The following days were spent touring Florence, Volterra, and San Gimignano. Each night we returned home hungry and wander down the path to our poolside family-style dinners. We even made our own wood fired pizzas one night and our friend Jeff demonstrated his mad pizza tossing skills to our Italian hosts.

This was supposed to be a plush front country trip for a couple of seasoned backpackers, but adventure found us minutes off the plane in a Pisa rental car lot.

Eric and Jen were married in San Gimignano on May 4th within the frescoed walls of Dante’s Hall. Their wedding was an epic day capped with a Tuscan sunset, dancing, and loads of romance. Oh, and a ridiculous amount of mozzarella. A few days after their ceremony, we said goodbye to our friends only to see them a few hours later at the Pisa train station. We all scrambled to make alternate plans during a rail strike and Matt and I battled our way onto a crowded bus destined for Florence.

Exploring Firenze was like walking through the projection screen of an art history presentation. Matt patiently listened to my excited narratives about how Brunelleschi developed the Duomo’s design and history of the Baptistery doors. We were both speechless though as we stood wide eyed in front of Galileo’s telescopes and an original Antonio Stradivarius viola. Could more history and beauty possibly be squeezed in any other city’s limits? We doubt it. Each corner in Florence was a photo ready to be captured and we wandered between sights armed with cameras. One afternoon we walked to Piazza Michelangelo determined to find high ground and take home pictures of the entire cityscape. We waited out a thunderstorm hoping for good light, but returned to our shoebox sized room with soaking clothes and a case of the shivers instead. Fortunately, the food and wine of Florence equal the quality of the art. Just a few glasses of Chianti were all we needed to warm up and savor the moment.

Soon we were in a first class rail car destined for Rome. We shaved some Euros from our trip by staying in a “BB” that was really just a second bedroom in a neatly decorated apartment. Breakfast took the form of vouchers for the corner café. From our neighborhood digs we delighted in the familiar sights including the Coliseum, Pantheon, and Sistine Chapel. We also discovered some lesser known places like San Clemente. The tunnels below this basilica revealed at least four layers of structures dating back at least 2000 years. We used to think the 50’s era strip malls in South Lake Tahoe looked “old”, but a walk through Ancient Rome quickly recalibrated the word for this pair of suburban-raised kids.

A more contemporary tour completed our time in the capital city. We lounged on the same Spanish Steps where Audrey Hepburn played a rogue princess in Roman Holiday and nursed a couple of Cokes. It proved the perfect spot to join in one of Italy’s favorite pastimes – people watching. From here, we strolled down Via Condotti, the Rodeo Drive of Rome, and I lusted after $400 pairs of sunglasses and designer clothes. This type of city stroll also led us by some tasty eateries. If your biggest challenge in a day is saving room for gelato, you are living “la vita dolce”. Matt always managed to make room for Stracciatella and I never missed a chance to order the cioccolata e cocco combo. It was a good thing we walked at least 15 miles during our short stay. But spending so much time on the noisy streets had us ready for some down time. We found it several hours north in Italy’s Lake District.

Gaze at a map of Lake Como for a while, and you’ll start to see the shape of a woman standing with two long legs. They call the affluent town of Bellagio “The Pearl”. I don’t think I have to describe where it’s located. We stayed near the phantom lady’s lower back in a gem called Bellano. Having crashed in relative dives during our travels we classed it up our last few nights in a two-room suite with a balcony overlooking the water. Between the down linens and incredible view, it’s a wonder we ever made it outside. But we had to eat. One evening our hosts made reservations in the neighboring town of Varrenna and we dined in a restaurant with only four tables. The wine menu had five pages. Bellisimo.

Sadly, like all vacations, this one had an end. Something about the jobs that help pay for them… We did salvage a day in Sienna before heading home though. Our time there felt a bit like knocking back the last drops of a cocktail before being kicked out of the VIP lounge. But we’re crafty coyotes and we’ll figure a way back in someday. We were already planning our next Italian itinerary on the flight home. And we’re making allowances that next time we’ll likely have some little ones in tow.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2006 (or thereabouts).

Living in the Bay Area has some serious perks and driving less than an hour to backpack at Point Reyes National Seashore is just one of many. We go so often, it’s almost like camping in our backyard. At least I imagine camping in a backyard would feel that comfortable; since living in San Francisco usually means squeezing into a one-bedroom with no balcony, let alone a yard. Okay, the perks still leave room for improvement. But, it’s this familiarity with our location that prompted a weekend trot in the woods with loads of brand spankin’ (read: untested) new gear.

We recently invested in a batch of new ultra lightweight equipment, including packs, sleeping bags, and boots for Matt. Just a few miles with sub 20lb packs will make anyone realize why the ultra light movement is a booming business for outdoor retailers. Without the burn of heavy gear, we were in no hurry to reach the end of our journey. The trails into Glen Camp were lined with masses of Forget-me-nots and we took our time drinking in the weekend. Eventually the trail gave way to a meadow chock full of the little, lavender lovelies and we made ourselves at home on a hillside site.

We assembled our new Tarptent exactly one time before our overnight in Glen Camp. Actually, we mostly just watched as Henry Shires, Tarptent’s founder, demonstrated the various ways to put it up using trekking poles in his front yard. Now how is that for customer service? Fortunately, Matt had been a good student and figured out a way to place the tent despite our quirky shaped campsite. We enjoyed a breezy night in the Squall II cuddled in new down bags. It didn’t feel quite as sturdy as the Sierra Designs Omega we’ve been calling home for the past six years, but at only 33 ounces, it’s certainly a joy to tote around. Our night in Glen Camp proved pleasant, but when compared to the views and privacy of the other backcountry campgrounds in the park, we’ll likely opt for one of the other camps for our next overnight trip.

Sunday morning we decided on an alternate route back to the Bear Valley Visitor Center via Steward Horse Camp. I’m not sure if it was the wandering heard of deer I was photographing or the poor signage, but somehow we managed to get a little sideways and accidentally wandered into the Vedanta Society Olema Retreat. Anytime you’re able to get navigation help from a friendly monk in orange robes, you know you’re on track for an interesting weekend. He helped us find the Rift Zone Trail that travels through the Society’s property and we enjoyed the route’s solitude and wildlife back to our car. Point Reyes may feel like our backyard, but it still offers new adventures for seasoned visitors.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in April, 2006 (or thereabouts).

A cold wind passes through us as the volcanic gravel underfoot crunches with every step. We are the only people for miles. Standing at the edge of an ancient crater on a moonless night, we can feel the void below us. Beneath a blanket of stars, we pour the champagne and wish the world and each other a Happy New Year.

Our holiday road trip was a last-minute idea. Jody’s office was closed for the holidays and my six-month hiatus from the working world didn’t end until January 3. We had no solid plans for New Years and we were anxious to spend some time outside.

Despite our hopes for a powder-laden romp through the mountains, a nasty, wet storm chased us up and over the Sierra. From Kirkwood to Mono Lake to Mammoth and Bishop; wherever we traveled the rain seemed to follow. Typically, we love winter storms – the bigger the better. Big, funky maelstroms that blow in from the Pacific and pound the Sierra with loads of snow; the stuff epic powder days are made of. Unfortunately, the snow level was hovering around 8,000 feet. When the snow looks like Slurpee and the Gore-Tex is begging for mercy, even the faithful begin looking for alternatives. This is how we found ourselves bouncing down 45 miles of washboard dirt road with a car full of ski equipment, bound for the northern reaches of Death Valley National Park.

We fell in love with Death Valley just six months earlier, on our first trip to the park. On that trip we focused our limited time around the most popular spots in the Furnace Creek area – Badwater, Zabriskie Point, etc. As we traveled along the road from Big Pine, we decided this trip would focus on the northern part of the park. We grabbed a campsite at Mesquite Flat and spend the next three days exploring in earnest.

The highlight of the trip was probably our excursion to Racetrack Playa, a geological oddity buried deep within the park’s interior. The 35-mile dirt road to The Racetrack is littered with hazards: deep ruts, big rocks, and ample washboard. The recommended mode of transport is high-clearance, short-wheelbase, 4-wheel-drive. But once again Jody expertly navigated through the junk, and the Subaru delivered us safely.

Racetrack Playa is a dry lake bed, about two miles long by one mile wide. The perfectly flat surface of the playa is broken up near the northern end by a stretch of craggy rocks, known as The Grandstand. The main attraction, however, lies at the other end of the lake bed, where thousands of rocks have tumbled down the cliffs that rim the edge of the playa. After large storms, the playa can flood, creating a very soft mud. If wind conditions are just right, the rocks will sail along the playa floor, leaving deeply-grooved tracks in their wake. Since nobody has actually observed the phenomenon, theories abound.

Our time at the Racetrack was short but exciting. We spent about an hour walking around and photographing the surreal landscape. Just as we were packing up our cameras, a storm swept through the canyon, delivering wind and hail – reminding us that we could run, but we could not hide. The storm broke up as we drove back to camp and the filtered light made the stands of Joshua Trees and flowering cacti a sight to behold.

The rest of our time in the park was low-key. We toured Scotty’s Castle at night and rang in the New Year on the edge of the Ubehebe Crater. It isn’t often that you find a way to celebrate a spoiled ski trip, but our unplanned trip to Death Valley was a real treat – a special way to spend a short winter break.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in December, 2005 (or thereabouts).

Immediately following my resignation from IRI, most of my thoughts were consumed with some nerve-wracking questions: How am I going to find a new job? What do I want to do with my life? How will I get health insurance? In general, there was a lot of gut checking, self worth questioning, and general worrying about what was around the bend. I left IRI without another job lined up – acknowledging that some decompression time was in order and a clear head would be necessary to think about my career direction.

I’m actually surprised that it took me as long as it did to realize that I was going to have quite a bit of free time on my hands. It wasn’t long before I decided to spend a few days by myself outside. When I first started backpacking in college, I didn’t know anyone else that was interested – so all my trips were solo affairs. I now refer to these as the pre-Benson years. It had been probably eight years and 20+ trips since I hit the trail by myself. And while I knew I would miss Jody (the greatest wife, trail partner, and bed warmer on God’s green earth), I was actually looking forward to going it alone this time.

Driving through King’s Canyon NP on my way to the Road’s End trailhead, I started to get concerned about the amount of smoke in the air. It hung heavy over the canyon, choking out the views and filtering the morning light into an eerie orange glow. When I arrived at the trailhead, I was relieved to find out that, despite the copious smoke, the fires were rather small and nowhere near my planned route. I grabbed my permit, dialed in my pack and hit the trail as soon as possible; not quite sure how my neglected body was going to respond to a long day on the trail.

Hiking In – Paradise Valley

Starting at 5,000′ amidst the sequoias, the hike up to Paradise Valley was beautiful. With my back to the towering presence of the Sphinx, I slowly climbed along the Kings River, passing Mist Falls en route. Once I reached Lower Paradise Valley, the trail leveled off, but the final three miles to Upper Paradise sure did seem to drag. Once there, I found a nice campsite and promptly met an intrepid soul named Camilla – a teacher from Washington D.C. who used to work at Kings Canyon NP. She too was hiking alone, but her itinerary put mine to shame. While I was taking five or six days to complete the loop, she would do it in four with a large cross-country “short cut” through the interior. That evening I also met Chuck and Paul, a father and son pair from Lake County whom I would hang out with most nights for the rest of the trip.

I was up and on the trail early Wednesday morning. I had been toying with the idea of trying to knock out the hike in four days and this was the best day to swallow a double dose of trail miles. After six or seven miles of hiking, I arrived at Woods Creek Crossing and laid to rest my plans for a four day trip. I just didn’t have it in me to pull off a long day. And why the hell was I in such a hurry? The weight of my pack had been a major frustration from day one. I was accustomed to splitting some of the camp gear with Jody and my efforts to leave some weight at home didn’t seem to have a major effect.

I spent my afternoon soaking in the cool water of Woods Creek and taking naps in my tent. I photographed every detail of the suspension trail bridge for my bridge-engineer father-in-law. I was now camped along the Pacific Crest Trail and John Muir Trail, so hiker traffic was a little higher. I met a collection of salty old hikers that put my knowledge of the Sierra to shame. It seemed they could name every pass, lake, mountain, and trailhead in the High Sierra. It gave me a glimpse of what I would probably be like in another twenty-five years.

On to The Rae Lakes

Thursday morning came early and I was on the trail by 7AM. Despite the short distance, the seven mile hike to Rae Lakes wore me down, much like the day before. I took plenty of breaks along the trail and enjoyed the view as Fin Dome and Painted Lady grew larger in front of me. Crossing the 10,000 foot mark felt good as well, knowing that Friday would be my last day with any climbing. Every morning my pack felt a bit lighter, and I looked forward to a cool soak after each day of hiking. I found a nice campsite along the trail near the Rae Lakes and spent my long afternoon taking photos and trying to guess the route up and over Glen Pass.

The Rae Lakes region is pretty deep – at least a two day hike for an average hiker. I definitely got the sense that I wasn’t close to anywhere, but the regular foot traffic reminded me that I was also in one of the most popular sections of the High Sierra. It’s heartening to see so many like-minded people enjoying the mountains, investing the time and effort to see this area. The Rae Lakes, while crowded, offer a beautiful setting to chill out and soak up the high mountain vibe.

Up and Over Glen Pass

I broke camp early on Friday morning, hoping to get up and over Glen Pass (11,978′) before the sun climbed too high. I paced myself on the hike over the pass, knowing that I should take some time to enjoy the view. The switchbacks up the craggy pass proved challenging, but I topped out before long and spent some time up top soaking it all up – the granite, the glaciers, the lakes – damn the Sierra is beautiful.

I made good time coming down the backside of Glen Pass. I felt strong, and by the time I got to Vidette Meadow I started having more thoughts about finishing up in four days, which would have required a twenty mile day with fifteen hundred feet of climbing and seven thousand feet of descending. The next three miles cured me of that idea as I dropped another fifteen hundred feet over three miles in the blazing sun. By the time I dropped my pack at Junction Meadow, I was quite certain that five days was a much more reasonable goal. I was busted down, broken, and thoroughly dehydrated. I matched my personal best from day 1 of the hike and drank eight liters of water over the course of the day.

One Last Night on the Trail

Before long I was joined in camp by Chuck and Paul, who proved again to be good company. Shortly after setting up camp, we met guy who had just hiked up from Roads End. He worked for Sequoia as a bear technician and was heading to Center Basin to investigate some aggressive bears that had been charging hikers. I was totally interested by this guy’s job, and he explained that most of his time was spent in the front country dealing with bears that pester people around the big campgrounds and picnic areas. In those situations he has a partner and a rifle with rubber bullets. In the backcountry all he has is a can of pepper spray and a slingshot. His plan was to track this bear down and basically haze it until it’s scared of him. I’ve gotta give the guy credit – he’s got balls. He was also testing some prototype bear canisters for Ursack. Over the course of the summer he had already tallied 150+ bear sightings. I, on the other hand, hadn’t seen a bear yet on this hike, which is pretty rare in this part of the Sierra.

Breaking down camp for the last time on Saturday morning, I was eager to complete the hike, but sad that it was all coming to an end. I had really enjoyed myself, but I missed my girl and was anxious to re-acquaint myself with a fresh pair of boxers. Speaking of dirty, I passed my fair share of Fresno locals on the way down that could stand to meet the business end of a bar of soap – “Pool or pond. Pond would be good for you.” (Whoa – cheap shot!) Despite the steep descent, the miles clicked by pretty fast and I was back at my car by noon. I said goodbye to Chuck and Paul and settled in for the long drive back to San Francisco.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in September, 2005 (or thereabouts).