I received some sideways glances after telling my city coworkers we planned to spend our hard earned vacation days road tripping to Utah. “Really?” “Really.” Exploring the dry playas of Death Valley, navigating the rushing waters of the Zion Virgin River Narrows, and hiking under the towering spires of Bryce Canyon make affairs of the cube seem downright comical.

The adventure began with a race through Yosemite to a favorite spot nestled between the Sierra’s eastern base and Mono Lake. Tioga Toomey’s, a rare combination of fine dining and gas station, offered us yet another outstanding alfresco meal. After dinner we navigated the now very familiar back roads to Crooked Meadow and settled into our first night on the road. Full tummies, starry skies, and the silence of Mono Basin – it was starting to feel like a vacation.

Manzanar

On our south-bound tour of Hwy 395, we paid a visit to Manzanar, a WWII Japanese internment camp and National Historic Site in Owens Valley. Although not much is left of the camp itself, two structures solemnly stand against a dramatic Eastern Sierra backdrop. A new museum was recently built within the original high school gymnasium and we were blown away by its quality. My nerves tingled while experiencing the eerily familiar rhetoric that “justified” the trampling of American civil rights in the name of wartime national security. A lonely white monument now stands in the cemetery and is dedicated to the Japanese Americans who died on these grounds. Manzanar isn’t necessarily a vacation “upper” but definitely worth the visit to absorb a sobering piece of American history.

Death Valley

Back in the trusty Subaru, we continued down Hwy 395, and within two hours had the highest and lowest points within the lower 48 states in view. Mt. Whitney towers a proud 14,495 ft. and Bad Water, Death Valley sinks -282 ft. with less than 150 miles between them.

Not surprisingly, camping in Death Valley around early September is a warm affair. Overnight lows in the mid 80s did little to temper the 100+ daytime temperatures. Fortunately, I developed my appreciation for dry, desert climates while living in Reno for a year and familiarized myself with the phrase “Well, at least it’s a dry heat”. Frankly, that doesn’t mean shit when the hot, gusty Bad Water winds make you question the choice of vacationing inside a convection oven. Even though the heat was intense, the aptly-named Furnace Creek campground offered excellent shade beneath Mesquite trees and a surprisingly comfortable duff bed. The desert further embraced us that night with a shocking number of stars and the serenade of howling coyotes just a few hundred feet from our tent. The evening was intense and magical.

The next morning we rose in the dark to capture the sun’s first rays fall on Zabriskie Point, but we were not alone. There must be something about the American Southwest that Europeans adore, because that morning we were surrounded by a gamut of Euro tourists. We were even joined by a French motorcycle gang complete with Harleys, leather, and fringe. The noticeable absence of English reminded us once again National Parks are not just us, but for the world to enjoy. After we all held hands and joined in rounds of “I’d like to teach the world to sing,” we recycled our Coke cans and zoomed onto another national err… treasure – Pahrump, Nevada.

Oddly, the international tourist scene did not follow us into the Nevada gem known as Pahrump. With many of its citizens looking like extras from Deliverance, we determined a five minute stop was longer than safely recommended and rocketed eastward. In no time, we left the billboards peddling brothels and plastic surgery behind and glimpsed the red outlines of Utah’s famous landmarks.

Zion – The Virgin River Narrows

I was completely unprepared for the grandeur of Zion National Park and no other backpacking trip has stirred my adrenaline like our hike through the Virgin River Narrows. There are two methods of hiking this area. The first option is to day hike up the river from the Temple of Sinawava into the opening between the narrow canyon walls. The second option requires taking a shuttle to the headwaters outside the park and hiking down the river and out the day hiker’s entrance. This 16-mile trail is mostly under water and between narrow 1000+ ft. vertical walls that are at times a mere 15ft. apart. Hikers accept the hazards of traveling with full packs, on a surface they can’t see, and the lurking danger of flash floods along a route with no exit. It just doesn’t seem like a safe place to go for a walk, but that’s exactly what people travel from all over the world to do and we had just arrived.

It was a crisp September morning, and the fine folks from the Zion Adventure Company had just dropped us off at Chamberlain’s Ranch – the trailhead for hiking the Virgin River Narrows from the top down. The head waters seemed gentle enough – only a few inches deep and couple feet wide. It was hard to imagine the “minimum four mandatory swims” we had heard about due to the unusually wet year. We knew we were going to get wet and the terrain would be rough, but both Matt and I decided against renting canyoneering shoes. I wore my hiking boots, Matt chose his trail runners. Both of us had carefully wrapped all of the items in our packs in tightly bound trash compactor bags and left the “expensive” cameras back in the car.

As we traveled downstream, the sandstone walls grew above us until only a narrow slice of azure sky could be seen nearly 80 stories above. The head waters also grew. As tributaries joined in, the creek swelled to a small river with a surprisingly swift and cold current. Matt and I developed a zigzag technique of crossing the river in search for areas offering steadier footing. Plant a trekking pole, follow with a foot, repeat. Full packs and rowdy terrain made for slow but steady progress.

Experiencing a slot canyon from the inside is a thrill. Over time, the water creates honeycomb pockets in the sandstone and the formations left behind are fascinating. Smooth vertical walls twisted above us and glowed with warm reflected light we had only seen on covers of adventure magazines. It felt like we were in the belly of some living creature, as if we had been swallowed and were slowly hiking our way out through the numbing waters to its mouth.

As we got the hang of navigating the “trail”, nature threw us some curve balls including thigh-high water and log jams, complete with cascading white water. Navigating solutions to each of these challenges was mentally and physically demanding. By the time we reached camp, our knees and ankles were screaming for a break and we felt sorry for the few folks that decided to take on the full length of the Narrows as a “day hike”. Campsite No. 8 proved to be king among kings in the world of backcountry homesteads; it included an actual cavern for our tent. And, since the Narrows let in so little moon light, we enjoyed the blackest night we could remember in the backcountry that evening.

Day two in the water brought some new excitement to my mental scrapbook of backpacking. Faced with a deep, serpentine segment, Matt and I tried to circumnavigate the obstacle by climbing over a large boulder. We met an unfortunate dead end and Matt backed out and prepared for our first swim. My detour was interrupted when I slipped and suddenly felt the rush of cold water spilling over my head. Since my waist belt had not been fastened, my pack floated to the surface and I was stuck underneath with arms looped through the straps. I panicked when I couldn’t touch the bottom and was being pushed forward into the large boulder. With a few fluid moves, I kicked both feet towards the boulder to halt my forward movement and shoved my trekking pole down. “Thank God!” – It reached the bottom and I could hold myself still long enough to slide out from under my pack with my free hand. I maneuvered my way to the sandbar with Matt and took some nervous deep breaths.

Already soaking wet, we placed our packs in front of us and swam the serpent. It was deep and the current was kinder than my earlier submersion. It felt like riding a gentle animal. Our packs were surprisingly buoyant and in just a few minutes we were on solid land again with water-laden gear. Our items were dry, but the nylon acted like a bucket. We were forced to carry a portion of the river with us each time we needed to swim. Fortunately, these other swims got easier with time and no other sections induced the same level of fear I had experienced earlier.

Spotting the first group of day-hikers whom had started at the bottom was an encouraging moment. Our finish line was finally approaching. The air became warmer and our hearts lighter knowing we could focus more on the amazing features of the canyon and less on our personal safety. “Wall Street” was an especially amazing section where the river banks completely disappeared and the water spanned between the towering walls like pavement between skyscrapers. All too soon the sunlight swallowed the darkness and we passed barefoot tourists playing at the Temple’s mouth. We had finally completed this unusual hike and were ready for some solid land, flip flops, and a few well deserved beers.

Zion – The West Rim Trail

After spending only one night recovering from our slot canyon adventure in the Virgin River Narrows, we were ready to tackle the plateaus. We rose early for Round Two of our backpacking tour of Zion National Park and hopped into another Zion Adventure Company shuttle to the trailhead.

We began our hike on top of the sweeping Kolob Terrace at Lava Point and enjoyed the freedom of walking on a dry path bordered by pines and aspens. As we approached the edge of the terrace we were treated to some fantastic views of the Great West Canyon, rivaled only by the views of Zion Canyon from our campsite. The surrounding plateaus resembled isolated islands from our perch. They were separated from one another by canyon walls of red-orange rock streaked with layers of geological history. When the sun set that evening, these walls created a brilliant display of color against a cool sky. The bird’s eye view seemed worlds away from the black Narrows night spent in the cave, yet the camp sites were less than six miles from one another.

The next morning, our trail took a nose dive and plummeted nearly 3000 ft. to the bottom of Zion Canyon. Our knees and ankles were still wobbly from the Narrows, but the vistas served as excellent distractions. In particular, the first glimpse of Angel’s Landing stopped us in our tracks.

Before we even left San Francisco, Matt had been singing the praises of the hike up Angel’s Landing – a short detour from our current route. From above, this monolith resembled a paper-thin tropical fish ready to swim into the center of Zion Canyon. By hiking along the spine of the narrow rock slab, hikers can reach the top and capture a once in a lifetime view of the valley floor. Matt was aware of my issue with heights and knew coaxing me into this side trip was going to take some work. He started with an irresistible grin and explained even though the sheer walls rise 1700 ft. above the valley floor, there would be safety cables. Images of Half Dome anyone? We dropped our packs, put both hands on the chain cables, and walked against the vertical sandstone face. I only lasted a few hundred feet. Grin or no grin, my adrenaline quota had been maxed on this particular trip and I was a shaking mess. Matt pushed on and I checked out his photos later. Amazing, yes, but some places are just more fun to enjoy from the comfort of a sofa.

Bryce Canyon

Having backpacked the highs and lows of Zion, we were ready to explore another national park on our tour of Utah. We headed northeast and skidded into Bryce Canyon ready for some low-key car camping.

Ebenezer Bryce, an early Mormon settler for whom the park is named, described the amphitheater behind his ranch as, “A hell of a place to lose a cow”. Stand at one of the many overlooks and it’s easy to understand the “bad day at work” this scenario could create for a rancher in a place like Bryce Canyon. Collections of sherbet toned spires called “Hoodoos” give rise to redwood scaled stone forests below. The towers took over 10 million years to develop and seem close to toppling over at any moment. We decided to get a closer look and hiked down to the base to discover much of the canyon in orange filtered light.

Although colorful during the day, we discovered the real magic of Bryce begins at night. The air quality in this park is among the best in the world due to Bryce’s elevation and distance from developed land, and this set the stage for some world-class star gazing. We took advantage of an offer we received from a park ranger to look through a large telescope at the canyon’s edge after dark. A full moon had risen and we studied the topography for one area not currently on our backpacking wish list. Later that night, we grabbed our cameras and headed into the canyon for some moon-lit night photography.

Staying warm during Matt’s long exposures was tough since I just wanted to sit still and enjoy our last night of vacation doing nothing. Instead, I wandered the trails to stay warm and felt the presence of something alive around me even though we were the only two people around at 2am. Earlier in the day I had read Paiute tales describing the hoodoos as the Legend People turned to stone by the Great Coyote. I imagined the towers taking on supernatural expressions under the moon light before my imagination got the best of me and I hurried back to Matt. We sat quietly together and waited for the last click indicating the shutter had closed on his final exposure. City life was just around the corner and we wanted to drink in every minute of silence we could before returning home.

Headed Home

While ten days may seem like a long time on the road, we barely scratched the surface uncovering Utah’s wild side. With any luck we’ll be packing up the Suby again soon and headed east for places like Arches, Canyon Lands, and the countless other parks that couldn’t be stuffed into our first tour. Until then, our photos will have to suffice as a reminder of what waits for us when we return.

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

When in the course of the daily grind, it becomes necessary for one Person to dissolve the Occupational bands which have connected them with a soulless corporation, and to assume among the powers of At-Will-Employment, the separate and equal Station to which the laws of Self-Preservation and of Mental Health entitle them, a decent Professional Courtesy requires that they should offer a minimum of two weeks notice and steadfast work ethic to the end. But not first, without taking a nine day vacation to the mountains of Wyoming.

Wyoming had been on our “must do” list for quite some time. However, quitting my job the day before we left wasn’t part of the original trip plan – nor the financial plan for that matter. But in the immortal words of Joel Goodsen, “Sometimes you just have to say ‘what the fuck’.”

We left San Francisco on Friday afternoon and promptly found ourselves stuck in Sacramento rush-hour traffic – lovely. Is it just me or does Sacramento just keep growing? It seems to stretch pretty much from Davis to Auburn now – solid town the entire way. Auburn brought a reprieve from the traffic and before long we were staring at the bright lights of Reno – or as our friend likes to call it “Las Vegas’ retarded little sister.”

After a quick dinner stop, we keep driving deep into the Nevada desert until we found a flat spot of dirt well off the Interstate that looked cozy enough for a short night’s sleep. Early to rise, we got back on the road and pushed all the way through Nevada and into Salt Lake City for an early lunch. Sad to see my favorite Peruvian restaurant had closed, we settled for tacos next door and got back on the road, making it to Daniel, Wyoming by mid-afternoon.

My good friend Doug is 100% Montanan, but considers himself a de-facto resident of Wyoming just the same. Growing up, his family spent quite a bit of time at their cabin near the Hoback River in Wyoming – about halfway between Pinedale and Jackson. After many years, Jody and I decided to take Doug and his parents up on their offer to use their cabin as a base camp for exploring the mountains of Wyoming – an area they’re happy to call home for five or six months of the year.

We met Doug at Daniel Junction and after some hugs and hellos, we were in his truck headed for Pinedale. After a quick stop by The Great Outdoor Store in Pinedale, we proceeded up to the Elk Heart Park area of the Wind River Mountains. We did a quick day hike, running into snow just a mile or two up the trail. The short hike felt great after nearly seventeen hours of driving. The hike was followed by a delicious steak dinner at the Half Moon Lake Lodge. We followed Doug back to the cabin and made plans for the next day.

Doug was only a couple of months into a new job and wasn’t quite ready to take a week-long vacation. He compromised by coming down from Billings on the two weekends we were there – giving us the week in between to explore the Wind Rivers and Tetons on our own. On Sunday, Doug gave us the dime tour of Teton Village and then on to Yellowstone – a park that hadn’t originally been on our itinerary. Jody and I were both very glad to have made the trip. We got a chance to see Yellowstone Falls, Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, Yellowstone Lake, Fishing Bridge, and more Bison than you can imagine – one of which caused a small traffic jam later in the day. The scenery was spectacular and we saw enough of the park to know we would have to return some day.

The drive back to the cabin that night was long and we got to bed pretty late, but that didn’t stop us from getting an early start on the next day. Our first overnighter was going to take us into the Wind River Mountains – a range of such scale and beauty it is a real surprise how easily they’re overlooked when compared to the more well know Teton Mountains. We stopped in Pinedale Monday morning to grab breakfast and consult the good people at the Pinedale ranger station. Our original plan to see the Big Sandy area was quickly kyboshed when we heard about the lingering snow in the area. Instead, the ranger suggested a trip into the Green River Lakes area, further north. The elevation was lower and the trail conditions were more stable.

The drive to the trailhead was a great chance for a nap – until we hit twenty-two straight miles of dirt road. The scenery was so incredible, that napping would have seemed like a total waste anyways. We started hiking the Highline Trail with no concrete plans on where we would camp, heading south along the Green River until we found a spot that would suit our tastes. We assumed this would probably be four or five miles at least. Captivated by the views and reluctant to put in much effort, the perfect site appeared just two miles down the trail, in a wooded area between the Green Lakes. The first spot we saw was taken by a large group of campers, so we hiked a short distance to another good looking site.

The mosquitoes were in full effect that night, but it didn’t stop us from staying out well past sunset to take pictures of the river and Flattop Mountain. We slept well that night and woke up to another beautiful day. During breakfast, I spotted a cow Moose with her calf a few hundred yards away on the other side of the river. Jody saw this same pair the day before and I was bummed to have missed it, so it was great to have a second chance. As the two of them walked up river towards us, Doug’s advice rang in my ears, “Don’t get anywhere near a Mama Moose and her calf – that’s just as dangerous as a bear and cub.” OK – super. The closer they got, the more I tried to convince myself that everything was cool. By the time she was directly across the river from us, Jody and I were moving up river fast, trying to put some distance between us. I never thought she would cross the river with a calf so young, but sure enough they jumped in, made their way across, and proceeded to walk right through the middle of our campsite. From a safe distance, we waited a good fifteen minutes before carefully making our way back to camp. No moose in sight – good. We finished breakfast, packed up for a day hike, and got back on the trail.

A hike up the Porcupine Creek Falls Trail afforded us some elevated views of the river valley where we were camped. The swollen creek also gave us an opportunity to practice our stream-crossing technique. Moving through ice-cold, knee-deep water takes some practice. On our return hike, we noticed the sky was closing up and decided to a make a hasty retreat back to the tent, not wanting to get caught in afternoon thunderstorms. Within 30 seconds of jumping into our tent, the sky let loose with a thunder and lightning storm like none we’ve experienced first hand. The rain poured down hard and we resigned ourselves to our favorite backcountry activity – taking a nap.

A different kind of thunder woke us with a start – the sound of thundering hooves pounding through our campsite. A couple of deep snorts announced the return of Mama Moose, who seemed upset we were still around. The lightning and rain kept on and I got to thinking that I’m perfectly comfortable negotiating one mortal threat at a time. But when two arrive at once, I’m a bit out of sorts. The best solution seemed obvious – keep sleeping until one threat goes away. A half hour later, the rain had stopped, and I emerged from the tent pleased to see no pissed off moose. Nonetheless, we took the hint and quickly moved camp back up the trail to the now empty site we had seen the day before. No sooner did we finish dinner than the lightning and rain returned full force and we decided yet again that the best offense is a good defense – we retired for the evening to the comforts of our tent – chalking up our second day in the Wind Rivers as an exciting one. It is occasions like these that give you pause and some perspective. It makes you realize just how insignificant some things are – like a job as a professional data monkey for a market research behemoth. Did I really care that I was going to be unemployed in two weeks? Not really – at least I hadn’t been trampled by a moose or struck by lighting. To quote another wise sage, Ice Cube, “I didn’t even have to use my A.K. – I gotta say it was a good day.” Indeed, Mr. Cube, indeed.

…Doug’s advice rang in my ears, Don’t get anywhere near a Mama Moose and her calf…

Wednesday morning came early after twelve to fourteen hours of sleep in the previous twenty four. We ate breakfast, broke camp, and made the short hike back to the trailhead, constantly turning around to catch one more glimpse of the serpentine river and the monolith of Flattop Mountain, standing sentinel over the area. After a huge lunch at the Wrangler Café in Pinedale, we made our way back to the cabin. Peter, Doug’s dad, had arrived earlier in the day and was a generous host, offering warm showers and a chance to relax before our next journey into the mountains. We had a great dinner of Elk backstraps, Spaghetti Bolognese, green salad and some tasty red wine. After dinner, Jody and I sorted out our gear and got ready for a pre-dawn start the next day.

On Thursday, Jody once again proved herself the most understanding wife on the planet as she woke with me at 3:30 AM for the ninety minute drive to Schwabacher’s Landing – the ideal spot for sunrise photos of the Grand Teton. I had read about the place a few months earlier and was determined to catch the good light while we were there. I felt like we were racing the sun as we drove through Jackson and proceeded north through Grand Teton National Park. We parked at the end of the Schwabacher’s Landing road and moved quickly up stream to a beaver pond that provides a perfect reflection of what many call the most photogenic mountains in the U.S.A. The twenty foot stretch of beach was already crowded with four of five photographers by the time we arrived, but people made room and we had made it in time for the light. We spent the next forty five minutes peeling off photo after photo of the Tetons as the light danced across the sky and the craggy peaks. The crew on hand that morning was a fun cross section of photographers. Amateurs and pros alike, we saw everything from large format view cameras, to Hasselblads, to Digital SLRs and a few folks (Jody included) with point and shoots. It was a fun way to start the morning and we were done before 7 AM.

Contemplating our next move for the day, we decided to take it easy (once again) and car camp for the next two nights at Jenny Lake. We justified this by acknowledging that the snow level was still too low to permit the full loop trips we had been considering. After checking into the Jenny Lake campground, we set out for a long dayhike around Jenny Lake and String Lake, taking a short side trip up to Inspiration Point, which is well worth the effort.

The next morning, we woke up without any definite plans for the day. Since Jody had laid out our schedule for the previous day, I took the lead and decided to head for Teton Village. I’ve always been hopeful that I’d have a chance to ski at Jackson Hole one day and this trip just cemented the idea. After a walking tour of the shops and restaurants around Teton Village, we coughed up nineteen dollars a piece for a ride to the top of the mountain in the Jackson Hole tram – an icon in the world of skiing and one that, sadly, will be retired at the end of the 2006 season. I positioned myself carefully in the tram car so that I would get a bird’s eye view of Corbet’s Couloir – one of the most infamous ski runs in North America. The view didn’t disappoint and I was once again amazed by the balls it must take to air ten to fifteen feet onto a 45+ degree pitch of snow with rock walls on either side. Unfortunately, the trail down to Corbet’s was closed, so we couldn’t get an up close look. But the other views from the top were quite incredible. We only did a short bit of hiking up top, but took advantage of the bird’s eye view and spent the entire time planning future backpacking trips that would take us deep into the Teton backcountry.

After lunch, we swung through a village ski shop that had a daily showing of Teton Gravity Research movies. We had the “theatre” to ourselves and enjoyed a screening of The Tribe. After the movie, we raced back to the park and met up with some old friends of Jody’s for dinner at Colter Bay. We enjoyed a nice campfire back at our site before retiring for the night – content that we had seen a slice of the Tetons, but aching to come back for more.

On Saturday morning, after a short drive back to the cabin, we met up with Doug and his family one more time and loaded all of our gear back into the car – an embarrassingly large pile of stuff we had toted along for the trip. After saying our goodbyes, we headed back down the dirt roads of Hoback Ranches one last time before turning south and starting our long drive home.

We pushed long and hard through the desert of Utah and Nevada before crashing late on Saturday night at what could only be described as the shittiest campsite on God’s green earth. Our little slice of hell was sandwiched in between Intestate 80 (less than 100 feet away) and a very active train track (less than 50 feet away). It was just close enough to Reno to get sketched out every time we heard something that sounded like footsteps nearby. I’m not sure how long I actually slept that night, but I was only lying down for about four and half hours before Jody and I noticed the break of dawn and got the hell out of there.

Our poorly rested bodies bounced back to life after a delicious breakfast at South Side Café – one of Jody’s old haunts from her Reno days. After a brief tour of her old neighborhood, we were back on the road – barreling down 395. It was Sunday, July 3rd and Jody’s whole family was convening at the cabin in Twain Harte for the holiday weekend. Our goal was to get there by Sunday afternoon so we could get in as much time with them as possible before heading home the next day.

We spent most of Sunday and Monday doing what the Salsig clan does at Twain Harte – chilling out on the huge deck, reading books and newspapers, and enjoying the occasional frosty beverage. By the time we left on Monday night, we were ready to get home and enjoy our comfy bed. We both had to be at work in the morning, but for once I didn’t dread the BART ride into Oakland – knowing I would only have to take that train nine more times before my gig was up. The trip to Wyoming had been a smashing success and we felt spoiled for the other mountains of the world. A return trip to Wyoming is inevitable and we look forward to spending more time in these incredible mountains – so full of life and beauty.

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

Our return to the Lost Coast was four years in the making. Ever since our inaugural trip to the area in July of 2001, we’ve been trying to find the time to make our way back. We held onto great memories of empty beaches, curious wildlife, and breathtaking sunsets. During the first trip, we only explored a short section of the trail, opting for a low-key weekend at the beach. This time around, we aimed to see what other treasures this remote section of coastline held, as we hiked the 25-mile northern section of the Lost Coast Trail.

With a bit more planning and four more years of experience under our belts, this trip was off to a great start by the time we took our first steps down the trail. We had Thursday and Friday off of work and got a jump start on the drive by staying Wednesday night at Scott and Jena’s in Rohnert Park. On Thursday morning, we enjoyed a low-key drive north on 101 before heading west for the sleepy town of Shelter Cove. This is actually where we planned to end our hike. A few weeks earlier, we had scheduled a shuttle to drive us to the northern trailhead where we would start our hike.

Roxanne, our chauffeur, was right on time and talked our ears off all the way to the trailhead – about 45 minutes to the north. She handed us a tide table, told us to be careful and bid us farewell as we adjusted our packs and got ready for a mellow first day of hiking. The sky was clear and a gentle breeze invited us toward the beach. Our destination was only three miles away – the Punta Gorda Lighthouse. When we visited in 2001, this area was our home for two nights and we wanted a chance to reminisce. Also, the Punta Gorda Lighthouse offers some pretty great photo opportunities under the right conditions (unfortunately, the incredible light we saw on our first trip didn’t make a repeat performance this time). While Jody napped, I got myself re-acquainted with the area, photographing some very cooperative seals and sea lions.

We planned our hiking to be heavy on the second and third days, allowing for ample drive time on our first and last days. These long hikes had to be timed just right to cooperate with the tides. The northern section of the Lost Coast Trail has three “intertidal” sections – areas that are literally under water during high tide. We passed the first of these spots (Windy Point) on our first day. The other two intertidal sections are considerably longer at 3 to 4 miles a stretch and we planned to deal with one each on our second and third days. After leaving the lighthouse on Friday morning, the trail meandered along the bluffs to a point above Sea Lion Gulch – the beginning of our intertidal zone. Realizing we’d arrived well before high tide, we dropped our packs and sunned ourselves for an hour or two before heading down to the beach where the trail continued.

Better than half of the Lost Coast Trail isn’t actually a trail at all. It is more of a suggested route, tracing a path down long stretches of rocky and sandy beaches. The feeling is incredible as you hike a stone’s throw from the pounding breakers, listening to the distinctive barks of the sea lions, smelling the fresh sea air. The downside is the tempo of your travel. Rocky, sandy beaches make for slow hiking, but it’s really hard to complain considering the setting. We eased into a slow and steady pace and after several hours and a few tricky stream crossings, we arrived at Kinsey Creek – our second campsite.

For a second night we were spoiled with a righteous site on the bluffs overlooking the beach – close to stream water and knee-deep in gorgeous wildflowers. About an hour before sunset, the clear skies yielded to ominous, dark-grey clouds that rolled in from the south like a band of misfits. Despite a drop in temperature and some stiff winds, the storm had more bark than bite and we never saw a drop of rain that second night.

Jody isn’t known for her acute sense of balance, and stream crossings are usually an opportunity for both worry and high comedy.

We enjoyed a lazy morning on Saturday, taking our time to break camp so we could hit the intertidal section well after high tide. Early in the day, we came across another swift stream crossing. This one was precariously bridged by a narrow, wet log that sat a good four or five feet above the water. I made my way across and turned around to keep an eye on Jody, hoping she would motor across it without psyching herself out. Jody isn’t known for her acute sense of balance, and stream crossings are usually an opportunity for both worry and high comedy. After surveying multiple options, she approached the log and began an ill-advised side shuffle walk across the slick surface. After four or five steps, she wobbled a bit and instinctively crouched down. As if in slow motion, she lowered herself, tipped to one side and gravity took over. She toppled off the log and landed square on her backpack in the stream. Scrambling to her feet, she got back to dry land, swallowed her pride, and straddled the log as she shuffled herself to the other side (the hiking equivalent of the underhand free throw). Despite her little dip into the drink, she was mostly dry, thanks to her pack, which took the brunt of the hit.

Even with the best of intentions, we hit the intertidal section pretty early in the outgoing tide cycle. This wasn’t a problem for the most part – we just had to hike a little higher on the beach to avoid getting wet. But every once in a while, we’d come to a point where the rocks jutted too far into the water and staying dry involved watching, waiting, and then running like hell (see pictures below). This added a bit more excitement to the hike.

The trail eventually headed back to the bluffs above the beach and opened up to the aptly named Big Flat. The narrow trail grew into an arrow-straight, grassy road marked by three distinctive tire tracks. It wasn’t long before we realized this wasn’t a road, so much as it was a landing strip for small planes. Several private cabins dot the Lost Coast Trail and the means for reaching them are extremely limited. This was the coolest solution we had seen yet and we envied the people that had their own fly-in cabin on the most remote section of coastline in California.

After another deep stream crossing at Big Flat Creek, we stumbled across another surprise – a pair of surfers at Miller Flat. I had read that the area attracted hearty surfers willing to hike nearly 8 miles from Shelter Cove, but we hadn’t expected to see anyone out there. I wished we had seen them hiking in with full packs and surfboards strapped to their backs. Gitchell Creek and our final campsite arrived before long and we set up our tent on a patch of beach surrounded by some really good “sitting logs”. Another amazing sunset got me thinking about how spoiled we had become over the past three days – empty trails, beautiful campsites, abundant wildlife, clear skies, and more wildflowers than we had ever seen – at times, literally paving the trail in ribbons of yellow and orange.

A bit of rain moved in overnight and lingered in the morning. By the time we started hiking, the skies had cleared and four miles of black, sandy beach lie ahead of us – leading the way to Shelter Cove. Stream crossings had become second nature as we splashed through knee deep water without giving it a second thought. The parking lot at Black Sands beach was a welcome sight for tired bones. We dropped our packs by the car, celebrated with a long, smelly hug and settled in for a long drive home – content that we had seen the Lost Coast Trail in all of her splendor and glory.

Click here for a printable guide to hiking the Lost Coast Trail

Google Maps Link (trailhead)

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

Springtime in the young Pritchard family is becoming the season for a solid butt kicking at Henry Coe State Park. Preparing for a year of backpacking just isn’t complete anymore without a visit to this local slice of rugged backcountry early in the calendar. This year’s trip was our third time at Coe and we came prepared for the challenge… well mostly.

On a beautiful sunny morning in mid April, Matt and I took the now familiar road that climbs from Hwy 101 into the hinterland that lies between the Central Valley and the Morgan Hill area. This is the gateway to an adventure we feel is best experienced in the spring, when the park is bursting with life.

The friendly Park Ranger at Headquarters painted an irresistible picture of Upper Camp, (“Oh, you’ll love it! Its nestled right by the water and is so quiet and beautiful!”) We began our hike up the Monument Trail towards our evening’s luxury accommodations. The trail afforded great views to the west and was covered in bright poppies announcing the arrival of the long awaited warm weather after a very wet and publicized California winter.

Our hike to camp included pine trees (Jody’s favorite!) at the top of the aptly named Pine Ridge and a selection of wildflowers too large to list (we don’t know their names anyway). We met up with Hobbs Road and, like most dirt roads in Coe Park, it went one of two directions that Coe roads go: straight up and straight down. When we bottomed out at Frog Lake, we took a breather and noticed a very odd shaped oak tree – check out the picture below.

We climbed back up to the top of Middle Ridge using Hobbs Road, but we noticed some mountain bikers taking a trail through the lush woods and were a bit envious. We checked the map and decided to take Frog Lake Trail back down the next day. On our way down the backside of Middle Ridge we saw ten, yes TEN smooshed lizards on the road spread over the course of two miles. We have no idea how they met their demise, but it was interesting to wonder.

At the bottom of the ravine we could hear the Middle Fork of Coyote Creek churning and knew we were near. Although what we saw was a giant thicket of poison oak with a sign in front of it, “Upper Camp & Mexican Flat” and an arrow pointed directly at the mess. Matt and I glanced at each other, shrugged, and proceeded through very carefully using our trekking poles to push the plants out of reach. We made it through and found our campground labeled on a secluded grassy knoll questionably close to the water. You’ve got to be pretty salty to keep going to Mexican Flat – the trail isn’t easy to track and is blanketed by the poisonous stuff.

Some folks think we have adventurous hobbies, but truth to be told, my very favorite backcountry activity is napping. Curling up with in a fresh breeze after a tough hike and a long work week is a FABULOUS way to spend a Saturday afternoon. This time, we got a little carried away and it was nearly dark by the time we got up to cook dinner. Since Matt found a couple ticks crawling around on his legs in the afternoon we also did a very careful tick search on one another prior to hitting the sack for the night.

NOTE: Despite our careful efforts, I did find a tick nestled in on my hip while showering when we got home. Matt removed it for me using a pair of tweezers and some righteous pulling – those little guys can hang on with their barbs! Even though lime disease is not common here and the tick was on for less than 24 hours and not engorged, we did call the doctor to check in for advice. Everything turned out fine, although the spot still itches occasionally even 6 weeks later, and I’ve got a little round scar.

The next morning, before we headed down Frog Creek Trail, we encountered the unexpected as we stopped for a snack. A lone hiker who had passed us earlier and was headed back towards the trailhead paused and asked, “Excuse me, are you Matt and Jody?” We looked at one another with a mutual understanding that this hiker had been sent to find us and deliver terrible news about a looming family crisis. “I recognize you from your website.”

Dumbfounded. I wanted to double over in laughter. Were we now Bay Area hiking celebrities? The hiker introduced himself as Matt and mentioned he visited sierrasoul occasionally and appreciated the info we posted. It is very cool to find out that people other than ma & pa check it out – but what are the chances of being sighted on the trail!? Thanks Matt, continued happy trails to you!

We chuckled for awhile as we continued the trek home on my now favorite path in Henry Coe State Park. Flat Frog Trail begins at the Little Fork of Coyote Creek between the Middle Ridge and Pine Ridge and is a truly enjoyable hike. Unlike most trails in the park, it climbs gently, and is shaded much of the way. Between the lush grasses, chirping birds, and multitudes of flowers, we were really enjoying ourselves and felt the peace Mother Nature shares in her Sunday church.

This trip was different than two prior visits to Coe. I was far from the tears of last year having taken extra precautions to hydrate well and add a little flavor packet to the creek water. I think we were both in better shape, and, well, the hike was a helluva lot shorter. So that helps.

We may have chosen a moderate route this year, but we’ve made big plans for the next trip. We’re calling it the Triple Crown of Henry Coe: A hike that covers the three major ridge lines of the park’s Western Zone. Check the Adventure Log in spring of 2006 and make sure we’re not full of bunk… we probably are, but we’d like to prove you wrong.

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

Although the storm had been forecast, scores of climbers and backpackers had misjudged how severe it would be. Longtime rangers said it had the character—and duration—of a January blizzard, not an October surprise. By week’s end, the search for some 30 hikers and climbers stranded up and down the Sierra Nevada made CNN.

Special Report: Six Nights on the Dark Tower, Daniel Duane, National Geographic Adventure, Feb 2005 (Issue 47)

Twenty percent chance of precipitation. That was the prediction from the NOAA website before we departed for one of our more memorable trips to the High Sierra. It was late October and our plan was to squeeze in one last dry land trip before the snow started to fall and our focus shifted to snow sports. Little did we know that two weeks later we would be pointing our tips downhill at Kirkwood to kick off our earliest ski season on record.

Our plan was simple…and stupid. One weekend, round-trip summit bid on Mt. Langley. Never mind that the trailhead was a nine hour drive from San Francisco and the hike itself was 21 miles round trip – topping out at 14,026 feet. Simple facts such as these are no match for ignorance and exuberance. A big storm was predicted to hit the Sierra at some point, but the specifics of where and when were a bit cloudy, and that was good enough for us.

On the same weekend, one year prior, Jody and I stood atop White Mountain – California’s third highest peak and the first Fourteener for both of us. We hoped luck would be on our side again as we made another late season trip. This time around we were joined by our friend, the irrepressible Ben Sabraw – a man that is one half court jester, one half Six Million Dollar Man, and just dumb enough to think this plan made sense.

None of us could take Friday off, so the best we could do was a 4PM departure from San Francisco. The roads were clear as we made our way east – out of the Bay Area, through the Central Valley, into Yosemite and over Tioga Pass. By the time we gassed up in Bishop, the supercomputers at the National Weather Service predicted a storm could blow through as soon as Saturday night. Never a group to exercise caution in the face of scientific reason, and buoyed by the fact that Ben’s barometer was holding steady, we pushed on and arrived at the trailhead around 1AM Saturday morning. Our initial plan to hike through the night to Cottonwood Lakes was put to rest by tired eyes and freezing temperatures. We threw our sleeping bags down near the car and called it a night.

Up for an early start the next morning, we hit the trail for the relatively level, 6-mile hike to the Cottonwood Lakes basin. We made pretty good time and found a great campsite near Cottonwood Lake #3. Jody had decided to lay low and play the role of Basecamp Bunny while Ben and I made our way for the summit. Our original plan called for a chill day on Saturday and an alpine start Sunday morning. But the weather was holding steady and it was only 11AM, so we decided to make a dash for the top. We opted for the Old Army Pass route – a long slog over a rocky pass, leading to an equally unglamorous slog up scree slopes to the mountain’s summit. Langley isn’t exactly Sierra climbing at its aesthetic best, but it’s still an interesting hike up a big damn mountain.

Less than a mile from camp, just as we started making our way up Old Army Pass, we got sucker-punched by unexpected snow on the route. Neither of us had planned for snow. Postings on the summitpost message board indicated the trail was clear and dry as recently as the prior weekend. The snow looked fresh and couldn’t have been more than a few days old. We didn’t have ice-axes or crampons and our choice in footwear was better suited for a long, dry hike than a snowy one. We tried to ignore it for a few hundred feet, but as it got deeper we realized the obvious – this mountain would just have to wait. The hike up didn’t concern us so much as coming down – especially if we ran into problems and had to make the descent in the dark after the snow had firmed up.Never a group to exercise caution in the face of scientific reason…we pushed on…

Jody was a bit surprised when she saw us return to camp only an hour after we had left, but she was glad to see we had turned around rather than taking a chance. The sky was clear and the barometer was still holding steady, so we decided to enjoy an afternoon in the mountains and hike out the next morning. Jody and I spent the better part of the afternoon shooting an assignment for my photography class, while Ben took a nap by the lake. As soon as the sun fell behind the ridgeline, the mercury took a nose dive and we hurried to get some dinner cooked so we could get to bed as soon as possible.

We crashed on the early side – Jody and I in our tiny hoop tent and Ben nearby in his bivy sack. All across the Sierra, from Mt. Whitney to El Capitan, climbers and hikers were settling in for the night, unaware that the mother of all snowstorms was about to hit us like a ton of bricks. We woke briefly around 3AM to the faint sound of snow hitting our tent fly. By the time we woke up at first light, we knew that hanging around wasn’t an option – 11,000 feet, six miles deep isn’t a good place to be during a Sierra snowstorm. Thick clouds overhead blocked out the sun. A steady wind gave the modest snowfall a bit more gravitas. A few inches had fallen overnight. A quick survey of the trail offered some relief, as it was still somewhat visible under the blanket of white.

We broke camp fast and started moving with some purpose. We lost the trail while crossing the Cottonwood Lakes basin, but had ourselves straightened out before we ran into trouble. Once the route ducked into the trees, the sparse canopy offered some shelter from the snow, but the trail was slick and we had to watch our step. We were so rushed to get moving that morning, we hadn’t taken the time to eat. After an hour of hiking, we decided to take a break and recharge with some snacks. While we munched away, a solo hiker stopped by and asked if he could join us for the hike out. Like us, it was his first time in the area, and we all figured it was best to team up. We soon realized this was the same guy we saw float tube fishing at Cottonwood Lake #5 the previous day. Hauling that kind of gear into the backcountry at this elevation requires a pretty salty fisherman – we were impressed. Before long, we ran into two more hikers making their escape. The six of us leapfrogged each other all the way back to the trailhead.

It was a relief to see the snow wasn’t sticking to the asphalt. The long road down to Big Pine isn’t one you want to negotiate with snow or ice on the road. Staring back at the Sierra Crest from the safety of the Owens Valley was a humbling sight. The High Sierra was socked in and taking a beating. We felt lucky to have made it out of there without much trouble. While gassing up, we heard the news that Tioga Pass had been closed – blocking off our most direct route home. It’s always a game of chance around October/November – trying to schedule one more trip to the Eastern Sierra before Tioga closes. What are the chances that it’s going to happen over the course of a weekend trip? With the route through Yosemite closed, our next fastest option was an end run around the High Sierra – over Walker Pass and through BAKERSFIELD, BABY, BAKERSFIELD! A few more hours in the car is hardly worth mentioning when compared to the complete hell that several groups of hikers and climbers were up against.

Just outside of Bakersfield, Jody picked up a worried message from her mom, who had been had been hearing news about several search and rescue operations being launched throughout the Sierra. The storm was even more serious than we thought. Most of these searches ended happily over the next several days with parties making it out under their own power or with some assistance from SAR teams. Two Japanese climbers, however, met a more tragic end on the unforgiving vertical of El Capitan in Yosemite Valley. The rescue efforts in Yosemite prompted a Special Report in National Geographic Adventure (Feb, 2005) and made the cover of Rock & Ice magazine.

The whole experience, while exciting, was a stark reminder of how important it is to heed the warning signs around you and to respond without hesitation. We all walked away that weekend relieved to be safe, and with a renewed respect for the awesome power of Mother Nature.

You may be wondering, “Why so many photos of Matt below?” Well, I was working on an assignment for a photo class that weekend involving self portraits. Yes, I am trying to look cool. Yes, I am trying way too hard.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in October, 2004 (or thereabouts).

It seems a bit mischievous – driving past your office on a weekday morning with a car full of backpacking gear and no intention of slowing down. That’s how I felt as we sped across the Bay Bridge in full view of my building in downtown Oakland, knowing that my co-workers would be showing up soon to put in a full 8 hours on this beautiful summertime Friday. Jody and I were bound for the Sierra – in search of some much needed R+R.

We spend a lot of time around Carson Pass during the winter – skiing at Kirkwood and snow camping near Red Lake. The area is so beautiful and accessible, it just begs for exploration. A couple of years ago we did a weekend backpacking trip to nearby Margaret Lake, which we really enjoyed. It’s hard to go wrong with blue water, granite, pines, and aspens. This time we were heading to Round Lake on the suggestion of a friend. Originally, we wanted to hike south from Carson Pass and explore the Winnemucca, Round Top, Emigrant Lake area, but our 3 day time limit and soft physical condition dictated a more mellow trip.

Round Lake can be reached from the north via the Big Meadow trailhead and from the south via Carson Pass. Since we would be staying put for two nights, we opted for the slightly longer hike in from Carson Pass. After stopping by Kirkwood to pick up our 04/05 season passes, we parked at the Carson Pass lot and hit the trail. The route to Round Lake follows the Pacific Crest Trail for a few of miles before branching off onto the Tahoe Rim Trail for the final two miles. The trail itself climbs high above Highway 88, meandering through groves of aspens and pines and dense pockets of fennel. The trail crests a small pass with great views to the north of Lake Tahoe and to the south of Round Top and the Sisters and Elephant’s Back. The grade was mellow, but our breathing was not. Apparently sitting on one’s ass for the better portion of a season doesn’t do much for your level of aerobic fitness. We stopped for a breather and made note of the thunderheads stacking up in the distance.

Fearing afternoon thunderstorms, we tried to keep a brisk pace, but our legs and lungs just refused to toe the company line. We made it to Round Lake before too long and were pleased to find a large campsite not far from the lake. We pitched camp and settled into our favorite backcountry activity: sleeping. By the time we woke up, the sun had called it quits and we had to cook dinner by headlamp. A noticeable lack of mosquitoes made for a pleasant evening and we called it a night on the early side.

Fearing afternoon thunderstorms, we tried to keep a brisk pace, but our legs and lungs just refused to toe the company line.

Staying both nights at Round Lake gave us time on Saturday to explore a bit and hunt down some of the other lakes in the area. Two were close by, but Meiss Lake grabbed our attention because there was no trail leading the way. Located in between the PCT and the TRT, the lake is not far, but not visible from either trail. We also heard it was great for swimming, so we packed a bag and beat a path in that general direction. Jody and I didn’t exactly agree on the route through the thicket of tall grass and shrubs and I’ll admit now that Jody had us moving in the right direction. We eventually found the lake and scoped out a seat along it’s grassy shore. The lake is very shallow and would have been great for a swim if it hadn’t been for the wind. A large, lush meadow spills out of the lake to the south. We spent some time reading and watching a nymph dragonfly fight a losing battle against the strong wind.

On our way back to camp, we encountered a large group of scouts making their way to Round Lake. We seem to attract Boy Scouts on our trips and despite their charms (i.e. high entertainment value, unintentional comedy off the charts), we usually try to keep a safe distance. We made a hasty retreat back to camp and the youngsters pulled up short on the other side of the lake.

Despite the natural beauty of Round Lake, the place takes a beating from overuse. We spent a good portion of our Saturday evening and Sunday morning cleaning up our campsite and several others. The amount of trash we found really surprised me. I understand the occasional scrap that falls out of your pack or blows away in the wind when you’re not looking, but I don’t understand the mind of someone that would leave an entire bag of garbage sitting in a fire pit or stash empty liquor bottles in between a few rocks. What gives? If you can pack it in, you can pack it out. My 4 year old niece knows how to pick up after herself, what excuse do these people have? Together, Jody and I packed out about 10 lbs of trash. There would have been more if our packs were bigger.

We made fast work of the hike out on Sunday. The air was cold and the sky was overcast. It felt like autumn had arrived. The wind was blowing and the aspens were making that cool sound that aspens make. I wished I could be back there in a few weeks when the leaves turn yellow and carpet the hillside. We must have cut an hour from our time on the way out. Bub’s Sports Bar at Kirkwood was calling our names and we inhaled some quesadillas and burgers before heading back the Bay. Overall, it was a lovely weekend. We look forward to exploring more of the Carson Pass area in the coming years.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in September, 2004 (or thereabouts).

The weekend was born out of necessity. We were jonesing for some time outside and it needed to happen soon. The autumn is good for this kind of trip. The mercury is falling, kids are back in school, and areas that host hordes in the summer are thinning out before winter. You can pretty much pick a spot on the map and plan a trip in little to no time. We zeroed in on Mt Lassen without much thought. It’s been on our list for the past few years, it is easy to get to, and neither of us had been to the area since we were knee-high to a grasshopper.

We hit the road well before dawn on Saturday morning, with Jody assuming captain duties. I flew second-seat and slumbered through the bulk of the drive – not waking until we veered off I-5 near Red Bluff. We pulled through the park gates around 8:30 and dumped our gear at a nice spot in the walk-in campground. Before long, we were back in the car, heading towards the Mt. Lassen trailhead – a few miles down the road. Mt. Lassen is the southernmost of the major Cascade peaks. Having last erupted in 1915, it is considered to be the largest plug-dome volcano in the world. The main cone of the volcano rises two thousand feet above the surrounding area, topping out at 10,453 ft. Before the 1980 eruption of Mt. St Helens, Lassen was the most important volcanic research area in the U.S. To this day, it serves an important role foretelling the recovery cycle of St. Helens and other recently erupted volcanoes.

Hiking to the summit of Mt. Lassen is a pretty straightforward deal – a well worn trail winds 2.5 miles and 2,000 vertical feet to the summit. Switchbacks lead the way up the rocky, barren slopes that characterize so many of the Cascade peaks. We took our time and enjoyed a blue-bird day in the mountains. We had plenty of company, including a large group of high-schoolers from Eureka, who offered a fair amount of entertainment. A wee bit of scrambling at the top put us on the summit inside of two hours.

To the north, we could see Mt Shasta in all its glory, more than 3,500 ft. higher than us. In every direction small cinder cones told a clear story about the rumblings underneath the earth’s crust. On the northeast side of the mountain, we could see the devastated area caused by the massive mudslides that accompanied the mountain’s most recent eruption. To the south was a bird’s eye view of Brokeoff Mountain, another gem of the park – it might not be as geologically interesting, but the hiking and climbing opportunities abound. A quick descent put us in camp in the early afternoon and gave us the rest of the day to relax and catch up on some reading and sleeping.

For people that spend most of their outside time backpacking, the occasional car camping trip can be a real treat. Why? Let’s start with comfy camp chairs, coolers of beer, massive food lockers, real mashed potatoes, and tri-trip grilled on the hibachi. With full stomachs and tired eyes, we settled down for the night.

We woke early Sunday morning to take advantage of the good light near Bumpass Hell. There are two hikes you are pretty much required to do when you visit Lassen – the first of which is the hike to the summit. The other is the hike to Bumpass Hell. This area most vividly describes the history and the character of the park. Bubbling (literally) with geothermal activity, the pools, vents, and mudpots around Bumpass Hell burp, gurgle and spew a noxious funk of hydrogen sulfide and steam. Crisscrossed with boardwalks and guardrails, there is a very Venusian quality to the place, giving it the feel of Jabba the Hut’s personal day spa. By starting early, we were treated to beautiful light and absolutely no crowds. For the 30 or 40 minutes we spent there, we didn’t see another person. It afforded us some great photos, which can be seen below.

We returned to camp after our hike and decided to call it a weekend. We had other hikes on our list, but we needed to save something for next time – also, we were feeling lazy. We hit the road around noon and spent the car ride home talking about trips for ’05. It’s shaping up to be a very good year.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in September, 2004 (or thereabouts).

The third time is the charm, right? That’s how the saying goes. As if, by fate’s design, we are all destined to taste bitter failure twice before we can truly appreciate success the next time ’round. Maybe the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter was aligned with Mars and all of the cosmic forces of the universe willed us to succeed. Or perhaps Mt. Shasta needed us to prove our worth and determination on those previous attempts before it would acquiese and grant us safe passage to her craggy summit. Or maybe that is all a load of crap. Maybe this time we were just a bit stronger and bit smarter than we had been in the past.

The afternoon before we made the summit push from Helen Lake, the climbing ranger came around to discuss route conditions with us. He asked if we had been up on Mt. Shasta before and we explained that we had both made two attempts but failed to summit. His reaction surprised me at first, although it shouldn’t have. He said, “Good, at least you’re smart enough to turn around when it starts to look bad.” And maybe that was it. The trip certainly had its fair share of weird weather, interesting characters, bumps, bruises, and general odditites. But at no point did it ever look bad. That much can’t be said for my first two attempts, one of which ended in a trip to the ER and another that was capped off by a 12 hour sandblasting at the hands of a nasty windstorm.

Our Mt. Shasta trip had already been delayed once by a brute of a headcold that punched Ben in the nose and took his lunch money two days before our original departure date. We rescheduled for mid-July and crossed our fingers that Avalanche Gulch would hold enough snow to keep conditions on the route just this side of a scree-bound death march. It had been 5 years since my last attempt and a couple of years since Ben’s. We had never climbed together before this trip. In fact, we had never spent much time outside together. Come to think of it, the majority of our time together had been spent in a beer-fueled daze watching OSU football games or attending Mother Hips concerts. Having met through mutual friends, we knew of each others’ love for the outdoors and spent the brief moments between Derek Anderson interceptions spraying about our various outdoor feats – his far more impressive than mine.

We rolled out of San Francisco at 5:30 on Friday afternoon, and by 7:30 we had made it all the way to Berkeley – nearly 15 miles away. The frenetic pace was almost more than our tender hearts could handle. At one point, we saw the needle on the speedometer edge past the 30 mph mark. Such is the life of bona fide weekend warriors. We made it to Vacaville before stopping for dinner and fueled up on top notch energy food – Jack in the Box Ultimate Cheeseburgers, oil soaked fries, and massive sodas. We certainly were setting ourselves up for success in every conceivable way.

I Digress

Sixty-four ounces of Dr. Pepper has a way of making its presence known in one’s bladder, and just shy of Dunsmuir I decided I could wait no longer. Somewhere between the I-5 Pollard Flat exit and the parking lot of the Exxon, we must have passed through a portal into the Twilight Zone. As we pulled into the parking lot of this gas station/restaurant/general roadside oddity, we surveyed the cast of character loitering outside. They looked like they were on a field trip from the Siskiyou School of Bathtub Chemistry – all sleeveless shirts and mesh-back caps and faded tats.

I’m not easily spooked, but I was in no mood to linger at this place. I walked inside the front door and picked up a very creepy vibe. The place was empty – dark inside except for a couple of random lights and the blue cast of a TV shining from one corner. I looked around for the bathroom but didn’t see anything obvious. This is an odd analogy to be sure, but the most fitting one that I can find. Think back to the movie “Goonies” – at the beginning when the kids first go looking for the entrance to the cave and wind up inside of the Fratelli’s hide-out/restaurant – that is the kind of vibe this place had. It looked like they’d hired Ted Nugent to do the interior decorating. As I made my way to the far end of the room, a voice behind me bellowed, “Can I help you?” I told the grissled gentleman that I was looking for the bathroom. He muttered something about being closed but that I could use the bathroom in the corner by the TV. I made my way over to the bathroom and pushed the door halfway open. I could hear the faucet running. Thinking I had barged in on someone, I quickly closed the door and offered an apology. Then I realized there was nobody inside and pushed the door open further this time. A survey of the single-seater bathroom revealed a full-size, clawfoot bathtub sitting in one corner with a female mannequin propped up inside. When I wandered over to the toilet, the mannequin was staring right at me. Somebody had a pretty twisted sense of humor. I finished up my business as quickly as I could and made a bee-line back to the car.

A Moonlight Hike

After some aimless cruising around the fringes of Mt. Shasta City, we found the Everett Memorial Highway and arrived at the Bunny Flat trailhead at 12:30AM. We decided to start hiking so we could rest at Horse Camp, rather than trying to sleep through late night arrivals in the parking lot. We made it to Horse Camp in no time, but we were still dog tired from a full day of work and 7 hours of driving. The formalities of a tent seemed too complicated and we opted for a night under the stars. The 4AM rain showers made us temporarily regret that decision, but we slumbered on through and before long the sun was rising.

We took our time ambling up the scree and soft snow between Horse Camp and Helen Lake, stopping for photos and Clif bars frequently. During our hike, we passed several dejected parties that were on the return leg of a failed summit attempt. Apparently the sprinkles we felt down at 8,000 feet were a bit more imposing between 10,000 and 12,000 feet. Most people put on a smile and wished us luck on our attempt that night, but one middle-aged, alpine superstud took his 30 seconds to inform us that nobody was going to catch a break this weekend. I appreciate it when fellow climbers, hikers, etc. have some useful information to pass along regarding route conditions, weather patterns, Yeti sightings, etc. But spraying bad energy all over someone’s hopes just because your attempt came up short is pretty weak. We nodded, dropped a couple of mental F-bombs on the guy, and kept on slogging.

For the uninitiated, Helen Lake is not a lake at all. It’s a large, sloping snowfield that has a pleasant habit of developing 3-foot suncups by mid-July. Most people opt to set up camp on the windward side of the rocky bench that surrounds the southern end of the “lake”. The stakes we had for the Megamid were no good in dirt, and by setting up camp on the snowfield itself, we had a 100-foot head start on everyone else the next morning. Our afternoon was spent ingesting massive amounts of calories and boiling snow for water. We took a couple of naps and generally laid low for the rest of the day. We knew Sunday was going to be big and we didn’t want to waste any energy.

Guy – A Cautionary Tale

Early that evening, this random guy (henceforth known as “Guy”) hauled himself up to our campsite and dropped his pack right next to Ben. Guy was sweaty and haggard looking; dressed in lightweight hiking boots and a glorified track suit. He had a thick accent and went on about the hike being much harder than he expected. Guy asked us where we got our water and we explained that we had been melting snow all afternoon. When he asked us how to melt snow, a few points became clear: a) Guy was pretty weird, b) Guy was in way over his head, c) Guy was in real danger of hurting himself if he kept going the next day.

Ben started grilling Guy on his gear and how much food and water he had with him. He was reluctant to answer most questions and occupied himself by stretching out his back. Then he stood up and asked Ben if he could, “…do me a favor.” Reluctant, Ben asked what he needed. Guy hesitated and then said, “I need you to kick me in the back.” I nearly spit the Gatorade I was drinking through my nose, but Ben didn’t miss a beat – “NO, absolutely not. I will not kick you in the back!” After some further explanation and awkward hand gesturing, we came to understand that he meant punch, not kick, and was looking for an impromptu back massage – slightly less weird, but not by much. Looking to get Guy on his way sooner than later, Ben obliged and punched him in the back a few times before sitting down and pretty much ignoring him until he left.

A Bid for the Top

Sunset brought with it the surreal colors that only appear in the high mountains. We spent some time taking photos and retired for the evening soon after the sky fell dark. That night’s sleep was restful, but short. It wasn’t long before the alarm went off and we were up and dressed for game day. We left the tent just after 2AM and made our way toward the main snowfield leading to the Red Banks. Without any moonlight, we were left to find our way using headlamps and the faint outlines of the major rock formations that contrasted against the snow. We were the first pair on the route that morning and everytime we turned around there were more and more headlamps winding their way toward us. On more than one occasion, I hoped they weren’t all following us, because neither Ben nor I were 100% confident about our route selection. Our progress was slow on this most difficult section of the climb, but we made it to the Red Banks before dawn and found an end-run route to the far right of the Red Banks, taking us toward Thumb Rock. We encounted steep scree that slid with every step and further slowed our progress, but we eventually made it above the Red Banks and were treated to great views of the east side of the mountain.

Once you’ve made it past the Red Banks, the climb is very straightforward. There is still 1,500+ feet of vertical to go and the summit is not yet visible, but a well worn path leads the way. Endless switchbacks took us to the base of the aptly named Misery Hill. We rested up and grabbed a bite to eat before we resumed the slogging. Misery Hill is a false summit that tops out near 13,800 feet – it’s an annoying but necessary final step before you are treated to views of the summit. Ben was moving faster than I was at this point, but he waited for me at the base of the summit plateau, where we encountered the first snow since the Red Banks.

From the summit plateau, the summit block looked a bit intimidating. It’s only 300 feet tall, but it’s craggy and steep and doesn’t appear to hold any simple lines. As we got closer an obvious route around the left side of the block appeared. We made one final push up a set of switchbacks and scrambled to the top – 14,126 feet – the sixth highest mountain in California and the second highest mountain in the Cascade range. We took a minute to sign the summit register and snap some summit photos. As far as we can tell, we were the first pair on the summit that day – sometime around 8:15 am.

Inside the Storm

The weather had been slowly deteriorating all morning, and from the summit we got a better view of what was going on. Clouds were bearing down from the west and splitting as they approached the mountain. The wind was picking up and we had one massive cloud slowly spinning around us. It felt like we were onboard the mothership and I soon realized we were in the middle of a massive lenticular formation. It was a very strange feeling and not one that we cared to sit around and contemplate. On our way down from the summit block we passed four or five parties that had been clipping our heels the whole way. With smiles on our faces, we encouraged them along. We beat a hasty retreat down the mountain and made use of the large snowfields to do some glissading.

The weather continued to deteriorate, and we encountered some rain and some hail, which made us very glad we left camp when we did that morning. We passed all varieties of climber on our descent – young and old, fit and fat, a group of four that had enough equipment to put up a new line on Cerro Torre, and even Guy, who was suffering like a champ. We took a few minutes at Helen Lake to break down camp and fill our packs. Ben was itching to get down, so he made quick work of the snowfield down to 50/50 and on to Horse Camp. I moved as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast at all. During the hike out, I gained an appreciation for just how long the route actually is – 7,000 feet of vertical and about 7 miles each way. It might be considered a walk-up by some, but that’s nothing to sniff at.

I met Ben at the car around 2PM. We were both pretty beat, but the smiles were wide and spirits were high. More hugs, more high-fives, more photos. We drove down to Mt Shasta City and grabbed a bite to eat. The drive back was mercifully faster than our drive up and we made it home to San Francisco before dark. This had been the quintessential weekend warrior trip, and it was a success no matter how you look at it.

Google Maps Link (trailhead)

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in July, 2004 (or thereabouts).