Blistered Kind Of Love (21 page)

Cresting a hill, I eyed another rocky climb straight ahead while, to my surprise, Duffy (with his headphones blaring ESPN Gameday) nodded toward a trail branching to the right. “Is that the trail?” I hollered, trying to be heard over a discussion of Tiger Woods' domination of the U.S. Open. I got a nod in response and then my long-legged hiking partner was off, striding up a steep, boulder-strewn path. A brownish-yellow sign nailed to a tree read “37E01.” Duffy was already fifty yards ahead of me. I braced myself against my trekking poles, gave my legs a pep talk, and started dragging myself up the hill.

After a hefty climb, the trail skirted a sun-filled meadow. Before us swished a sea of green feathery silk. The blades of grass were as fine as a toddler's hair and I bent down to run my fingers through them. Our path through this lushness was faint. We didn't mind, though; it seemed appropriate to tread lightly on such a delicate carpet. Soon we came upon a rusty cattle gate that put up a big fight, but after some struggling (and relief that we'd both had our tetanus shots) we got it open. The altimeter on Duffy's watch read a few hundred feet above the elevation for Beck Meadows (a finger of Monache Meadows) stated in our guidebook. The watch, however, had been wrong on many previous occasions, so we trekked on toward the South Fork of the Kern River.

I got into a groove as I glided through the meadow grasses. The walking was easy and while my body trucked on autopilot, my mind tried to articulate the surroundings, soaking in juxtapositions between boulders, flowers, toppled pines, and the close, rich mountain sky. Soon we were descending sharply and I could almost smell the river. My stomach rumbled in anticipation of the waterside bagel and cheese lunch we'd planned. We expected Fish, Ryan, Zach, and others to be there ahead of us, but as I crashed through a thicket I found only Duffy.

He looked perplexed. “There's supposed to be a bridge here.” He shook his head and half-scratched, half-rubbed his scalp.

“Huh?”

“I said there's supposed to be a bridge here, but we must be too far down the river.”

I looked up and down the rocky shores. There was no bridge in sight. My heart sank. I knew exactly where we'd gone wrong.

“The sign said ‘South Fork Kern River' this way,” Duffy explained. I hadn't seen that sign, but what I had seen, we both now realized, was the PCT veering off in the opposite direction.

If only we'd referred to our guidebook earlier, we'd have read about “. . . a
T
junction with Haiwee Trail 37E01, which follows an ancient Indian path east to the river and through Haiwee Pass to Owens Valley—a route that almost became the eastern leg of a trans-Sierra highway.” We were heading east, toward Kansas, rather than north, toward Canada. We ate lunch in silence. Our foray into the Sierra was off to a misdirected start.

We knew the PCT crossed the river upstream somewhere, so if we followed the river's bank we should eventually find it. Well, that worked for about two hundred yards, until a faint riverside trail petered out and we were forced to scramble through thorny shrubs, crawl over wet boulders, and slosh in cold pools.

Still optimistic and determined not to backtrack (when you're walking to Canada, forward momentum is everything), we struggled along through heavy brush. Soon it became impossible to continue; the thick brambles, roaring torrent, and slick rocks were impassable. The only acceptable way out was up—two hundred feet up. Looming above us was a massive pile of granite, but beyond that was a tree-lined precipice, taunting us with flat earth.

Without packs, I suppose the rock climb would have been enough to get the adrenaline pumping, nothing more. Maybe the tomboy kid I once was would have loved the knee scrapes and tinge of danger. But the woman with the forty-something pounds on her back did not. Duffy had it worse; his pack was pushing fifty-five pounds. About fifteen feet from the top we hit a wall, literally—a six-foot, smooth face of rock with just the tiniest gravelly crack as a foothold. Duffy took off his pack and while perched with one foot wedged in the narrow crack and one hand clinging to the top ledge, hoisted Big Red
over his head and onto the shelf above. Next went my pack, then Duffy, then—with a few heart palpitations—me. The final few feet up brought more of the same, but we made it, and celebrated our mountaineering skills with some deep sighs and gulps of Tang.

No longer game for bushwhacking, we decided to follow a whisper of a trail up a number of steep switchbacks. Finally, on top of a ridge, we plopped down, exhausted. Admitting defeat, we pulled out our compass (for only the second time in forty-two days) and learned that we were still traveling east. As luck would have it, our map showed an unnamed trail heading northwest and connecting the Haiwee Trail with the Olancha Pass Trail, which in turn came to a junction with the PCT. We changed course in the hopes of finding it and within a half mile had discovered a faded path—this one heading in the right direction.

Three-thirty in the afternoon found us thrashing through brush, constantly losing and regaining our little trail as it rocketed up and down every hill in sight. As the afternoon slipped away from us, so did our hopes of getting back on the crest before dark. We pitched our tent on a tiny patch of rock-and brush-free soil. I think I can safely say that no one had ever camped in that exact spot before, but while I could appreciate the beauty of our pristine surroundings, being so far off-course overnight made me nervous.

“What if we never see the PCT again?” I thought. “No one will ever find us out here. No one even knows we're here. What if we run out of food, or a bear steals it?”

The next morning we jumped out of the tent at six o'clock, eager and determined to find our way back to the PCT. At nine that morning we came to the junction with the Olancha Pass Trail, and an hour later we hit the PCT. Finally! Duffy fell to his knees and kissed the tread. I plopped down and ate a Snickers. Our celebration was short-lived, however. We'd covered just fifteen PCT miles since leaving Kennedy Meadows the previous morning, and our carefully planned itinerary of miles and food per day had been disrupted. At the very least we'd face twelve provisionless hours at the end of the 171-mile stretch to Vermilion Valley Resort. As we continued to climb
into
The
Mountains, it seemed that we were also climbing toward greater and greater adversity.

While we knew there'd be problems (and empty stomachs) ahead, we weren't about to turn back, not when what also lay ahead, in the words of John Muir, was “a glory day of admission into a new realm of wonders as if Nature had wooingly whispered, ‘Come higher.' ”

As we climbed to more than 10,000 feet over the course of the next twenty-five miles, we thought about the six high passes we'd soon be tackling. Ranging in elevation from 10,900 to 13,180 feet, each would be a quad-burning, back-crushing, and often snow-covered, feet-freezing experience. Every day in our foreseeable future would treat us to a 3,000- to 4,000-foot ascent over half a dozen miles and then an extended descent down a snowy mountainside.

In an effort to prepare myself for the challenge, I memorized the name and elevation of each pass: Forester, 13,180 feet; Glen, 11,978 feet; Pinchot, 12,130 feet; Mather, 12,100 feet; Muir, 11,955 feet; and Selden, 10,900 feet. There would be more high passes after Vermilion, but there were only so many physical hurdles I could contemplate at one time.

I didn't ruminate on these painful Stairmasterlike workouts for too long. More pleasant things soon distracted me. Everywhere I looked there was a new delight—yellow evening primrose, corn lilies, buttercups, mountain blue-bells, and groves of my favorite tree, the foxtail pine. The foxtail lives only in the sandy soil found just below timberline, thriving where other trees wither. The tree's needles grow in clusters, and at the end of each branch is a bristle that looks like (you guessed it) a fox's tail. Illuminating the foxtails was sunlight like I'd never seen before, crisp and bright as if God had placed this realm in his own private spotlight. Climbing still higher, we veered off-trail slightly for lunch and a dip in Chicken Lake, a glacial pool filled with water so cold it should have been ice. As we ate we noticed a hush, as if we'd entered a temple. We weren't sure where the High Sierra officially began, but we felt like we'd made it.

I'd been hearing about how beautiful the High Sierra was since day one. But still, when we finally arrived—well, I couldn't believe my eyes.

Picture lush green meadows, a green only clear snowmelt could inspire. Sprinkle the grasses with buttercups, scarlet Indian paintbrushes, and blue bugles. Send a stream rushing, snaking, and pouring around and over boulders of granite twinkling with quartz crystals. Make the granite so white you might mistake it for snow. Surround the meadows and rock gardens with forests of pine and creamy-barked aspen. As a backdrop, insert snowcapped peaks, kissed by bright afternoon sunshine, glowing in warm twilight, and looming ominously when shrouded in thunderclouds. Nature's cathedrals, the bare summits reaching toward heaven, double-dare you to be unimpressed. And, of course, don't neglect the frosty alpine lakes, rimmed with turquoise ice, clear as fine crystal, and still as mirrors.

Next up on our wonderland tour was Sequoia National Park. The park greeted us with a sign reading “No pets, weapons. No grazing.” Good-bye cow poop, hello big trees. Sequoia National Park is home to the giant sequoia, the largest living organisms on dry land (some whales are bigger). General Sherman is the king of these giants. Discovered in 1879 by a veteran of the civil war, the General Sherman tree boasts 47,450 cubic feet of lumber, is 275 feet tall, has a girth of 102 feet at its base, and weighs more than 1,385 tons.

As we trekked through Sequoia National Park, my eyes were wide, trying to absorb every iota of magnificence. A steep climb brought us to Crabtree Meadows and a junction with the John Muir Trail (JMT), leading to 14,491-foot Mount Whitney. We hadn't planned or provisioned for this side trip, but as we stood looking up at Whitney we realized that we couldn't walk past the highest peak in the contiguous U.S. without climbing it first. The detour would mean that we wouldn't be able to get to Vermilion Valley Resort without heading out of the mountains to re-supply nearly 100 miles early, in Independence. But given that we'd already gotten lost and that our food supply was rapidly dwindling, an early exit was probably inevitable anyway.

Following the John Muir Trail, we hiked to Guitar Lake, five miles below Whitney's summit. It was midafternoon and although there was plenty of daylight left, we didn't dare make an evening assault of the mountain. Whitney, while not a technical climb, is still a powerful peak, with a tendency to attract equally powerful afternoon thunderstorms.

For safety's sake we camped early. Nestled in an ice-carved canyon, Guitar Lake's still waters were surrounded by a sea of sparkling snow patches and boulders, home to both pink rockfringe flowers and mischievous marmots. About the size of raccoons and the largest members of the squirrel family, marmots seemed as common in the High Sierra as pigeons in the city. They paused their grazing only long enough to glance quizzically at us and let out an occasional whistle.

As we set up our tent, a stiff, cold breeze came down off the mountain, bringing large pellets of rain. The storm quickly intensified and the rain transformed into grape-size balls of hail. We hid in our tent and in the distance watched a string of six people descending switchbacks cut into the mountain's face. They were running, and even though they were still far away we urged them on. This was no time to be on the exposed flanks of Whitney and definitely no time to be exposing one's own flanks. But that wasn't stopping Fish, Ryan, Pansy Ass, Madame Butterfly, Improv, and Amigo from celebrating “Naked Hiker Day.” As each red, birthday suit-clad hiker rushed by our tent, we handed them a spoonful of hot mashed potatoes and wished them luck. The storm was getting worse and they needed to get to shelter (and into some clothing), fast.

Just as we handed out our last spoonful of spuds, thunder began to crash directly above us. They were the loudest, deepest, most teeth-chattering claps of thunder I'd ever heard. The mountain's wrath was descending upon our tent in its entirety. Black clouds transformed the afternoon into the pitch of night, but only temporarily. Soon, the darkness was splintered by a strobe light-like flash of lightning, and then another. The bolts were coming down around us like raindrops. Lightning storms, I'd read, reach a high degree of savagery on mountaintops—a savagery which we were now witnessing and which has been known to kill at least one hiker per year on top of Whitney. We weren't at Whitney's apex, but we were close enough to be scared, and the fact that Duffy was now busy reading “Chapter 6: Lightning Injuries” in his wilderness medicine book didn't help.

“Although the chances of being struck by lightning are minimal,” he recited, “two-hundred to four-hundred persons die of strikes in the United States
each year. Lightning is the electrical discharge associated with thunderstorms, and an initial stroke can measure thirty million volts.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” I asked. “How about something useful? Like where are we supposed to be during a lightning storm?”

“Anywhere but in a tent, which attracts lightning,” he replied. “Really, we should be out there.” He gestured toward the boulder field now being pelted by rain, sleet, and hail. “But then we risk getting cold and wet. Just stay away from the tent's poles.” Reflexively, I curled my toes toward the soles of my feet and pulled my knees toward my chest. “There's only a short interval between the thunder and lightning,” Duffy continued, “which means the storm's right above us. Hopefully it'll pass soon.”

We cowered in the center of our tent for the next few minutes while thunder, lightning, and precipitation waged war outside. I hugged Duffy close. If we were going to be struck, I figured we might as well do it together. Finally, the thunder peals softened and the flashes of electricity became less frequent. Peeking outside, we saw the sky brighten and breathed a sigh of relief.