Bad-ass mamas go peakbagging ....and fail.

On a recent stop at our favourite water hole, Rainbow Pools just outside Yosemite, I was about to clamber up to the top of the Big Rock for the ritual leap, when I was stopped by a young rapper dude. He inquired whether I was planning on jumping off, and so I replied that I was, as was my habit each visit. "Whoa, yo bad-ass mama!" he exclaimed.

The phrase sprang to mind again en route to the high country last weekend. It had been planned as a girls' backpacking trip, by one by one, friends had dropped out and now it was just Leigh and I driving past the same spot. Leigh, of all people, is seriously bad-ass, earning a black belt in Tae Kwon Do **post-kids** among many other accomplishments. And she grew up being dragged off to the mountains by an insanely (mis)-adventurous father to boot. We had been on plenty of Girl Scout-y sorts of trips with the girls, but this was our first time venturing off alone. The plan was for a quickie peak-bagging trip: a hike into Young Lake out of Tuolumne Meadows via Ragged Peak, then a run up to the top of Mt Conness the following day and directly back home. Forecast looked pretty good with only 20% chance of showers, and we were travelling light, borrowing Al's ultralight gear once again. What could possibly go wrong?

'Bad-ass mamas'

We set off from Lembert Dome in the early afternoon under smoky skies courtesy of the enormous forest fire further north near Tahoe. A few puffy white clouds floated around, but nothing too ominous. After a couple of hours, we left the trail, headed up to the saddle below Ragged Peak and dumped our packs to scramble to the pointy top.

Ragged Peak from Young Lake, saddle at the center.

Heading off trail toward the saddle, mid-left skyline. Still blue sky...

At the saddle, back clouds gathering

There was a distant rumble. We pretended it was a passing plane and started on up. There were three more rumbles in close succession. Perhaps we could at least get to the summit ridge and not go on the very pointy bit? There was a flash and immense clap. We ran down tout de suite. Peak No.1; FAIL!

From the saddle, it was a steep drop straight down to lower Young lake which we bypassed in favour of the smaller middle lake.

Lower Young Lake from the saddle, Mt Conness in background

After we had got ourselves sorted out with the ultralight shelter up and were about to get dinner started, the heavens opened and the sound and light show began in earnest. Apparently, all bets on the weather are off in the Sierra Nevada are off this year. We hunkered down in the ultralight 1 person shelter as puddles, then lakes of water formed around it: we had pitched the thing on a typical Sierra campsite consisting on a lovely flat gravel area covering underlying granite slabs. Terrific territory for drainage....right under the shelter!

The ultralight shelter sagging in the rain and hail...

Trying to fit into the 1 person shelter with aid of the space blanket

The rain changed to pinging hail, and so we took the opportunity to retreat under a space blanket that Leigh had had the foresight to bring which we rigged in the trees. It might have be been slightly drier but by that time everything was damp so it was difficult to tell. Certainly, it was quite convenient for doing dishes as the the water poured off directly into the pot. Eventually, Leigh decided that the ultralight shelter might be slightly less damp rigged actually IN the tree, so we got cracking like good girl scouts and did some shelter innovation and possibly improvement. Again, it was hard to tell as everything was wet.

Leigh's cosy 'tree-pitched' shelter

Staying not quite soaked under space blanket tarp

Amid an intense storm, we gave up jumping into each other's laps in fright, and clambered, shivering, into clammy sleeping bags for the night, Leigh in the shelter partially encased in a rubbish bag, and me in the bivy sack under the space blanket canopy. The storm had moved away from our lake basin and was apparently hammering the other side of the ridge - the flashes of lightning were like the end of a 4th of July fireworks display in black and white instead of colour. Strangely, though, we could hear no thunder. It was a cozy night. We both managed to avoid hypothermia (blue foam is remarkably warm to sleep under when soggy down isn't doin' it for you, and rubbish bags work well) and electrocution, so we couldn't complain.

Leigh tweaked my toes at some ungodly hour of the morning and sat up all perky and ready to climb Mt Conness. She really is the Ever-ready bunny in human form. Bad-ass! In contrast, I was feeling groggy and damp. Ugh. Coffee, please. The lighter and stove weren't happy with being abandoned in the storm, but with Leigh's storm matches and some TLC (we love you, stove, we really do), breakfast and a brew were soon going and so were we.

The day improved as we headed up towards Mt Conness, past an unusual body of water that we termed 'Mitochondrial Lake' which featured a very playful coyote.

Mitochondrial Lake

Leigh near the top of the steep climb above Mitochondrial Lake

A steep climb took us up to the 'plateau' next to Mt Conness, where the accumulated night's hail turned to a couple of inches of ordinary snow. It certainly felt icy when the wind blew - a far cry from the intense heat of the last Sierra trip only 3 weeks earlier.

Approaching Mt Conness across snowy plateau

Flower poking up through the snow

We reached the east side of the plateau and were treated to superb views of the Twenty lakes basin area behind Saddlebag lake.

Leigh above the Twenty Lakes basin

The last couple of hundred of feet to the summit of Conness are narrow and exposed  although very well-constructed; I had descended this route before without trouble. However, this time the narrow steps and ledges above large drop-offs were covered in slippery, melting snow, and I was shod in some cheap boots with bad traction (in aid of a dicey ankle) instead of grippy approach shoes. We very carefully climbed about half way up the last section, then I decided that if going up seemed sketchy then going down would be even worse... so we turned around and teetered our way back down along the ridge. Peak No. 2 : FAIL!

Beating a teetering retreat down the slippery summit ridge of Mt Conness

Large face on Conness.

So back down to the soggy gear at camp we trotted and out to the car via a rather tedious trail, as more clouds gathered for the day's storm. It had been a memorable trip: I'd learned a few things, not least of which was the importance of having someone who can keep their chin up when things don't go according to plan....and who can spot you a pair of lacy knickers when yours are soaked! A true friend indeed. Thanks, Leigh, let's do it again sometime. Apart from the cold and wet part.....

Hiker heaven at the VVR....and drought

The Vermilion Valley Resort (VVR) is hiker heaven. Owned and run by Jim, who personally comes out to greet every new arrival, it offers free camping, showers, a range of simple accommodations, a well-stocked store (with an impressive range of beers), a small restaurant  and best of all, the camaraderie of similarly-minded folks.

 The front porch at VVR -usually populated by a grubby looking lot (this was early morning)

Most of the customers are hikers stopping to enter, exit or resupply along the John Muir Trail (JMT), or the much longer Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The latter runs the distance from Mexico to Canada along the mountains, and ‘thru-hikers’ – those who are trying to cover the distance in a season – have a special status at the resort  (including a free beer on arrival) and refer to themselves by their trail name.  These are bestowed on the thru-hiker by another hiker and usually reflect one or more of their characteristics – if you have read ‘Wild’ by Cheryl Strayed, you’ll get the picture. Suffice to say that I had been greeted by one of these specimens, pre-shower, whose trail name was too long to remember (even pre-inebriation).  He showed me his pace-maker and told me that he’d taken up backpacking after a heart attack a few years ago. He thought he wasn’t going to make it all the way this year, but would be back the next unless he died on the trail first, a prospect with which he seemed quite comfortable.

The resort had such an interesting vibe, a mix of international visitors and down home locals. All were invited to linger outside the store and on the restaurant patio and share stories and advice. The standard question was ‘You come north or south?; I had to reply “From the east”, which confounded a few. If you had no cash, no worries, you were invited to wash some dishes to pay your way. The bearded thru-hiker told me he had spent nearly three weeks the previous year doing just that while he was recovering from a dose of Giardia. Jim ran up all expenses on a tab and seemed to instantly know everyone’s names.  At dusk, a campfire was lit and hikers gathered, some almost unrecognizable after a shower. Emotions ran high. Four young Germans were jubilant at having completed their walk from Yosemite in a week, while Gilbert, a Southern Californian in his late 50s had been defeated by the same stretch of trail which had taken him over 3 weeks with a 50 lb plus pack, and was clearly gutted. He had been aiming for the end of the JMT at Mt Whitney, but instead the VVR was the end of the line for him.

All packed up and ready to head home

The following morning, I was truly homeward bound. I rode the resort shuttle with Gilbert and the Germans over the tortuous Kaiser Pass and past the series of hydro lakes built by the Southern Californian Thomas Edison Company. Our driver was a fount of knowledge about the area and she pointed out more evidence of California’s current extreme drought. She told us that ‘The Company’ had been forced to drain Lake Edison down to 4% of capacity - the sign at VVR said it all: ‘If you’re still watering your lawn, don’t complain about the lake levels’.  Jim up at VVR had explained the mysterious operations of the boat taxi in the lack of lake: in fact, they took a truck across the lake bed from the resort a couple of miles to the nearest water and then ran a small shallow draft boat which they managed to wind through channels and portage over a couple of high spots before dropping off or picking up hikers a mile from the end.  While at VVR, I’d seen a party come in with their two pack goats (apparently they each carried a load of 50 lb) wanting a ride down the lake. They were told that the boat could not float with a load of goats (and presumably the portages would be tricky as well).

In the goats' dreams....

VVR were fortunate to have a solid business built up around hikers and was not entirely dependent on the fishermen it also targeted. As we drove down the western slope of the Sierra and into the Central valley, it was clear that many others were not so lucky. Our driver pointed out the empty campgrounds surrounding Shaver Lake, usually overflowing with sailing enthusiasts (presumably meaning empty pockets for local businesses reliant on summer recreationists); a farm run for 50 years by a couple and recently abandoned because their well went dry; the barren fields where huge groves of orange trees had been pulled out, empty now except for the ghosts of irrigation past; further groves of mature fruit trees simply left to die from lack of water. Heartbreak was everywhere. Like a slap in the face, a smattering of enormous new houses with water-guzzling lawns and landscaping consisting of plantings wildly inappropriate for the climate had been built on the foothills outside Fresno. Our driver indicated that there was no regulation of ground water resources in the area – if you were rich enough to have a deep well drilled then you got water, and if you didn’t, then tough luck. Those emerald lawns must have been salt in the wounds of the hurting farmers surrounding them.

From Fresno, I travelled north up the Central valley on the Amtrak and saw life from the train tracks. It mainly consisted of poverty and hardship, people living in abject conditions in what looked like third world shacks. I don’t think this could be entirely blamed on the drought; these workers have always lived a hardscrabble life far from the eyes of the major cities but the impact of the drought on the economy must have hit these people first and hardest. I decided that a tour of the area for the rich of Silicon Valley should be compulsory and resolved to turn off my lawn watering immediately on return.  Let’s hope the rains come this year…

From Stockton, a bus carried me towards the Bay Area and a final train took me to within a few blocks of home. I walked in the front gate at 5:15pm, at the precise moment that Al opened it to see where I was.

A huge thanks to Al for being my partner in crime, and then having the faith to let me venture off on my own. About a decade ago, he gave me a book entitled “Solo: On Her Own Adventure”.  It took a while…..

Curiouser and curiouser.....an odd day on the trail.

Bells. Chiming. Church bells? Whaaaat? Though the haze of sleep I opened one bleary eye, wiggled my head out of my sleeping bag cocoon and looked around. There appeared to be a large blob standing a few meters away. Cow bells? I searched around for my glasses to get a better view. Horse. Correction, horses. And in the meadow, a wrangler clanging a bell. It was Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Or was I dreaming? I glanced at my watch. 6am. Ugh. Where the hell had this lot materialised from at this time of the morning? I clambered out and went over to say ‘Howdy pardner’, but by the time I stumbled over there, the wrangler was collecting up his train and moseying on down the trail. Back in the meadow, some dawdlers seemed to have been left behind.

Maybe the white one was a unicorn?

I communed with them for a while then decided that a return to my warm bag for further snoozing until the sun hit was the wisest course of action. 

How could I resist such a cozy bed?

An hour later, my dozing was interrupted by whinnying and the clomping of hooves in the near vicinity. Bugger. Fervently wishing that someone would hand me a cup of coffee, I dragged myself up for real as the miscreant equines passed through camp on their way upriver. As I sat sipping a warm brew a while later, the wrangler appeared searching for his missing stock which were duly rounded up and herded off down the trail.

So it was that I ended up following piles of steaming droppings strung out downriver like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. The consolation was that this would be an easy day, about 8 miles mostly downhill on good trails to the head of Lake Edison, where I had arranged to meet a boat taxi at 4 pm to ferry me the remaining 5 miles down the lake to the road. There was no need to hurry. The game plan was to arrive at the ferry pick up a couple of hours early to fit in a swim, some laundry and some well-earned lolling about. So I ambled along, enjoying the aspens, some waterfalls and the bark of the trees in the sun. Simple pleasures.

After a couple of hours, I met up with the John Muir trail (yes, him again), the main ‘highway’ running north-south from Yosemite south to Mt Whitney. After having seen no-one but the wrangler since saying goodbye to Al, it took only about a minute to be overtaken by one hiker. In a mile and a half or so on this trail, I came across half a dozen more people.  Crowds! It was a relief to turn off onto the final stretch of trail leading to the lake.

Fancy sign. Must be the JMT.

I rounded a bend on the trail and got my first view of the lake. Or rather, not of the lake. It didn’t appear to be there any longer. I knew it was a drought year, but how could a huge lake just not be there?

'Lake' Edison

A notice was pinned above the sign for the turn-off to the boat ferry dock. It informed me that to get to the current boat ferry pick-up, I should proceed down the trail a further quarter of a mile and then follow the signs for a mile along the beach. Simple enough. I did as instructed and walked down onto the ‘beach’. This turned out to be a desolate lake bed: there was a hot head wind, loose sand and bleached stumps of long dead trees which had grown before the valley was dammed. 

A pleasant stroll along the 'beach' - not!

In the distance was a stretch of blue that I guessed must be the current lake. I trudged towards it, following a rough trail of footprints.

Finally found the lake....no sign of the boat taxi

Turned out, this easy day had a sting in its tail. I could see no sign of the ferry pick-up at the first puddle of lake I came to, nor was it obvious that this pathetic body of water was even connected to the larger one I could see further along.  Surely, the boat pick up point must be further along. But no, an hour later there was still ferry. After a couple of hours roughly following the lakeshore (underwater according to Al’s view on the SPOT beacon), I surmised that I’d be walking all the way and cut up from the lake shore to try and find the trail that ran the length of the lake. Manzanita and bluffs proved impenetrable, so it was back to the ‘beach’. Out of water, I headed to the lake to refill, only to sink ankle deep in muck before reaching the edge.  I managed to scoop up some highly dubious brown liquid, and sucked it down directly out of the filter.

Lake water - yum.

Finally, in the distance, I spotted the clearly out-of-service boat taxi, a couple of miles from the nearest water, and beyond that, the small cluster of buildings that was the Vermilion Valley Resort. 

The usual boat taxi, high and dry this year.

Half an hour later, I rounded the corner of the main building and was immediately greeted by an grizzled

older man sporting a wild beard and an extremely grubby shirt with worn hiking boots.  “Did you walk here?“, he hollered, “Have a beer!”.  

And this one tasted especially wonderful...

Gabbot Pass and the Second Mono Recess

The initial target for the day was Gabbot Pass, a cleverly named low point between Mt Gabb and Mt Abbot which lay to the north of the valley. The low point was not particularly low at 12,200 ft, but it was an easy climb from Toe Lake up granite slabs and benches to a small tarn and then a short steep section to the top. It was here that I first saw the odd boot print indicating that others had passed this way. For the rest of the day, I would find the occasional sign like this – perhaps a very vague hint of a trail in places, or merely some grass that had been flattened. The area clearly did not see many visitors and I saw no one else.

On the way up to Gabbot Pass on left

The pass turned out to be an actual notch in a rock ridge. From here, I had my first peek down into the second Mono Recess. This long, deep and narrow valley was flanked by an unbroken wall of jagged granite – it felt Lord of the Rings-ish and if a hobbit had popped out from behind a rock, I wouldn’t have been surprised. The way down looked considerably more challenging than the way up: a steep drop down talus to the first tarn. I was very glad of my hiking poles. Unlike Alistair, the mountain goat, my ability to bound down from rock to rock with perfect balance is rather limited!

At the notch in Gabbot Pass

Looking down the Second Mono Recess from the pass to the tarn

By the time I wobbled my way to the first tarn, the sun was beating down with that high altitude intensity. It was time for the first T-shirt and hat dunking of the day. This was a fine strategy but unfortunately the cooling effect only lasted half an hour or so. I could only be thankful that I was going down and not up!

The tarn and the talus slope up to the pass behind

The Second Recess went down in a series of steep drops interspersed with stunning lakes set in flat benches. Upper Mills Lake was gorgeous, but Lower Mills Lake was even better. Situated right at the treeline at about 10,200ft, the azure water was fringed by meadows, a white sand beach, an area of bluffs lined with perfect cracks for climbing and clean white granite benches perfect for camping. And did I mention the solitude? I decided to stop for lunch. The clear water was so enticing and the day so hot that a swim was in order. The rock benches led directly down to a deep section of lake so in I plunged. It was an invigorating activity. Warming up on the granite slabs, I decided that Lower Mills Lake was actually paradise. I had found Nirvana.

Upper Mills Lake was stunning....

but Lower Mills Lake was paradise.

How could you resist taking a plunge here on a hot September day?

Sadly, I had to drag myself away as I was still only half way down the valley. I soon discovered why the lake had appeared to see very few visitors:  vegetation.  On the upside, the trees provided some much-needed shade. On the downside, navigation became much more challenging. It was necessary to follow the stream down, but it was cloaked in bushy willows that had to be avoided. However, drift too far from the stream and there were unpassable cliffs. Finding the sweet spot somewhere in the middle was tricky and I wasn’t always successful. Bush-whacking is so fun!  Fortunately, it would take a complete idiot to get lost; I may be a bit of an idiot but eventually, a bit scratched up, I reached an actual trail marked on the map near the bottom of the valley where Mills Creek met the western branch of the Recess.

A rare break from the bushwhacking for a view up the western branch of the Recess.

From here, it was an easy amble for a couple of miles to the end of the Second Recess where it opens into the Mono Valley at 8400 ft. Only one more hurdle, the river crossing that Al had been worried about.  We had been up to this point in 2011, a very heavy snow year, on a family backpacking trip. The Mono river had been an angry, raging torrent which you’d have had to be suicidal to attempt to cross. On this drought year, however, it appeared as a very tame little creek and I waded on across the gentle flow, getting wet only up to mid-calf. Easy peasy lemon squeezy! I found a campsite in the trees next to a small meadow by the river and settled on in for the night, well-satisfied with the day’s adventure.

Camp

Communing with John Muir in the Lake Italy basin

My destination for the night was Toe Lake located at the head of the vast basin below at about 11,000 ft. It didn’t look very far from my position at the notch – just a meander down some easy sandy slopes and down a little around the corner.

Toe Lake and Lake Italy beyond from below the sandy slopes and around the corner.

Well, looks can certainly be deceiving! Far too rapidly, the easy sandy slopes turned into steep and loose talus and then steep and slippery tussocky grass with assorted bluffs to block the way. As is inevitable on big climbing days, I was out of water and the lakes below taunted me as I slid down gullies and backtracked up around those blasted cliffs. 

It was late afternoon by the time I reached a decent looking spot to camp by the lake, which was apparently deserted. In fact, there was no sign at all of humans visiting – no footprints, no obvious campsites. My only neighbours left some tracks in the mud by the lake….

Hand-sized prints of neighbours in the 'hood. Maybe a mountain lion? 

First thing on the agenda: filter water and drink, drink, drink. The lake was shallow with many flat rocks scattered across it. In between the rocks were pools of warm, clear water. The decision was easy.  I shucked my clothes and jumped in.  Then basked like a lizard in the sun on a white granite rock. How long had it been since I’d gone skinny-dipping in a mountain lake? Far too long! Ah, the simple joys….

I felt like this - but probably didn't look the part!

I set up camp, pitching Al’s ultralight shelter more for shade than anything else. A quick nap, a couple of chapters of my book, some dinner, a few games of Solitaire and a view of the endlessly fascinating play of light at sunset over the surrounding peaks. The basin was surrounded by soaring rocky peaks including those of the Sierra divide to the east, a tremendous wall with the lowest point being the Bear Creek Spire descent notch at about 13,000 ft.

There is a reason that the Sierra Nevada was termed ‘The Range of Light’ by John Muir, the naturalist and conservationist who explored the area 150 years ago; the peaks ignited into fiery orange. As John Muir wrote:

“Then it seemed to me that the Sierra should be called, not the Nevada or Snowy Range, but the Range of Light. And after ten years of wandering and wondering in the heart of it, rejoicing in its glorious floods of light, the white beams of the morning streaming through the passes, the noonday radiance on the crystal rocks, the flush of the alpenglow, and the irised spray of countless waterfalls, it still seems above all others the Range of Light."

I hesitate to describe the scene as ‘awesome’ as that is such an overused term, but the view truly was awesome in the original sense of the word: awe-inspiring. As the sun went down, so did the temperature – precipitously – so I was happy to crawl into the sleeping bag for the night underneath the Milky Way. In the morning, I was treated to another show of light at dawn with stunning reflections in the pools of water. Perhaps John Muir had once witnessed the same glory, alone in this remote valley.

"How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains! To behold this alone is worth the pains of any excursion a thousand times over. The highest peaks burned like islands in a sea of liquid shade. Then the lower peaks and spires caught the glow, and long lances of light, streaming through many a notch and pass, fell thick on the frozen meadows." – John Muir

 

Climbing Bear Creek Spire

The following morning we rolled up to the trailhead at Little Lakes Valley in the eastern Sierra Nevada and organised ourselves for Phase 2, climbing Bear Creek Spire. In this easily accessible and wildly popular valley lies a string of lakes, each more beautiful than the last, surrounded by the high peaks of the Sierra crest. The rugged pyramid of Bear Creek Spire, at 13,700 ft, dominates the end of valley. We set off at the crack of noon amidst every man and their dog enjoying the easy ramble up the valley. Fortunately, our route took us off the main trail and cross-country past the aptly named Gem and Treasure lakes to Dade Lake at the base of Bear Creek Spire.  Setting up camp at the lake at about 4pm, we were surprised to see a party of 3 climbers beginning up the Spire. Alistair had climbed this route before a couple of times and thought that an average party would take about 5 hours to the top and a couple of hours down the talus slopes to the lake. It got dark at 8pm and the party did not seem to be moving especially quickly….

Camp at Dade Lake with Bear Creek Spire behind. The Northeast Arete follows a line on the center-left of the peak.

Over the course of the evening, a steady stream of parties descended past the lake, mostly destined for the trailhead.  At 9pm, the late party was only reaching the summit ridge – they faced a tricky traverse and descent in the dark and we didn’t envy them. The only explanation we could think of for such risky behaviour was the difficulty in getting permits for overnight camping (meaning that unlike Al and I, most people had an additional 2 or 3 hours hike in and out) combined with the increased popularity of the peak (thanks, Supertopo) and the long weekend: if you weren’t quick off the mark in the morning, you could find yourself at the end of a long queue of climbers, unable to get off the ground until recklessly late in the day. It was certainly a different scene from the last time Al was there a decade or so ago, when there was no one else around.

Packed and ready to roll, the route is directly behind us

Despite intentions for a 6am start, we slept a little later and got going at 7am. The plan was to ascend the North-east Arête, a relatively easy route (5.fun).The catch was that we needed to carry full packs (including sleeping bag, shelter, bear barrel+food, etc.), as from the top, I was carrying on over the divide and traversing the range (across trail-less valleys and passes) to come out at the west side whereas Al was going back to the car and heading home to retrieve the kids. Thanks to Al’s ultralight gear and a minimum of climbing equipment, this only amounted to 20 or 25 lb each. We huffed and puffed up the talus to the base of the route, donned gear and headed up the low angle 4^th class ground until the route steepened sufficiently to need a rope. A few super fun hours of winding around towers and teetering across exposed ridges on white granite followed. The weather was perfect as we moved up past 13,000ft in t-shirts with the Little lakes Valley spread out below in High Sierra splendour. What a glorious day!  I had been battling an undiagnosed and pernicious degenerative condition affecting my forearms and ability to grip for the past 3 years which had ruled out the gym climbing and cragging that had been such a huge part of my life for 20 years. So it felt like such a joy and a triumph to be able to move up this alpine terrain and to cast off that heavy mental mantle of injury, if only temporarily. Life was good.

 Moving on up the arete - can you spot the climber? 

Near the top with Little Lakes Valley spread out below.

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves." — John Muir

We topped out a little before midday…..or rather almost topped out. I declined to clamber the last exposed five feet to the true top of the summit block (yep, I’m a wimp) and satisfied myself with touching the top instead.

Wimpy girl....tagging the top.

A quick rappel off the summit led to sandy talus slopes on the edge of the Sierra crest and we worked out way down to the notch that marked the descent route to Dade Lake. This was our parting point. We enjoyed a quick lunch together then Al rappelled down the notch to the east and was gone. 

Al about to head off down the notch. Bye Al!

I turned to the west.

The last non-selfie of the trip!