The Sisterhood of the Traveling Packs

"BLAZER OF TRAILS, BENDER OF RULES, BUSTER OF MOVES, FORCE OF NATURE".

These words to live by are emblazoned on my favorite shirt (thank you REI). Michelle and I were three out of four on the top of Tuolumne Peak, an obscure granite knob near the geographical center of Yosemite national Park.. We had definitely blazed the trail to reach the peak, busted some moves to scramble to the top, and I was pretty sure that Michelle was a force of nature. "How about a selfie?" she asked with her trademark bubbly excitement. I got in close to Michelle and at the last second, removed my trusty sun hat so that my face would not be shaded. There was a simultaneous  camera click and an awful rattling sound as the SPOT beacon that I usually carry in a secret pocket in the top of my hat fell out and ricocheted down the side of the mountain bouncing off boulders and coming to rest in an enormous talus field. Both Michelle and I kept our eyes peeled on the bounding orange lifesaver the size of a pack of cards. We were certain we knew where it had landed - right behind that triangular boulder just below the patch of grass. As scrambling down the way we had come up looked sketchy, we searched around for an easier route, and eventually found ourselves in the talus field. We saw the patch of grass, and surely that was the pointed triangular boulder.... Or was it that one over there? After an hour of searching down an enormous variety of holes, there was no sign of the SPOT beacon.  We decided to carry on without it. Our rule for keeping in contact on the trip had just been bent right out of shape -no doubt our husbands would be puzzled at the unmoving signal near the top of Tuolumne Peak!

The fateful selfie atop Tuolumne Peak

That Michelle is pretty scrambly!

I have been extraordinarily fortunate to find, right here in my community, a group of adventurous women - all mothers - who fit my definition of ideal backcountry partners: physically well matched, get on like a house on fire, and game to try new things. Experienced or newbies or somewhere in between - it doesn't really matter.  These are my Sisterhood of the Traveling Packs.

 "Wear them, they will make you brave" 

              

Strapping on our packs is transformative. We leave the weight of our everyday lives behind, and shoulder a different burden that indeed somehow imbues the sense of courage and determination, an ability to face whatever challenges lie ahead. Like the time Isabella and I planned a trip in late October to Yosemite. Our first choice plans fell apart but, at the recommendation of the Park Ranger, we climbed up along the south rim of Yosemite Valley on the Pohono Trail. "Is there water along the trail", we are queried, at least three times. "Oh yes, you should have no trouble, the streams are running".  It was a cool, cloudy weekend, the forest fragrant with recent rain. Despite the damp, we crossed one dry stream after another before finally finding one hiding a slow drip. Over the course of a lengthy break, this ‘running stream‘ eventually filled a couple of water bottles. The sense of thirst and dehydration was at odds with the damp frost that settled on our tent shortly after nightfall and the somber moodiness of the vertiginous views down into Yosemite Valley. We returned to our cars in high spirits, Isabella mentally refreshed and ready to return to the new baby, grade schooler, and two rambunctious dogs that awaited her at home....after chugging about 2 litres of water!

"The streams are flowing"

Isabella on the edge

"She loved the feeling of strain in her muscles, the exhilaration that came with mounting exhaustion."

Last October, I was delighted to go out for the first time with two friends, one relatively new to backpacking, and the other returning to it after a couple of decades raising kids.  Erika and Rosie bravely tackled climbing the endless steep steps of the Mist trail  in Yosemite, and descending the endless steep switchbacks of the Four Mile trail back to the Valley floor, despite whacky ear drums, numb feet, blisters, cramping muscles, trembling quads and a near asthma attack due to forest fire smoke. On approaching Glacier Point, with its buses and parking lots, after a sleepless night and a long climb, Rosie jokingly suggested that we should take the bus down. A day hiker coming in the opposite direction earnestly let us know that the bus was waiting at the top. Hilarity erupted.

Enjoying the view and resting the legs at the top of Nevada Falls

At Glacier Point, NOT looking for the bus to get back!

“We will go. Nowhere we know.”  “She kept walking. The very small, brave part of her brain knew that this would be her one chance. If she turned around, she would lose it.” 

Michelle and Sabine decided that my plan to take the cross-country route across the Ten Lakes basin in Yosemite sounded legit. The seventh Lake was just over there, a perfect lunch stop. A considerable time later, after scrambling around many cliffs and narrow arroyos and peering at the map multiple times, we still hadn't found the lake. There were ten of them for God's sake -how hard could it possibly be to locate just one? We laughed at ourselves and carried on. Later, Sabine was extremely doubtful about the 'shortcut' I suggested out of the Ten Lakes basin. It appeared to go straight up. I'm sure she was cursing me the entire way, but she gamely picked her way up through the bushes and then the talus.

Contemplating the shortcut

Not too far to go

Made it!

"It was private, so quiet, and so lovely; it felt like her place—like she was the first person to ever set eyes on it."

                            

Sabine, Michelle and I finally stumbled on the seventh Lake in the Ten Lakes basin. We emerged at one end, a serene spot: a pristine granite slab that sank into crystal water, remote from the few other people at the far end of the lake. We enjoyed lunch, a soft breeze blowing in the warm sun,  and then couldn't resist stripping off taking the plunge.  Our noisy splashing, however, did not seem to deter an extremely persistent group of fishermen who had apparently not received to broadcast of “NAKED LADIES SWIMMING”. We must have been jumping off their favorite fishing rock, and so they congregated in the trees about 30 feet back and just waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, the pressure became too much and we got dressed again. Once we left, the fishermen nabbed our spot immediately. We giggled like a gaggle of girls. Which I suppose we were.

"Maybe happiness didn't have to be about the big, sweeping circumstances, about having everything in your life in place. Maybe it was about stringing together a bunch of small pleasures."

                                    

Small pleasures make a trip. Small pleasures shared are happiness. 

                                               Coffee on cold mornings.

                                                         A lofty lunch.

                                                                             A brew at the end of a long, tiring day.....

    and a hot meal.

                                                                     A warm fire on a chilly night.

     Silent companionship

"She heard herself sigh at the pulsing sky spread out above her. "I love this." "

We are drawn together, not only by our common bonds of motherhood, but by our love of the outdoors. The open sky above us and the beauty arrayed below it gives us great joy.

                               

 "… no matter what happens, we stick together"

Perhaps the thing I enjoy most about trips with the sisterhood are the many opportunities to air our myriad problems during long miles on the trail. The issues vary from trip to trip and from year to year. At the moment, most of us are fighting the battle that is raising teenagers in today’s complicated world. College applications, mental health, teenage rebellion…. these will undoubtedly change in coming years. But we will always know that the sisterhood will provide unconditional support. No judgment. In the wilderness. That beats a therapist any day.

"Love your pals. Love yourself" 

So I say to my Sisterhood of the Traveling Packs: Thank you for the belly laughs, the encouragement, the companionship, the swims, the drinks, the understanding ears.... and for the adventure. Let's do it again next summer!

All quotes from  Ann Brashares, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

A long autumn night near Carson Pass

Feeling compelled to fit in one last solo trip before winter, I decided to explore the Mokelumne Wilderness near Carson Pass, a little south of Lake Tahoe. Arriving on late Sunday morning, the parking lot at Carson Pass was virtually full with many day hikers walking into the extremely popular Winnemucca and Round Top Lakes. It was a clear day with that edge of coolness in the air that you'd expect approaching mid-October at 8500 feet. I wandered along the pleasant trail to  the lakes, traversing sere slopes that had once, not so long ago, abounded with vibrant wildflowers. But autumn has its own beauty as the dry brown ridges only accentuated the color of the lakes, and provided a contrasting foreground to the formidable dark ramparts of Round Top Mountain, the highest point in the region.

On the trail to Winnemucca Lake - lots of dried meadows

Lunch at Lake Winnemucca, Round Top Mountain behind

Round Top Lake

Leaving most of my gear stashed Round Top Lake, I scrambled up near the summit of Round Top Mountain, reaching a peak some 40 feet lower than the true top. A steep gully of shattered and loose rock lay in between the two, I was not keen to take it on, being solo with no one in sight. Besides, the view was perfectly fine from where I was; suddenly my mapped route made sense. My plan was to traverse over a shoulder of Round Top and drop down into a basin to Fourth of July Lake for the night. The following day, I would drop down further into the Summit City Canyon, and then follow it back up to meet the Pacific Crest Trail and complete what was essentially a circumnavigation of this peak.

Scrambling up Round Top

Almost at the top, looking down on Lake Winnemucca

Near top of Round Top, looking down on Round Top and Caples lakes

Continuing on from Round Top lake, and leaving behind the day hikers, I wandered on down the many switchbacks of the circuitous route into Fourth of July basin, peering up at the back of Round Top Mountain where I had recently perched. 

Dropping down to Fourth of July Lake (top right), in a basin above Summit City Canyon.

Round Top from near Fourth of July Lake

Autumn colour.

Fourth of July Lake was deserted and already in deep shadow. A breeze had kicked up. It seemed foreboding somehow. I shivered, and set about selecting as sheltered a campsite as possible and pitching the ultralight tent. I had decided to upgrade from by one man shelter to the two person tent for extra warmth and protection, but the large tent still used hiking poles as tent poles and had many guy ropes to hold it up. Fortunately for once the ground was great for putting in tent stakes - not too hard, not too soft.

The temperature plummeted. What else did I expect that this time of year and elevation? I piled on all my five layers on top and three on the bottom, and scarfed down a hot dinner and drink. Shivering uncontrollably despite these measures, I lit a tiny fire, but doused it rapidly when the wind began to pick up and embers started to fly.

Brrrr...

It was time to take shelter. I crawled into the tent and was soon snug in my sleeping bag with extra down quilt. Around 9 PM, I gave up reading, and tried to sleep, lulled by the sound of the wind in the trees.

10 PM. Still awake. I hear a freight train of wind blasting through the trees over the lip of the valley. BAM!!  It strikes the tent, which shudders, flaps, protests but holds steady. Gusts arrive every few minutes, or so it seems.  I burrow into my sleeping bag and try to relax. But each time sleep approaches so does another roaring blast. At least it’s still early in the night.

11:15 PM. The gusts are coming more frequently now, whining and screaming in from the south. The tent crackles and bends. At least I am far back in the trees, sheltered from the worst of it.

11:52 PM. The pitch of the wind increases. The gusts merge to become the merely the background to the intense blasts hammer my isolated camp. At least it’s not raining.

12:46 AM. An enormous gust wallops the tent and suddenly the sound of the flapping changes. Something is wrong. I poke my head out of the bag and encounter tent fabric smothering my face. A brief moment of panic. What is going on? What has gone wrong? Can I fix it? How? I scramble to find a flashlight and work it out. One pole has collapsed and one corner of the tent is flailing wildly about. I search for the tent zipper and crawl out, sock-clad, into the maelstrom. At least the moon is near full.

12.59 AM. I am back in the tent, having shored up the tent with rocks on the tent stakes in places. They seem to be holding. I take a video to distract myself, then crawl back into my bag. At least I am warm.

?AM. Time has no meaning. I am just existing. Until the morning. Another tent collapse, another foray outside. I can’t find the tent pegs in the dark so grab sticks and plunge them frantically into the ground. I stagger around the campsite in search of even larger rocks, carrying them from further and further afield.  At least the tent itself is strong, made of Dyneema used in high performance sails, with guy ropes of Spectra, stronger than steel.

LATER STILL: The gale rages on. Dust flies in through the door mesh when the fly comes undone. I can feel the grit my teeth and keep my head covered to avoid getting it in my eyes. In my stupor, it takes some time to realize the problem and fix it.  Gusts get under the tent and lift me enough off the ground to shift my sleeping mat. At least I’m not a lightweight.

2:49 AM: A mighty crash startles me and my heart races. It sounds like an enormous branch has fallen nearby. I lie there hoping that no branch falls on me, helpless to do anything about the possibility. At least I am three quarters of the way through the night.

4 AM: The winds have quietened, the worst of the storm is over. The tent has prevailed. I am hungry, exhausted, wound up like a spring. I try to sleep. At least there is finally quiet.

5:05 AM: I give up on sleep. It’s not going to happen for me tonight. I hit the ‘coming out early ‘button on the SPOT beacon to alert Alistair then get up and peer outside at my tent repair job.  How had I moved such large stones over such a distance? At least my arms are not complaining.

 5:35 AM: I guzzle as much coffee as I can, bolt down some ridiculously healthy oatmeal with Chia seeds and almonds, pack up at record pace, not noticing the cold.  At least it is calm.

6:25 AM: I trudge up the serpentine trail out of the basin to the pass, intent on capitalizing on whatever caffeine boost I managed. I feel strangely energized, moving smoothly and strongly. To the east, there is a smudge of light, which begins to turn the mountains behind the lake a faint rosy pink. At least I enjoy a dawn light show.

7:12 AM: The wind picks up across the pass, icy and insistent. I steady myself with my poles against the gusts that rock me as I hike. At least the wind is at my back.

7:37 AM: The streams and small ponds are frozen. I smack the ice with my hiking pole, but it doesn’t break. How cold is it? I am barely warm enough walking as fast as possible. I don’t dare to stop. Round Top Lake is deserted now. At least I get to experience this beautiful place by myself.

8:20 AM: Back to the car at last! I think to rest a while before driving. I pick up a drink bottle I had left for my return. It is still liquid, but turns suddenly to an icy slush when I bring it to my mouth. I realize that I must press on. The steering wheel is frigid on my numb hands as I pull out and drive jerkily, barely in control down the mountain road to the West. At least the car heater is on.

9:45 AM: I stagger into some random Quik Mart in the foothills. In search of coffee and hot food, I stand swaying and uncomprehending in front of the menu. It seems that my brain cannot process simple instructions. The kind checkout lady helps me pour a giant cup of Joe, gives me a doughnut, and warms up two egg cheese and bacon muffins. This is possibly both the worst and best breakfast I have ever had. At least I am now warm, full, and slightly more alert.

12:35 PM: Home. Alistair greets me with a huge hug. Safe.

Later, I realized that the same windstorm I experienced had whipped up deadly and devastating fires in wine country north of San Francisco. While the night I spent at Fourth of July Lake was one of the longest of my life, it must have been nothing compared to what residents, firefighters and emergency workers caught in those terrible conflagrations had to endure. As I write this, the death toll continues to rise as more bodies are found in the ashes, those poor souls who did not get to see another sunrise. May they rest in peace.

Out of the dark....

Two pairs of feet dangling in the thin air of the void. Two pairs of hands clasping wraps of salami and cheese. A sublime view, the best company. Alistair and I enjoyed lunch on a sundrenched aerie near the top of Mount Crocker on the divide between Pioneer Basin and McGee Creek. After a strenuous day and half, we had reached our own private Nirvana. For that fleeting half hour, all worries and concerns subsided;  the outside world cease to exist. All was light and happiness. But what is light and happiness without dark and misery?

It all started, really, with the decision at a wedding. For the first time since the birth of our two children, Alistair and I had enlisted grandparental babysitting services to attend the nuptials of a friend, one of the boys. I was 39 and it had been a rough decade. Simultaneous child-bearing and a long distance, protracted farewell to my mother had not been kind. I was overweight and out of shape. The wife of one of the other boys was off running every morning, through the rainforest by the wild beach. ‘If her, why not me?’ I asked myself. A year later and 60 pounds lighter, I launched myself into strenuous activity with the evangelistic fervor of the newly fit.  Climb harder, keep up with the boys, run those trails, outdo the young crowd at boot camp. I’d never thought of myself as athletic; with each success, the hubris grew, and how I defined myself, how I differentiated myself from all those other mothers, morphed until this pseudo hard-core persona was a huge part of my identity. But as we all know, pride cometh before fall.

The day before, we had started from Mosquito Flat, the highest trailhead in the Sierra  at 10,200ft and quickly shed the inevitable crowds by climbing towards Mono Pass. The snow across the 12,100 ft pass demanded attention but our micro spikes stayed in the pack. Likewise, the much discussed river crossing didn’t even require the removal of boots. After a steep descent into the Mono Valley, a final climb led us up into the Pioneer basin and to a lakeside campsite. The picturesque bowl of lakes surrounded by granite ramparts appeared deserted apart from Naked Swimming Man and the inevitable squadrons of mosquitoes. We gagged down a rather subpar melange of odd ingredients for dinner but relished the light play of the stormy sunset over the Mono recesses on the other side of the Mono Valley.

I blithely ignored the first ominous signs, a discomfort in the wrists, and kept obsessively doing push-ups and climbing harder and harder routes. When I finally bought my first real road bike, I charged up our local mountain giving no thought to the descent. Sitting like a sack of potatoes on my bike, I braked furiously down the precipitous hairpins. Perhaps it was the straw that broke the camels’ back. My forearms flared in pain. Ice, ibuprofen, splints, doctors, and finally a hand specialist’s advice: give up climbing. “I’d rather cut off my left leg”, I responded and continued despite the pain.

The Pioneer basin revealed itself shyly. The terrain was more convoluted than it had first appeared. We had decided to make for the ridge at the back of the basin, and possibly follow that along to Mount Crocker. It seemed a simple matter of following the chain of lakes upper valley and scrambling to the top of the ridge. Cliff bound lakeshores and hidden snowfields forced us to take an unpredictable route, a rather drunken stumble of the trail, that eventually led to the ridgeline and an astounding view into the McGee Creek drainage, surrounded by ancient red colored peaks, a striking change in geology from our granite perch. Easy walking and scrambling took us to our lunch rock. Alistair tackled the sturdier climb to Mt Crocker’s summit while I was content to rest and soak in the lofty magnificence.

Hidden meadows in Pioneer Basin

Al on the ridge between Pioneer Basin and McGee Creek, Mt Crocker at rear.
Note the change from granite to red volcanic rock across the divide.

‘Thoracic outlet syndrome is a bitch,a creeping, conniving, insidious bitch that takes away your life in a slow inexorable fashion’. My thoughts lingered there as nerve pain seared my arms, unassuaged by any over-the-counter medication. Opiates beckoned, but I resisted that slippery slope. Despite a near constant battle of every therapy or exercise people could think of, I was forced to drop activities that I enjoyed like so many precious packages off the back of a moving truck. Climbing, of course. The grieving took years. Then cycling, gardening, any kind of craft. Pieces of my identity, abandoned. Even mundane activities became a challenge - driving, cooking, shopping, housework, holding a book to read.  A TOI specialist pronounced my case a mild one when I told him that I was not bedridden. He shook his head on hearing my various exploits and adventures. “You are a classic case - this typically afflicts middle-aged A-type women”.

After returning to our camp for a quick restorative nap, we packed up and headed down into the Mono Valley. A fortuitously positioned campsite was available;  at 9887 feet, it just squeaked in below the 10,000 foot limit for campfires. We ate a terrifyingly greasy and salty meal of hashbrowns, eggs and bacon which was the most wonderful food on earth, and relaxed weary legs in front of the fire. Even the mosquitoes were at bay.  Life was good.

February 2017.  A fifth round of physical therapy seem to be helping, perhaps worth the expense and aggravation of the weekly battle up the 101. But after a trip to Yosemite involving snowshoeing with poles followed by driving home flared the TOS to even greater heights, black thoughts swirled. I had defined myself in large part by the activities I’d been forced to drop, but still had the promise of a backpacking adventure in the mountains to look forward to. But now that was even in doubt - if I couldn’t hold my trekking poles and I couldn’t drive, where would I go from there? What lay in the future? How much lower would I go? I just couldn’t see forward. Do life's lessons of humility need to be so harsh?

Intuition told me that a summer in the mountains would make things better, that mountains feed the soul and heal. Arriving in Mammoth Lakes in June, I resolved the battle again, to try harder.  I found a new physical therapist, worked feverishly on my exercises, walked as much as possible. Every day, the mountains beckoned and restored. Silicon Valley stress fell off my shoulders. The pain abated. I rode my bike, not far, but the freedom and the beauty of the rides lifted my spirits. I climbed - just one pitch at first, but finally three or four. Not an impressive amount by most standards, but I was beyond delighted. Finally, I was ready to tackle Mono Pass, hiking poles at the ready.

The return climb to Mono Pass seemed tough on a tired body. I moved slowly, one step at a time. Trudging forward, not backwards, climbing up and up. In that bleak, desolate pass, I could at last see forward. There was a future….. and it was here.

One of the Boys

Blurry eyed, early morning daze, hurried movement in the black before dawn.

Surreal drive up deserted road, winding snake-like past jagged peaks.

The car is full. Four warm bodies but only engine noise; a coffin hurtling upwards.

At the trailhead, strong joe and low grunts. Oatmeal stirred, spilled, shared.

Packs on, ropes coiled on to backs, sinuous and choking like rata vines, securing and binding.

World defined only by jumping pools of light on rocky trail, by ragged breath, by the dissonant clanging of gear penduluming from hips stride by stride, by sharp air redolent of pine and dust.

Doubt breeds, multiplies in those crystalline, jerky moments frozen in time for future retrieval.

The peak ahead, a dragon’s spine. Weather forecast ominous.

Doubt once more. The boys. Always the boys. Yet here I am, a substitute, only X chromosomes to offer. Can I keep up? Can I pull my weight? Can I be one of the boys? The sour taste of doubt.

Imperceptibly black turns deep blue that morphs, eventually, to the optimism of sunrise.

Later, we climb. Rock cold but warming to our fingers. Rough granite under Sierra blue.

Concentration, mind razor sharp, breathe deep the pool of thin air.

Kinesthetic pleasure of movement, moments of laughter, brief repose at belays.

The boys strung out along the knife edge like Christmas lights, bound by the thread of friendship, of shared mountain experience.

White cotton in the sky turns black, ominous rumbles encroach, playful puffs turn to malevolent gusts.

Rapid retreat, recalled only in sensations, brief glimpses. Chilled hands grasping wet ropes, fumbling, checking and rechecking. Deafening crashes, brilliant flashes.

Doubt. Banished by necessity. No choice now but calm in the wild frenzy. Unroped on slick rock. Do.Not.Fall.

Finally, safety, reunion, a pause to chew on sawdust sustenance, visions of hot culinary delights awaiting.

We trudge damply to the car, spirits high in companionship. The boys.

Alive, alive, alive.

****************************************************************************

Years of abuse and bad anatomical luck banish climbing with unexpected rapidity. Cruel injury, insidious, undiagnosable.

The mind’s darkness threatens.  Memory both fights and fuels the black.

Such vivid fragments remembered: of life on edge, of sounds, smells, taste, touch, of the boys.

These sustain me in the gloom, but also reawaken overwhelming visceral desire. The need to repeat, to capture new memories, to live so brightly in an instant.

How to find equaminity? I am still searching.