Mules, mountains, and a mystery solved

“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.” 

-Curiouser and Curiouser: An Odd Day on the Trail. 9-14-2014. https://dallassierraadventure.blogspot.com/2014/09/curiouser-and-curiouseran-odd-day-on.html

This episode from a solo trip three years ago had always puzzled me. Why were there bells? Why were there horses?  As Tenaya, Tara and I set off in the early morning for the Rock Creek Pack Station (http://www.rockcreekpackstation.com/), I never suspected that the answer would be found amidst the peaks of the Hilton Lakes drainage, the destination for our first pack trip.

The idea from trip stemmed equally from a desire to take my daughters into the wilderness, and from their reluctance, nay, outright refusal, to continue our long-standing tradition of family backpacking. That would involve walking. Why not consider getting into the wilderness by other means? The girls had enjoyed shorter horse trail rides (I had tolerated them; Alistair had completely refused to sit in a saddle), and were totally won over by the idea of a longer trip, especially the prospect of fabulous meals as opposed to the usual minimalist backpacking fare. And did I mention not having to walk? It was all enough to make up for the early start.

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At 7 AM  the Rock Creek Pack Station was a hive of activity. Guests were arriving by the car load, clad in outdoorsy clothes and unloading mountains of gear.  A manure scent clung to the still air. What first appeared to be a melee in a large, dusty corral resolved into packers in cowboy attire loading mules and saddling horses. Their obvious competence intimidated me; it was far beyond my realm of experience and I felt utterly inadequate. The idea of heading into the backcountry totally reliant on others’ expertise was disconcerting.

Packers at work loading mules at the Rock Creek Pack Station

To my relief, out of the chaos emerged a strong, weatherworn older woman with kind eyes and sandy braid who introduced herself as Patty, our cook. We learned that several groups were leaving at the same time, and that there would be three families on our Parent Child trip. Over a tasty breakfast of French toast, ham, fruit and strong coffee, we met the team: 14-year-old Andre with his grandparents Patrick and Charlotte from Redwood City, and six-year-old Gwen with her mom Brecken, from Altadena (“near Pasadena”). Accompanying us would be Patty, and packers Joe and Yuki.

Patty directs proceedings at the Pack Station

Eventually we were mounted on our horses and making our way along the dusty trail to Hilton Lakes led by Patty. 

On the trail

Tenaya and Tip

Tara and Levi

A 10:30 AM ‘lunch break’ was a welcome opportunity to not sit on the horse. I had concluded that my knock knees were entirely the wrong shape for any semblance of comfort in the saddle and vied with Charlotte to be the last person mounted again: ‘Last on, least pain’. 

Looking back up Rock Creek Canyon to Bear Creek Spire

"Lunch"

The ride was mercifully short, and after a brief wrong turn ending in the excitement of fording a small stream, we arrived at camp pleasantly situated in a broad swath of forest on the shore of the second Hilton Lake. 

The party crossing the stream

Soon tents were up, the outdoor kitchen was established, and camp chairs circled a gas ‘fire pit’. Around this ersatz campfire, in that comfortable and companionable space after dinner and before bed, friendships were forged, memories made, and mysteries solved.

The Hilton Lakes Valley has all of the grandeur of the neighboring Little Lakes Valley with its own string of jewellike lakes dominated by the towering Mount Huntington…. but a fraction of the people. We set out to explore the valley on the second day with a group, including Tenaya and Tara, heading out on horseback to the third lake, and then on foot to the fourth Lake. I opted to trot along behind on my own two legs and then go gallivanting crosscountry on a quest to find Lakes 5 to 7. There really is nothing that I enjoy more than following my nose to discover high and beautiful places in the mountains. It was glorious.

Early morning at camp with Mount Huntington

At the third Hilton Lake

The girls and I at the third Hilton Lake

Iceberg in the fifth Hilton Lake

Flowers line the sixth Hilton Lake

Back at camp, conversations ebbed and flowed between clients and staff in small groups that, in the late afternoon, coalesced around the makeshift kitchen where Patty held court, the sun to all our planets. The girls warmed to her friendly down-to-earth style born of the myriad of jobs she had held and experiences that she had had, many of them in the great outdoors. “You don’t need to go to college”, she told them, “I’m a great fan of technical education, you can go a long way in a trade”. They listened and I rejoiced. Never once in their privileged Silicon Valley upbringing had they received this message. Patty opened their minds and won my heart in a single simple statement.

Patty in her element - serving delicious food and dispensing sage advice

I was fascinated to hear Patty’s stories of her time spent in the mountains on horse trips like this. As a backpacker/climber, I was no doubt biased in as self-righteous sort of way towards self-propelled exploration and adventure.  My recent forays using the most modern, ultralight gear underscored this ethic. We had been given a baggage allowance of 35 pounds yet could barely get to 15 with my tiny sleeping pad and 800 fill down bag. In contrast, Patty rolled out a bedroll that weighed about 25 pounds. The girls and I were clad in convertible pants and mosquito proof shirts of quick drying fabric, high-tech layers with names like ‘Nanopuff’ and ‘Ghostwhisperer’. Patty wore jeans, a checked shirt and broad brim hat. Not a North Face or Patagonia label in sight. Yet I sensed a kindred spirit in her love of a rough backcountry life, and in the freedom and joy experienced in roaming the mountains.

L to R: Joe, Yuki, Andre, Patrick, and Charlotte gather around our 'fireplace'

   

At the end of the day, after the horses had been watered and fed and other chores attended to, Joe and Yuki quietly joined the circle. Joe, lanky and fair, had long been a mule packer; Yuki, a sturdy Japanese-American, was on his first trip after a lengthy spell in the Marines. Joe had studied cattle nutrition at college; Yuki was preparing for a degree in natural resource management and aspired to become a Park Ranger. Both were understated but good-natured: they were willing to be drawn out after initial reticence.

Joe tethers one of the mules

From Joe, we learned about the life of a mule packer. The predawn starts, the long, strenuous days, the nights spent under the stars with their stock, the rhythm of life not much changed in a century. Sometimes weeks at a time on the trail, beyond the reach of the electronic leash that tethers too many of us today. Winters spent earning money to supplement the hard-working, hard living summers. The excitement of the Bishop, CA Mule Days held in May, when contenders from the surrounding pack outfits came to compete in a variety of seemingly outrageous events….. and how even this had become almost mainstream: “Even Berkeley has a mule packing team now”. We learned that mules were definitely smarter than horses, would harbor a grudge for months yet were loyal to their rider. We learned that there was always only one mare on the pack trip, the bell mare, that was unequivocally the boss, and that all other mules were jacks that would follow the sound of bell around the mare’s neck. We also learned that the jacks could be tricked into coming to the sound of the same bell in the packer’s hand.

A thought occurred to me, and I asked Joe whether pack trips ran down the Mono Valley and explained my experience a few years ago. He told me that it was a common route, and that parties often camped upstream while the packers drove the mules downstream to graze in a meadow near the second Mono Recess, the exact spot at which I had camped. Mystery solved.

Evening campfire

In the fireside discussion that night, Charlotte, a poet, posited the importance of poetry in our lives and asked whether anyone had anything to recite. A number of us squirmed uncomfortably…but Joe shyly offered up some cowboy poetry entitled ‘The Bell Mare’. It reminded him, he said, of the bell mare he had once had: cranky, old, nothing much to look at, but always reliable, and of how much he had loved her.

In the introspective silence that followed, I realized that Charlotte was right, that I was ignorant, that my view of what constituted a ‘Sierra adventurer’ had been blinkered and narrow. This trip had been intended as backcountry therapy for my daughters; I was just along for the ride, so to speak. Tenaya and Tara loved the experience, but I returned feeling as if, in this collision of the parallel universes of backpacking and horse packing, my world, too, had expanded.

Thank you, Patty, Joe and Yuki.

The Bell Mare – Bruce Kiskaddon

She was nothin' much to look at, that there old fleabitten gray.

She'd a cranky disposition, but you liked her any way.

Wasn't big nor wasn't little, wasn't no particular breed,

But you kep her fer a bell mare 'cause she always took the lead.

When you had to work rough country where a wagon couldn't go;

Climbin' up onto the mesa with yore pack train movin' slow.

Through the pinnacles and ledges they would foller where she led,

It was good to hear the jingle of the bell mare up ahead.

In the swampy river bottoms, in the early mornin' hush;

When you started out to wrangle in the fog and in the brush;

If you once could git the bell mare why the rest was easy found,

And yore horse would chomp the bridle while you listened fer the sound.

'Round the campfire in the evenin' when they had big yarns to tell,

Faint and dim off in the distance come the jingle of the bell.

Or a driftin' down a canyon when the sun was blazin' hot,

How she kep the bell a ringin' to her steady even trot.

Years have gone, there's been big changes, but sometimes when yore alone.

Some sound you didn't notice, makes you recollect the tone.

And it starts your memory driftin' till at last you feel the spell.

Of the country where you wrangled, and the jingle of the bell.

When things go right: Ansel Adams Wilderness

Sometimes nothing needs to go wrong to make a backcountry trip memorable; sometimes things just need to go right.

Increasingly disillusioned with the competitive savagery overlaid with a veneer of civility that is Silicon Valley, my family and I decamped and moved to Mammoth Lakes, a resort town in the heart of the Sierra Nevada, for two months over the summer. We had few plans - a rented house, a couple of trips aimed at dragging recalcitrant electronic-addicted teenagers into the wilderness by different means, and a permit for Girl Scout backpacking trip into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. The rest, we’d wing. This approach flew directly in the face of all my Type A organizational instincts, a major step outside my comfort zone. Nevertheless, I plotted and planned and researched and prepared for months in advance to ensure a smooth transition to our new mountain abode.

From the start of summer, what could go wrong, did go wrong. Plan A turned into Plan B, C, D, even E…. over and over and over. To start with, the previous winter had dumped record amounts of snow across the Sierra Nevada. They were living up to their name. Just getting to Mammoth was a challenge with uncertainty as to whether passes would open and whether our new electric car would have sufficient range to surmount the 10,000ft passes. Plans changed daily as the stress levels ratcheted up. A last-minute requirement to attend a US citizenship ceremony after our planned departure date threw a further wrench in the works. On eventual arrival came the discovery that Mammoth Lakes did not have mail delivery, so the carefully organized USPS mail forwarding was quite useless, initiating a continuing mail snafu. On the first night in our rented house, the teens cooking on an unfamiliar gas stove managed to flame out the control panel rendering the oven unusable. Shortly thereafter our ‘new’ SUV suffered transmission failure and was declared kaput. My older daughter turned 16 and  easily picked up a job, but the obtaining the required work permit proved a far greater challenge.  One headache followed another and our first weeks in Mammoth were fraught with tension.

Still, I had the Girl Scout backpacking trip to the Ansel Adams wilderness to look forward to. I had mapped out a route six months earlier suitable for all levels and had enthusiastically (‘We’ll exit lower than we enter!!”) rounded up a group of ten to share in the adventure. What could go wrong? One by one, group members dropped out for assorted reasons - a baby shower, housesitting obligations.  My younger daughter declared in no uncertain terms that SHE was NOT walking ANYWHERE. A week before the trip, we were down to four. The nail in the coffin was the fact that the road to the trailhead was still closed due to winter damage and our exit trail was closed until September due to dangerously high waters in the aptly named Rush Creek. Everyone else dropped out. It would be an unanticipated solo trip.

I was bedeviled by a slew of unanswered questions. How much snow was on the passes? Were crampons needed? Which lakes had thawed? Were the rivers safe to cross? Could I get to the trailhead on my road bike? It was four miles from Mammoth Mountain over Minaret Pass and down to Agnew Meadows which seemed doable on the way in, but could I ride back up the steep road at altitude carrying a pack? I scoured the Sierra hiking forums for news and pumped the rangers for information….which unsatisfactorily ambiguous results.

“Mum, they have opened the road to Minaret Pass!” This welcome fact, gleaned from Facebook by my younger daughter the day before departure, was a turning point. It cut the approach to the trailhead virtually in half.  Alistair dropped me off at the pass the next morning, to my great relief, sans bike. 

From Minaret Vista, the iconic view of Ansel Adams wilderness to the west featured a dominating backdrop of the jagged Minaret Range, a volcanic ridge in the mid-distance above Yosemite like granite cliffs, the San Joaquin River Valley, and finally the eastern San Joaquin Ridge. 

Dusk from the Minaret Overlook: two daughters and a row of minarets.

Trip route: Day 1 - Yellow, Day 2 - Purple, Day 3 - Red

The area was a cornucopia of hidden lakes, splendid views, towering spires, lush gardens….. and above all, the summer especially, water: rivers, streams, brooks, rivulets, waterfalls, cascades. The area was bathed in the music of water flowing. The tinkling drips of melting snow, the chattering of exuberant streams, the deep roaring waterfalls exploding through tight chasms, and the sibilant San Joaquin gliding inexorably down the valley. To drought parched ears, it was a welcome symphony, constantly changing depending on position, always delighting.

Water, water everywhere.

Granite faces above the San Joaquin Valley, looking south to Mammoth Mountain

And indeed, I moved through this veritable Shangri-La in the state of delight and wonder. Each turn brought new treasures. The cheerful company of a group of women from Sacramento headed toward the trailhead to walk a loop approximately opposite to my own, and our fortuitous reunion at the apex of the loop, the women extolling the virtues of the Pacific Crest Trail running high above the valley and causing me to change my plans for the better. Shadow Creek thundering down its narrow precipitous drop into the valley, topped by Shadow Lake, and further up Ediza Lake, still mostly frozen, nestled in a basin beneath the Minarets and Mount Banner and Mount Ritter. 

Shadow Lake

The approach to Lake Ediza had some tricky routefinding

Lake Ediza emerging from the lingering grip of winter, below the Minarets

On the trail beneath Mt Ritter (L) and Mt Banner (R), the local giants.

A campsite perched on a granite bench favoring sunset over the range with glorious alpenglow. The arrival of evening neighbors, young Stanford neuroscientists (mostly), unexpectedly a source of lively and stimulating conversation. 

My friendly neuroscientist neighbours. My campsite was on the ledge behind the centre pine tree.

The coincidental arrival of the same group just down from the second campsite atop cliffs of basalt columns with killer views across the San Joaquin River to the west, and an invitation to share a mosquito repelling fire. 

Warding off the mosquitoes looking west to the Minaret range from the Pacific Crest Trail. 

Starry, starry night

Garnet Lake and Thousand Island Lake, progressively and paradoxically both more thawed and at higher elevation. Passes, snowbound yet softening in the Sierra sun, yielding to careful footsteps.

Garnet Lake and Mt Banner

Thousand Island Lake and Mt Banner

 Bright, verdant meadows, embracing sparkling streams, cascading down the steep slopes.

Meadows along the PCT on the San Joaquin Ridge

Lilies

 The kind couple who provided a lift from Minaret Vista to my front door after the slog back up the road at the end of the trip.

The irony was that I was unable to record any of these marvels on film, having accidentally left my phone (camera) behind. Somehow, freed from the pervasive pressure to photograph, I was able to truly see, to perceive, to deeply imprint memories of sights, sounds and sensations. 

Yes, this was a trip on which everything went right.

Looking pretty happy at the end.

Note: the photographs were very kindly provided by Arnold and Aparna, my Stanford neighbors. We traveled almost identical trails about one hour apart!