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.