Teetering on the brink: A journey along Mammoth Crest

I rounded a corner. The earth dropped away in sudden dizzying juxtaposition. In the words of Hec from "The Wilderpeople", it was 'majestical'. I dropped the pack and scampered out along a fin of rock jutting out from the escarpment. Maximum exposure, maximum delight. “Mind if I play my summit music?”. My new companion pulled out his phone.

We were kindred spirits in that moment, companions of the trail. When we parted ways shortly after, no names had been exchanged, yet we had been bonded by that fleeting hour spent dancing along the edge, flirting with the void, answering the siren song that called from over, below, tugging at us to venture closer, to lean out further. We had shared heaven.

The summer had not been one of my most adventurous. Years of climbing up and down mountains and assorted other abuses had finally caught up with me in the form of protesting knees. Accordingly, it had been a season of less ambitious outings - a family float trip down the Lower Owens River on a Walmart raft and couple of inflatable rings (another tale to tell), some easy climbing including our first ‘family’ multi-pitch in Tuolumne Meadows, a glorious amble in the high alpine of Little Lakes Valley with my father in peak wildflower season.  Enjoyable, memorable even, but never quite satisfying that lurking, deeper hunger. By September, I craved a stronger dose of backcountry magic, knees be damned. I scoured the maps, and settled on a jaunt along the Mammoth Crest, returning by the uber-popular Duck Pass Trail.

This long escarpment forms the southwestern rim of the Mammoth Lakes Basin in California’s Eastern Sierra. From the lakes below, it is an arresting feature that draws the gaze. What would it be like to be on top looking down? The hike could be completed in a day by an eager hiker, but, given the current creaky pins, I decided to spread the walk over two days to enjoy the opportunity.

The Mammoth Crest from Emerald Lake in hte Lakes Basin

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8:45 am. I shoulder my pack, open the front door and head off down the street to catch the 9am bus. This is the beauty of our new mountain home - almost instant accessibility to a vast alpine playground. I catch the jaunty-looking (and free!) Lakes Basin Trolley the few miles up to the trailhead. Tomorrow is the last day the shuttle will run; the driver tells me he is off to ride his Harley through the golden autumn colours in Nevada. A black bear saunters across the road. As we pass, it climbs up to a perch directly above a pedestrian tunnel. A morning jogger exits the tunnel, oblivious to his furry observer just a couple of meters above.

The trailhead at Lake George is quiet. The summer frenzy has passed, only a few morning fishermen about, and I have the trail - a conga-line of hikers only weeks ago - largely to myself. The weight of the pack is a comfort. Why is it that this burden relieves the load of life’s daily worries and makes me strong? I ponder this paradox and settle into a steady rhythm, relishing the symphony of lungs and muscles working in concert. The effort seems to ignite a firestorm of thoughts and ideas that explode into consciousness, a veritable Fourth of July of new connections and insights. The scientist in me attributes this to the activity of my brain’s default mode network, from which creativity is thought to spring in times of idle day-dreaming. Or perhaps it’s the magic of the mountains at work.

Crystal Crag

The trail zigzags up through lodgepole pines, skirting the cliffs leading to the soaring Crystal Crag from the back of Lake George. The lake sparkles and beckons, eliciting fantasies of a graceful swan dive right off the trail to plunge into the azure waters below. Past the junction to Crystal Lake,  Mammoth Mountain comes into view, it’s volcanic red slopes contrasting with the granite cliffs above McLeod Lake which in turn cede to scoria beneath my feet. There is a complex geology around here. I resolve to learn more.

Mixed geology: scoria of the Red Cone and granite cliffs of the Crest

A sharp breeze finds me as I reach the Red Cone, the heap of scoria that marks the intersection with the Mammoth Crest, after the final (inevitable, right?) steep slog. A travel-worn young couple arrive at the same moment from the other direction. They have been out for 10 days, following the High Sierra Route, a network of cross-country passes and little used trails that follows the spine of the Sierra Nevada roughly parallel to the John Muir Trail. I am envious of their abraded and patched clothes, their weary but wiry bodies, their beatific smiles and even their unwashed smell - it all speaks of stories to be told, memories to treasure. I wish them luck and set off again.

The open ridgeline of the Mammoth Crest offers easy hiking and expansive views from the delicate jagged spires of the Minarets and the twin hulks of Mt Banner and Mt Ritter to the north, to Mammoth Mountain to the lakes in the basin below. The breeze gusts and I shiver as the sun passes behind building clouds.

It is a stark environment atop this exposed, sandy ridge at nearly 11,000 ft. Lodgepole pine has given way to windblown and gnarled whitebark pine that grows hunkered in sparse clumps. A few hardy lupin are still in bloom, clinging to life flattened against the ground. The trail traverses away from the Crest to circumvent a high point. I pass a day hiker resting, then stop to rest and am passed by the same man. We continue a leapfrogging steady climb, exchanging a few pleasantries with each encounter. Finally, we round the corner almost in unison….and the ground drops away.

I linger in this aerie, spellbound and reluctant to leave. Lunch on a ledge, feet dangling. Rather than continuing on the trail which leads away from the abyss, down towards Deer Lakes, I meander up along the brink, exploring every vantage point.  Each is more spell-binding than the last, revealing new perspectives on the world below, a hidden lake, a soaring crack system. A large marmot scurries along a few meters in front of me, unfazed by my presence. We share the same predilection for high places; everywhere I pause to peer over the edge is marked by an abundance of droppings.

 

Eventually, I reach a low point in the Crest and reluctantly turn to the task of locating Deer Lakes, my destination for the night. A quick look at the map, and an easy descent leads me to the trail again and on to Middle Deer Lake, nestled beneath the forbidding peak of the Black Giant. I camp in solitude.

That evening Mother Nature puts on a sublime private light show as the sun pops out from behind gathering clouds in time to bathe the landscape in celestial glory before sinking below the horizon. I am awestruck again. People sometimes ask what church I attend, and I tell them, somewhat flippantly, that I worship in the Church of the Great Outdoors. This, then, is surely mighty cathedral.

Early the following morning, travelling cross country around the remainder of the Crest to meet the main trail at Duck Pass, my progress is again slow. I want to soak up the dawn light, drink in the views, remember these fleeting hours. Despite a restless night in my shelter, I am uplifted, energised and bursting with a sense of immense joy and freedom.

The high endures all the way back down the steep, rocky trail as it switchbacks into the Lakes Basin, then past a series of its lakes: Skelton, Barney…, along a streamside use trail that offers an alternative route to the trailhead, through the half-empty Coldwater campground, along the road to the shuttle stop at Lake Mary, back down the hill into town, and eventually to the front door. The hunger has been quenched.

Descending from Duck Pass into the Lakes Basin

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So what was it that my companion played that day top Mammoth Crest? An aptly majestical piece of music. Enjoy!

The All-Dessert Dinner: Twenty Lakes Basin 2008 and 2018

Did we only get this far? I pause, unsure, reaching my mind back, casting about for some vestige of familiarity. It's a sunny, brilliant Sierra day in September, and I have set out to explore the Twenty Lakes Basin area just east of Yosemite. As I stride along the trail, it occurs to me that 10 years have passed since my last trip. Our last trip. 

"You've got the tent, right?", I asked Alistair. "No, I thought you had it", he replied. "No, I thought you packed it". We had reached the site of our first night out on our very first family backpacking trip. With Tenaya, age 7, and Tara, age 4 1/2, we had embarked on this pint-sized adventure at the tail end of a Yosemite camping trip. We had caught the boat taxi down Saddlebag Lake, and hiked into to one of the area's many lakes, this one a little off-trail, perhaps a mile and a half all told. "Hiked" was putting it strongly; it had taken us a good two hours, countless chocolate bribes, several multi-chapter made-up-on-the-fly stories, and much wheedling. Tara had carried her ladybug sleeping bag and Tenaya, a small pack of clothes; Alistair and I were laden like packhorses with the rest of the gear. But we had finally made it to a perfect slice of alpine paradise, a campsite on a grassy bench sitting above a gorgeous cliff-ringed lake. Splendid isolation. 

On the trail. Tara is sporting her ladybug sleeping bag pack.

Alistair and the girls en route

A rest stop for chocolate. I think we had covered perhaps half a mile.

Today, I can't fathom where it was that we left the main trail to find that first campsite. Surely we made it further than this? It seemed like we were on the trail for a long time. The view of the sheer east face of North Peak looming to the west jogs memories, however. The high alpine setting, beginning at Saddlebag Lake at about 10,000 feet, is superb and I am every bit as charmed as a decade earlier.

Further along the trail in 2018 than we made it in 2008. Just as stunning!

In the parking lot before starting out, Alistair had left me with the kids to go in search of the park ranger rumoured to be getting breakfast at the resort back down the road, to secure the requisite wilderness permit. I had been throwing food and equipment into my pack sorting the backpacking gear from the camping gear, whilst trying to keep an eye on the girls. Several hours, a boat ride, and an admittedly torturous hike later, the realization dawned that the tent was unequivocally back in the car. "How do you feel about sleeping under the stars?" Alistair asked Tenaya and Tara hopefully. 

This trip, the boat taxi is defunct. It was run by the Saddlebag Lake Resort, which was pummeled by the exceptionally snowy winter of 2016-2017 and is now up for sale. I paddle the length of the lake in our new kayak to avoid the lengthy additional hike along the lake. Partway along, the wind picks up and the water becomes choppy. I fight to keep the kayak on course, shoulders aching, feeling uncertain in my paddling skills.

The new boat taxi after paddling down Saddelbag Lake

The tent would have to be retrieved. I drew the short straw.  I scampered and skipped back across to the trail and jogged down to the boat dock. Having no money for the boat taxi fare, I pled our predicament to the driver. An hour later, I puffed back up the hill carrying the precious shelter, the altitude burning my unacclimatized lungs.  The tent up, we whiled away the golden afternoon. Tenaya and Tara shucked off their shoes and played in the lake and stream, inevitably getting soaked.  They leaped joyously and raucously from rock to rock and inspected wildflowers at the height of their glorious bloom. Tenaya was a bundle of contradiction, of highs and lows wrapped up in stubbornness. Tara was the mellow one, clinging to me, sweet and sturdy, perceiving the world so differently from the rest of us. Alistair and I reveled in their innocence, their enthusiasm, their playfulness, their curiosity.

Getting wet....

Tara age 4 1/2

Tenaya (7) and Tara (4 1/2)  climbing on rocks.

A decade on, so much has changed. That innocence is long gone, eroded by the inevitable march of time.  Tenaya is still fiery and feisty, but now, as a near-adult, her stubbornness manifests as a passion in her beliefs and in a desire to change the world. Tara, taller than me now and entering high school,  is quietly independent and sails on through life with an understated competence. I think that I mostly embarrass her now.

So grown up - Tara (14) and Tenaya (17) on Convict Lake

At dinner time, we realized another error resulting from the parking lot chaos: chocolate mousse had been substituted for the girls' freeze-dried mac & cheese. There was only one thing for it - fed them a dinner of chocolate mousse followed by berry cheesecake and hot chocolate. It was to become a meal of legend in the family history!

Preparing the All Dessert Dinner

The trip would become known in family lore as The One Where We Forgot The Tent And Had An All-Dessert Dinner. The family backpacking trip became an annual event, each foray added to the family treasure chest of memories, labeled roughly:

• The one where the girls out-climbed other grownups on Mt Hoffman
• The one where Tara impaled herself on an ice ax 
• The one with the snake in the jacket and the lizard on Tenaya's head when she was swimming
• The one where we swam in a lily pond and Dad caught a frog
• The one where Tara sliced her foot open swimming and there was a giant thunderstorm
• The one when Tenaya had chocolate fudge brownies for her 13th birthday 
• The one where Tara slid down the snow on her raincoat and ruined it.  

After a final sugar-induced burst of energy as alpenglow ignited the ramparts of North Peak, Alistair and the girls shoe-horned into our two-person backpacking tent. I volunteered to bivy under the stars, somewhat removed from the protests and squabbles about knees and elbows emanating from within the thin fabric. As the stars came up, and sleep overtook small weary limbs, I crept somewhat sheepishly back to the tent and lay down right outside it. It wasn't a night to feel alone.

Sleeping arrangements

I manage to miss a turn off the trail and instead follow what turns out to be an old mining road to a vantage point above Steelhead Lake. In the distance, I think I can pick out where we had camped. But the moment is bittersweet.




In a perfect narrative, the stuff of outdoor magazines and online trip report featuring intrepid families, my daughters would be strong, keen, confident outdoors people, forging off on their own after a decade of family adventures in the backcountry, reveling in the freedom and the challenge and the beauty of exploring the mountains. Alistair and I would look on as proud and slightly doting parents. Of course, the truth is different. Teenage rebellion has squelched family backpacking trips. Feet have been firmly planted in resistance and any suggestion of a 'hike' or even a 'walk' meets with vigorous protest. Yet, I think these experiences have shaped them, guided them, molded them in some way. Tenaya is determined to explore the world, expand her horizons, seek her own adventures. Tara's calm facade belies underlying grit. On rare occasion, she will scramble around on high rocky peaks, a mountain goat like her father, and a there is a fleeting glimpse of that innocent, joyful child of 10 years ago. I reflect that they will each choose their own path in life and that it will likely be very different from the path I have chosen. But that is what they must do. And as I love them, I must let them go.  After all, the mountains will always be there, should they choose to return.