High Sierra salve - backcountry exploration in the age of COVID-19

Why go adventuring solo? In the past, the answer has been largely for personal challenge, with a dash of escapism. In the year of COVID-19, the balance has tilted. A hefty dose of escape is at the forefront tinged with the desire to explore comfort zone boundaries. The clanging shut of the viral prison door in March sent its echoes reverberating through the rise of summer in the form of upended family life, teens’ struggles with changed and constantly changing plans and enforced isolation throwing a deep shadow over the household. Adrift in a sea of uncertainty, battered by the relentless winds of the news cycle, I yearned for escape. The high Sierra sang its siren song. The words of John Muir were never so apt: “The mountains are calling and I must go”.

On the morning of departure, I learned of a local man assaulted in the supermarket after requesting that another customer cover their face. Utterly appalled that this should happen in our small mountain town, I fled to wilderness silent on the topic of politics and public health, requisite permit in hand. Burdened by pandemic poundage only partly compensated for by the choice of ultralight gear, I engaged my tortoise pace on the climb from North lake. A group of young male hares bounded past at an enthusiastic clip. I plodded by as they rested; the eventual outcome was predictable. Along a forest stream, past lush riparian meadows dotted with blooms and butterflies, beneath the striking orange ramparts of the Piute Crags, across granite slabs, past azure lakes bordered by purple fields of lupins, the well-behaved trail traversed classic Sierra terrain before reaching Piute Pass at 11423ft.

The distinctive red of the Piute Crags

Up through the granite in typical Sierra style

Loch Leven, halfway to the pass.

A field of lupins

Beyond the pass, the wide, grassy expanse of the Humphreys Basin opened up, bordered to the south by the knife-edge granite spires of the Glacier Divide. Mt Humphrey’s distinctive pointed peak dominated the horizon to the east. I met a couple horse packers returning from dropping a party in the area, unladen mules in tow. “Where are you headed?” inquired the cowboy hat and chaps-clad man. Intentionally vague, I indicated the basin below and received a skeptical glance. “Don’t get lost” was the patronizing response. I resisted the urge to parry with an eye roll.

The view to the west into Humphreys Basin from Piute Pass

The Glacier Divide from Lower Desolation lake

Mt Humphreys 13986 ft.

Mindful of forecast high winds, I found a sheltered campsite at Lower Desolation Lake about a mile off the main trail at the very top of the range of the weather-beaten whitebark pines. Fortunately, the winds dropped overnight; unfortunately, so did the temperature. Why on earth had I brought the ultralight, 900 weight goose down, hoodless sleeping bag? Had I forgotten past hard-earned lessons? Clad in every layer I possessed, I crawled into my backpack in an attempt to get warm. Being a relatively small pack, this was successful only to slightly above the knees. I burrowed further down into the bag, pulling it over my head but my efforts were largely futile and sleep remained elusive. Ice clinked and tinkled in the water bottle the following morning.

Looking toward Carol Col from Lower Desolation Lake

The campsite view to the east - Mt Humphreys

Campsite view to the south - Glacier Divide.

A futile attempt to keep warm by stuffing feet into my pack!

The pitter-patter of tiny feet accompanied by squeaks and grunts eventually persuaded me emerge from my cold chrysalis. The manicured appearance of the campsite turned out to be due not to previous backpacker use, but to the group of chubby marmots whose well-constructed burrow entrance stood mere feet away from the shelter. They were utterly unperturbed by the intruder and merrily frolicked and feasted on grasses around me as I packed up camp.

A friendly and curious fellow

Good eating at my campsite!

The plan for the day was to head north cross country across the basin and over a pass called Carol Col, the crux of the route due to its steep northern side. But passage across the col was far from certain – I had sought the minimum of information to maximize the challenge despite ominous hints found online such as “At least the descent is nowhere near as easy as some have described”. As I always told my (unimpressed) kids, it’s not an adventure if you know what’s going to happen. I set off, following a route plotted along streams and lakes to maximize water availability. Somehow, my more detailed topo map fell out of my pocket along the way, leaving me peering at the larger scale map which did not indicate obstacles such as cliff bands. It was thought-provoking route-finding with some false starts but with ultimate confirmation of decision making in the form of the odd footprint in the gravel indicating previous passage.

En route to Carol Col, looking back toward Lower Desolation Lake.

Near the middle of the day, I stood atop lofty Carol Col. It dropped precipitously to the north to Roget and Puppet lakes and beyond to French canyon and Merriam peak. An intimidating, sweeping cliff band extended to the east and west; somewhere was the weakness that allowed a safe descent. After rejecting some options involving down climbing small drops, a surprisingly easy route appeared, dropping quickly through some talus to a steep use trail. The way was almost anticlimactic in its ease – I guess those climbing descents had prepared me well – and I felt a wave of relief to have avoided an ignominious backtrack to my point of origin. However, the show ain’t over till the fat lady sings, as they say, and what I had imagined as an easy traverse across a ridge from Puppet lake to Moon lake to pick up an established trail turned out to be barred by cliffs requiring cruel backtracking – who wants to climb back up a descent?

Carol Col looking west with Roget Lake immediately below

Carol Col looking east to Puppet lake and Mt Merriam in the distance. There's a way down there somewhere.

Found it!

The route down Carol Col lay to the left, along the band of low cliffs.

Moon Lake where the trail starts again, but with cliffs blocking the descent. French canyon is to the left and Pine Creek Pass on the right-center horizon

I find solo cross-country travel to be draining both mentally due to the constant decision-making, and physically due to the constant unstable footing. You bear the burden of all decisions; the repercussions of wrong choices rest solely on your shoulders. Finding the trail again was accompanied by pride in a repudiating of the “don’t get lost” Piute Pass packer and a concomitant wave of exhaustion from the effort compounded by lack of sleep. But many miles remained to reach my target of Upper Pine Lake. Miles that dropped first into French Canyon then climbed back up to Pine Creek Pass before finally descending into Pine Canyon. One of the challenges of travelling solo is that you must be your own cheerleader when things get tough. A voice emerges from the depths of your brain, urging you on, telling you to live in the moment, to take joy the veritable garden of wildflowers lining the trail, in the splendor of the surrounding peaks and in the deep blue high altitude sky. After all, fatigue is ultimately ephemeral but the insane beauty of the high Sierra endures. I scarfed down a handful of chocolate almonds with a chaser of naproxen and kept going.

Hurray - the trail at last! 

Looking back across Moon Lake to that pesky cliff band.

Pine Creek pass is wide with a lake and stellar views of Bear Creek Spire to the north.

Wildflowers galore.

Flowers (in this case, penstemons), more flowers.

At Pine Creek Pass. All downhill from here....apart from the bits that go up.

In the late afternoon, I reached Upper Pine lake, nestled in lodgepole pines beneath a series of distinctive razor-sharp ridges of banded metamorphic gneiss, hot, tired and dusty. An immediate plunge into its cool waters was unbelievably refreshing. The night was slightly less cold and sleepless, but still necessitated a double dose of coffee in the morning chill. A tease, the sun rose from behind the lakeside peaks but when its warming rays were mere meters from the campsite, slid back behind the ridge, only to emerge for real an hour later. The upside to the shivering was that the mosquitoes were kept at bay.

Banded metamorphic gneiss mountains flanking the north side of Pine creek canyon

Man, that swim felt good! At Upper Pine Creek lake, finally.

Alpenglow at Upper Pine lake camp

Yep. Gonna need that coffee.

The trail wound down the canyon past another lake to a point where Pine Creek plunged off the edge of a cliff in a Yosemite-esque waterfall. This small river has gouged an impressive canyon between Mount Tom and the Wheeler Crest and from this vantage point, the road was visible far below. Soon I passed a sign indicating the beginning of the John Muir wilderness a mile in from the trailhead ….as the crow flies. Such was the steepness of the canyon that the trail, in interminable switchbacks reminiscent of the Four Mile trail in Yosemite Valley, took a further 5 miles to reach the road. The views, however, were impressive.  What was once the world’s largest tungsten mine stood just above the road's end beneath the impressive switchbacks of the trail to Morgan pass ascending vast slopes of shale below a multihued peak to the south.

Pine lake

The wilderness boundary - a mile from the trailhead...if I were a bird.

First glimpse of the road - it doesn't look too far!



Potentilla bush above a Yosemite-style waterfall in Pine canyon

Some of the many switchbacks descending Pine Canyon

The trail descended through a band of junipers, my favourite Sierra tree.

The old tungsten mine below the wicked-looking switchbacks of the trail to Morgan Pass.

Made it.

To this point, the trip had been a true escape. I had avoided all thought of the outside world absorbed as I was in the challenge of the trip and the splendour of my surroundings. However, the distance dance of passing ascending hikers was a nudging reminder that the world had not changed. When Alistair met me about a mile from the trailhead, he brought the latest pandemic and political (can they be even divided anymore?) tidings. In those final steps, the salve of Sierra solitude blocked its acid sting of the news. I wondered, how long will this last? When can I escape again?