"Well, I'm a flirt, " drawls Wes, our friendly packer, astride his horse with two laden mules in tow, "You should give her my number." We chuckle at the unexpected response. We are on our way out, climbing steadily towards Mono Pass. It has been a banner trip, the first of its kind for our group, a true gem of an outing.
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Our group - Wendy, Andy, Alistair and I - have coalesced around the idea of a mule-supported backcountry trip. After several years of tedious surgeries and rehabs, the pressure of a heavy pack sets off jangling nerves; I wince at the thought yet sorely miss my backpacking days. The others have been enticed by the promise of backcountry luxuries: a chair, sheets, a thicker sleeping mat, fresh food. Mules are the trusty freight trains of the wilderness of the High Sierra, carrying goods where machinery is prohibited. Led by packers on horseback, with all the trappings of a cowboy sans cows, they are the lifeblood of the range, fulfilling a function in essentially the same way as 150 years ago. I give Rock Creek Pack Station a call.
The owner answers my rookie questions laconically, in a long-suffering tone. The Pack Station has been in business for over a century and I feel supremely awkward. I am edging nervously into another realm, one of great tradition that interacts with the same spaces that I love but with a very different purpose and approach.
Finally, we all stand at the Pack Station on a Sunday afternoon in June, toting our gear. Wes lounges on the loading platform, clad Western-style in jeans, embossed silver belt buckle, cowboy boots, and striped shirt, his wide-brimmed hat at his side. He will load our gear and set off over the pass at dawn, aiming to ride the five hours each way in and out in a single day.
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| Wes in action |
"Where y'all from?", he enquires, after requisite intros. Al and I answer New Zealand. With a smile, he tells us that in the northern winter, he migrates Downunder to work as a packer for a Canterbury high country station, leading horse treks in the foothills of the Southern Alps. I've never heard of such a thing, and ask how it differs from the North American variety. Not too much apparently - no jeans in the wetter Kiwi climate, and heavy woolen Swanndri shirts.
"Packin' is packin" Wes concludes. He reckons there is nothing better in all this wide world than a day in the saddle in the mountains.
We banter some more about Whittaker's chocolate and other Kiwi matters and leave him to load our duffel bags (chairs! sheets! pillows! a coffee press!) and bear canisters (veggies! fruit!). However profligate we consider ourselves, office manager Lilly has tells me we haven't come close to the oenophile clients who return every year, requiring the super steady, special "party mule" to carry cases of fine wines, or the family of four who required THREE mules to cart their mountain of gear including two large stoves and a Dutch oven.
Wes seems satisfied with our gear. "Mules 'll have an easy day tomorrow".
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| Gear ready to be loaded. We carried mostly empty packs |
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We crest Half Moon Pass in the late morning. It's the "shortcut" to our destination of the Pioneer Basin, and gateway to the "inside", that magical world on the other side of the Sierra Crest, beyond communication. Below, a turquoise jewel of a lake set in granite shimmers and sparkles in the intensity of the high altitude sun. The scramble up has been straightforward but the descent? I sidle over to peer into the chasm; the others are already scampering down. It is easier than it appears, despite a short downclimb that gives me pause. After a talus descent, we reach the water's edge. Golden trout swim freely in crystalline waters of their eponymous lake below clouds of mayflies.
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| Wendy on the scramble up to Half Moon Pass |
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| The group at Half Moon Pass looking "inside" to Golden Lale and the Mono Valley beyond |
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| Downclimbing towards Golden Lake from Half Mon Pass |
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| Descending talus to Golden Lake |
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| Alistair at Golden Lake, looking up towards Mono Pass |
In the late afternoon, it is our turn to be beasts of burden. Wes has taken our load as far as permissible; Mud Lake is cupped in forest a distance below the lip of Pioneer Basin proper. We find our gear safe beneath a tree and repack, then trudge upwards, spurred on by visions of comfort, only partially earned.
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| Andy and Wendy loaded up for the final climb to camp in the Pioneer Basin |
We spend our days exploring the basin, rambling and roaming, unburdened by the cares of world. A summit perch one day, hard-earned after a sandy slog but rewarded by gleeful boot skiing down slopes of virgin gravel. A meander past a string of lakes, some inviting a swim; more of a brief immersion really, followed by rapid extraction and whoops of exhilaration as the cold sting of the alpine water pierces the skin and lungs. We wander through a vast natural garden. The alpine bloom is in full swing with an exuberant profusion of colour everywhere, a flowery frenzy of survival. Summer is brief up here. Plants and pollinators converge in an ephemeral riot of life.
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| Slogging up sandy slopes to Mount Hopkins above the Pioneer basin, 3rd and 4th Mono Recesses behind |
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| Dallas and Wendy on Mount Hopkins summit |
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| Time for a swim |
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| Streamside Yellow monkeyflower (Mimulus sp.) |
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| Lupin gardens in sandy areas |
One lunchtime, we perch on a lofty ridge and look out to summits both attained and aspired to. I peer over the edge. A single Sky Pilot, Polemonium, blooms below on a dry ledge, devoid of soil. I shout with delight. "You know you've worked hard when you see a Sky Pilot flowering", a friend has always said; they grow only at the highest altitudes of the Sierra Nevada. My heart sings. This is truly my happy place.
McGee Creek, Steelhead Lake, Red and White Mountain to the left with McGee Pass to its right
 McGee Creek and L to R from middle Mt Baldwin (climbed), White Fang (aspired to), and Mt Morrison (climbed) |
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| Sky Pilot (Polemonium eximium) at 12,000ft |
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| Looking south over the Pioneer Basin. Mt Hopkins is directly above our heads and camp is at the far centre lake |
A High Sierra library. All four of us sit at camp in our low collapsible chairs, noses in different texts. Beyond, the jagged ridges ignite in the last rays of the sun above the glacially carved valleys of the Mono Recesses. Pinks, oranges, mauves, purples, fading to black. The Range of Light. We are in a granite wonderland and our cups runneth over.
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| Camp library with a view |
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| Last light over the Fourth (left) and Third (right) Mono Recesses from camp |
We see no one. This vast playground, this nirvana, this heaven on earth, is all ours. Until the last evening when we have a visitor to camp. A slight woman, older than us by a couple of decades; she tells us she was a NOLS instructor in the 60s and 70s. She is out for a week by herself, fishing. Tough woman, we think. We tell her about Wes and the mule. They had crossed paths on the way in, she says.
"He's the nicest packer I've ever met. I'd have flirted if I were 30 years younger". Amid guffaws at the incongruous response, we promise to pass on the message.
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| Camp with last light over the Mono Recesses |
It's time to return to reality. We hump our packs back to the lower lake - much easier downhill with a lighter load - and pass Wes mere metres after. He has camped out the night before and has two mules in tow, dropping off, picking up, a sort of backcountry UPS service. He will shortly pack our gear and head out. We take the main route back, still curiously devoid of any traffic, the advantage of an early season trip, we suppose. We hustle up the trail towards Mono Pass, beyond which the "outside" lurks, spurred on by the lure of a late resort lunch, BBQ brisket, and perhaps even a slice of the famed "Pie in the Sky".
Pausing at a deserted Trail Lake halfway up the slog, we hear some clops and a tinkle or two, and Wes and the mules catch up with us.
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| Wes and the mules at Trail Lake, ready to flirt! |
He stops to chat. Remember that lady you passed on the trail on the way in? we ask. Well, she told us.....
Wes has a twinkle in his eye, a flirt.
"Gotta mosey on, these two mules are getting antsy", he drawls, and off they set. We soon follow.
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| Mono Pass, 12,000ft, headed to the "outside" |
