Evolution Range: The Kindness of Strangers

The kindness of strangers

In the voyage of this experience came the realization that sometimes self-reliance is not enough. Sometimes you need to ask for help. I was repeatedly touched by the willingness of strangers to lend a hand, to go above and beyond what was asked for. Often, a small gesture made all the difference. On the JMT, hikers offered water when I’d left the filter with Alistair, food when evacuation was uncertain, and reassurance that news of our predicament would be passed on. They offered dark expresso, sweet milky tea and words of concern.

Some of the food offered by strangers on the JMT. Even though it ended up being a substantial weight to haul out, I was extremely grateful.

After finding Al’s note, I packed up and slowly headed east, a mess of emotions. Tears sprung up, catching me by surprise, the release of tension, perhaps. I was swept by a wave of loneliness not usually suffered on my solo forays. Darwin Canyon was deserted, but its emptiness now seemed oppressive rather than liberating. Lamarck Col loomed insurmountable on that afternoon. I stopped and set up camp, rested and ate, tried to make lemonade out of lemons by enjoying the play of light on the peaks above and the opportunity to read a good novel.  But it was a farce. I felt as brittle as the ice on the lake the morning before. What had happened to Al? Where would he spend the night with no money or identification? Would he be hobbling around Bishop, seeking out a park bench and stale leftovers from Schat’s bakery? My husband, the cripple indigent?

Darwin Canyon reflections: Mt Mendel and Mt Gould.

Suddenly, a voice called ‘hello’, and two backpackers appeared along the side of the lake looking for a campsite. We talked, they asked if I’d like to cook dinner with them: “Your place or ours?” They returned a couple of hours later, Lisa and Kevin from San Diego. Kevin was a gourmet backcountry chef, cooking and dehydrating his own culinary creations. He carefully removed a bay leaf from his shrimp chowder. Lisa was on her first backcountry trip. We watched smoke drift up the canyon from the fires to the west and the setting sun blaze a crimson path across the lake. How did they know that their company was exactly what I needed at that moment? Such kindness, what a blessing.

Smoky sunset in Darwin Canyon.

I was able to repay a little of this kindness as I climbed back over Lamarck Col the next morning. A backpacker was camped in a tiny meadow halfway up, a curious, even desperate spot. It turned out that he had lost his partner the day before when they had become separated coming over the Col. He too had spent a lonely night of uncertainty. As we stood there together, two halves without a partner, there was a distant shout. A tiny figure waved from high above. I continued my ascent and crossed paths with the hiker who turned out to be the lost Chas. He was relieved to hear all was well with Dave below, despite cursing the apparent idiocy of his companion. Mutual insults. They must be good friends, I thought, smiling.

The climb to Lamarck Col from Darwin Canyon

By noon, I was back at the trailhead. Now to locate Al. There was no cell reception in this high, hidden valley, so I started to drive down the one lane gravel road towards Bishop. A mile or so down the hill, after rounding a curve, a Sheriff’s car approached and signaled me to stop. I wound down the window and looked with trepidation into the other vehicle expecting official reproach. Instead, I found my husband. The country Sheriff had driven him all that way out of town to come and find me. The kindness of strangers.

Reunited!

Note:

After we got out, I actually read the small print on our wilderness permit. There was a section on Search and Rescue policy in King's Canyon National Park. It states that "search and rescue actions are conducted on a discretionary basis....[the park] expects visitors to exhibit a high degree of self-reliance and responsibility for their own safety commensurate with the difficulty of their chosen activities". Furthermore "If you chose to carry a hand-held electronic signalling device, be familiar with...its frequency of failure to transmit and do not rely on it to summon emergency personnel." The October issue of 'Backpacker' magazine discussed the issue of these personal locator beacons. The head search and rescue ranger in Grand Canyon National Park, Bill Vandergraff, estimates that only 1 in 25 activations of the distress buttons are legitimate emergencies: "Some people pushed [their emergency beacon's distress] button because the water tasted bad....There was one lady concerned for someone in an adjacent tent who was snoring. She pushed the button at night because she thought he was having breathing difficulties". 'Nuff said. 

Evolution Range: Certainty and uncertainty

In this world of instantaneous communication, we have become accustomed to quick answers to our questions. Never before have we had such power of certainty in so many matters. Want to know the weather forecast? Google it. Need to find out where your daughter is? Just text.  Worried about traffic? Hit Navigation. So many questions in our daily lives so effortlessly answered. Of course, part of the appeal of the backcountry is that we can leave the flip-side demands of this technology far behind us: we can ‘switch off’ from the modern world and find rejuvenation, a process I normally welcome.

But this time the juxtaposition was jarring. Restless in the tent that night, I lay in a swirling sea of uncertainty. Would the beacon work? Al had doubts about his recent renewal of the subscription due to a credit card discrepancy. If it had worked, what form would the emergency response take? Would they send in a helicopter? A ground team? Horses? When?  How would we decide if the beacon hadn’t worked? Should we simultaneously work on a Plan B? A swarm of questions buzzed in the silent sphere of my mind. How to accept that some answers are unknowable?

When dawn came, Al’s ankle had swollen painfully, scotching any ideas of trying to move. It was now a waiting game. After doctoring the patient a little further, I once again ventured down to the JMT with the aim of meeting the French Canadians and possibly locating the ranger. Plan B. A helicopter buzzed overhead, and disappeared beyond the headwall of the valley leading up to Darwin Bench. Was it a rescue chopper, or did it have some other unrelated purpose? There was no way to know for certain. If it was the SAR team, would they wait for me to return?  

Sunrise over a lake on the way down to the JMT, in the valley straight ahead.

Team Quebecois turned up, less enthusiastic about a rescue after hearing of the air traffic (and after climbing the endless switchbacks out of the Evolution Valley). We joked about the possibility of climbing gear being left behind - it was an indication of how badly Al wanted to get himself out that he had considered abandoning his beloved rope, cams and quickdraws to lighten the load.  The prospect of booty to gearless climbers was insufficient enticement, however, and I trudged back up the hill alone.

At the campsite sat a pile of gear with a small yellow note carefully tucked in: ‘Flown out to Bishop. Said you would hike out Lamark. Love, Alistair’. Finally: certainty.

The pile left behind. Al had taken his personal climbing equipment, but had left all the food and shared gear. I would have a  heavier load going out than in

Evolution Range: Decision and Indecision

Ingrained in Alistair and I is a sense of responsibility for oneself. Perhaps it comes from our Kiwi upbringing, a cultural trait of a non-litigious society steeped in pioneer roots, perhaps as a result of absorbing years of ‘old school’ climbing lore.  I don’t know. But being self-reliant is something that we take seriously. So it was in this light that we considered our next actions. First: immediate treatment for shock, a dose of anti-inflammatories, a tape-job to support the ankle. Second: a decision to make for a closer campsite, one that could be reached by butt-scooching down slabs and that avoided the boulder field that has seemed trivial on the ascent but that now loomed as a difficult barrier. Third: relocation of the lower camp to the upper site with its access to a stream for ‘icing’ the injury.

Butt-scooching down the slabs. Our old camp was at the lake on the far right.

'Chillin' out' at the new camp

It was a challenge to move everything up to the new camp in one load.

Immediate needs taken care of, we tried to assess the situation further. We had an SPOT beacon with a big red ‘SOS‘ button that would theoretically alert the authorities. But was it a reasonable and responsible action to call in the cavalry so quickly for a non-life threatening injury? What other options did we have? Could this be considered a ‘walking injury’? With some rest and care, could Al make it out under his own steam? Given the rough route back over Lamarck Col, this seemed unlikely. In fact, the probability for further injury to either Al’s ankle or a new body part appeared high. I doubted my ability to carry two loads on a return trip. 

But to the west lay the Evolution Valley along which wove the John Muir Trail (JMT), a veritable hikers’ superhighway. Al recalled a ranger station there, about 5 miles distant.

The Evolution Valley. The ranger station is at the end of the more distant meadow.

I walked down to seek help only to find the station empty. As requested by the note on the door, I left a detailed message. But what should I write of our plans? After some reflection, I indicated that we would press the ‘SOS’ button on my return.

The empty ranger station. We later found out that the ranger was off fighting the nearby forest fire.

The note somehow found its way to a ranger, we later found out. No idea how!

On the hike back, another possibility presented itself. Four young French-Canadian climbers who were hiking the JMT were keen to assist and offered to come up the following morning and help move Al down from Darwin Bench. From the main trail, it might be possible to fetch a horse from the packers at Muir Trail Ranch. At least there would be plenty of people to help – in comparison, Darwin Bench was virtually deserted.  However, this plan was also fraught with difficulties. The route from Darwin Bench to the JMT was steep and narrow, with a use trail that faded in and out (mis)guided by the occasional cairn.  It was certainly easier than Lamarck Col, but would still present a substantial challenge to Al. Once on the JMT, it was another 15 miles to Muir Trail Ranch, so rescue by horseback would be a lengthy affair. Worse, it would put us out on the wrong side of the mountains, out to the west. We had neglected to bring drivers’ licenses or credit cards or health insurance information. How the heck would we get back to our car on the east? I could always walk back over the mountains, but the prospect of splitting up was not appealing.

Racing back up the hill to reach Al before dark, I was treated to a marvelous view of the Evolution Basin to the south. The Evolution traverse runs along the striking ridges from left to right. 

We sat in the tent pondering and debating, going back and forth and back and forth. A sensible assessment of the injury and limited possibilities for self-rescue seemed to indicate that to press the ‘SOS’ button was the right thing to do, yet it was so difficult to surrender our notion of self-reliance.

Pride stood in the way, a barrier as lofty and impenetrable as the Evolution range itself.  We instead fretted over unnecessarily worrying our nominated emergency contact, Kathy, who would be alerted by SPOT. Surely there was no need to traumatize her or the girls who were in her care? Fingers hovered over the button repeatedly. To push or not to push?  The agony of indecision.  At about 9 pm, a finger hit the button. The light flashed in the night.

Evolution Range: Adventure and Misadventure

The Evolution range extends along the crest of the Sierra Nevada for a dozen or so miles, a massive rampart of granite in a remote and rugged area of Kings Canyon National Park. The range was named by Theodore Solomons who visited in 1895 and wrote: ‘I felt that here was a fraternity of Titans that in their naming should bear in common an august significance. And I could think of none more fitting to confer on it than the great evolutionists, so at one in their devotion to the sublime in nature’.  The centerpiece of the range, with an unmistakable shape, is Mt Darwin, flanked by Mt Mendel (named for Gregor Mendel of the pea experiments fame), Mt Haeckel (after German Ernst Haeckel, who coined many terms in biology - ecology and phylum, for example - and who was a staunch supporter of Darwin’s), Mount Wallace (after Alfred Russell Wallace, who independently came up with the idea of natural selection simultaneously with Darwin), Mount Lamarck (for Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, now remembered for his completely off-the-mark Theory of Inheritance of Acquired Characteristics, but who was actually the first to formulate any theory of evolution), and the unofficially named Mt Gould (after modern evolutionary biologist, Stephen Jay Gould).

Mt Darwin (left) and Mount Mendel (right)

Mountain Mendel (left) and Mount Gould (right)

Trip planning

As a biologist, I consider the theory of evolution as one of the greatest in science. As a climber, the Evolution Traverse, which follows the knife edge ridge line of many of these peaks, seldom falling below 13,000ft, is somewhat of a Holy Grail: an iconic climb made famous by the legendary feats of Peter Croft. Therefore, the idea of venturing into the shadow of these virtual deities, of possibly scaling their divine heights seemed a practically religious experience for an atheist biologist climber. When Alistair suggested this as a destination for our annual Sierra-sans-spawn climbing trip, I hastened to secure permits and child-care. These annual trips had become something planned with eager anticipation; a chance to decompress from family responsibilities and to reconnect with each other. Some couples take a cruise with relaxation and fine dining; we prefer a more active option….

On Thursday evening we set out from the east, bearing minimalist packs, ultralightweight gear and a small collection of climbing equipment. One thing that was not pared down ruthlessly, however, was the first aid kit. While researching and planning our route, I’d felt sick when viewing photos of rugged lofty ridgelines and seas of steep talus. It seemed almost certain that there would be some sort of injury to attend to during 5 days in this terrain – even if only blisters caused by Al’s new-out-of-the-box 5.10 guide tennies– so I had beefed up the medical supplies.

Laboring up the long sandy canyon towards Lamarck Col

After a number of false summits, we finally see the Col.

The route climbs around a permanent icefield to the Col on the left.

Midday on Friday found us atop Lamarck Col at almost 13,000ft, after a strenuous climb up a long sandy canyon and final talus slope. 

Al heading up the final talus slope

An icy wind swept around us as we gazed with awe for the first time down into Darwin Canyon and to Mounts Darwin, Mendel and Gould towering beyond. 

Jewels of lakes strung out along Darwin Canyon

Al at Lamarck Col, entering King' Canyon National Park, Mount Darwin and Mount Mendel in rear

It was a bit nippy....

A sign indicated that we were crossing into King’s Canyon National Park at last. It was a deliciously thrilling moment, with a sense of manifold possibilities before us. A long, rocky descent lead us to the bottom of Darwin Canyon and we clambered past a series of four lakes strung out like precious beads, turquoise and sapphire.  There was an intermittent trail connected by passage over assorted boulder fields and cliffs, but it was a relief to exit the canyon to the easier terrain of Darwin Bench. We eventually set up camp by a lake at the base of the Evolution Traverse, enjoying the splendid location, if not the arctic conditions.

Ice glazed the lake the following morning, marring reflections. Hot water leftover from the necessary coffee ritual froze within minutes. 

It felt good to move our stiff cold bodies up the steep but straightforward beginning of the traverse, to climb toward the kind kiss of the sun.

Moving up easy ground at start of Evolution traverse.

We climbed to the high point visible

A couple of joyous hours later, we reached the top of the ridge and looked down across the Evolution Basin to the west, and along the dragon’s back of the traverse. With delight, I climbed atop a small tower and posed for a photo. 

We enjoyed a snack on our lofty perch. However, this was merely a reconnoiter. We thought it prudent to retreat before encountering any ground that would be too difficult to reverse; our real climbing objective lay on Mt Haeckel further north.

After assiduously avoiding loose rock on the descent, picking our way with great care, we were nearly down. About 400ft above our camp, Al stepped on an innocuous gravel-strewn slab - the most banal of hiking hazards - and slipped. His left ankle gave way with a couple of pops and he collapsed in pain and shock. 

Electra loop - Tipsy in Tuolumne

After an uncomfortable night due to a punctured mattress which resisted all attempts to mend, I set off with a foolproof plan for the day.  According to the map, I needed only to traverse around the ridge separating my lake from Marie Lake to pick up a trail that would take me, via a short stretch south on the John Muir Trail (JMT) and the Rush Creek trail, the 12 miles down to the trailhead at June Lake to the east. There, I could catch a noon shuttle back up to Tuolumne, grab a burger at the Grill, and be home by dinnertime. Providing I started early and hoofed it, what could possibly go wrong?

Let me count the ways:

1. I couldn't find Marie Lake trail. I later realised that there were actually 2 small ridges to traverse - this was indicated by about 3 mm of squiggly lines on the topo map. 

   

   X- campsite; blue dotted line - route down wrong ridge spur the day before; left blue line - the correct ridge to Marie Lake; black line - trail from Marie Lake; red line - JMT, red dotted line  - my route down the drainage; right blue line - Rush Creek trail.

2. I had to descend a off-trail drainage east to intersect JMT. This involved more steep talus and additional bushwhacking through willow thickets. After a few hours, I did eventually locate JMT and was almost overwhelmed by the novelty of a trail: how miraculous to be able to walk along, simply putting one foot in front of the other without thought! 

   

   The novelty of a trail.

3. I couldn't find the Rush Creek trail. Was it to the north or to the south? My black and white home-printed map was too indistinct at this point to be of any help. I walked 1/2 mile north - no Rush Creek trail. I walked back and 1/4 mile further south. I asked a hiker who said he'd talked to some guys to the north who said they are camped at Rush Creek. I retraced steps and ventured further north, up a large hill, eventually coming to the Marie Lake Trail. (lesson: never believe what a guy said some other guys said). At least now I knew that the Rush Creek trail was to the south, but it was a moot point as it was now too late to catch the midday (and last) shuttle. 
4. I had to take the long route out. I decided the only option was to take the JMT the 15 miles back to the car in Tuolumne Meadows across Donohue Pass (yes, more climbing) and along Lyell Canyon.

   

   Donohue Pass

5. The car wouldn't start. After many hours of trudging,
   
   the last few fueled by visions of a huge juicy burger and a mountain of ketchup laden fries
   
   at the Tuolumne Grill, I finally arrived at the car, to find it completely dead. 
6. Neither the ranger's car nor the parks truck could jump start the car. We called for AAA roadside assistance.
7. Help was long in coming. It was late afternoon on July 4th and the nearest working service truck was across Tioga Pass in Lee Vining, about 45 min away.
8. I was inadvertently inebriated. While waiting for the AAA guy to arrive, I sat down to celebrate emerging safely with a glass of wine.....and suddenly was completely pole-axed.  I could only stagger to the back seat of the car and collapse, completely out of it. Realisation slowly dawned that I was actually quite drunk. I had been this sozzled only several times before in my youth, and certainly never as a result of a single glass of wine! It must have been the combination of dehydration, hunger, altitude and exhaustion.

   

   Wine and chips and a broken down car.
   
   

9. There was no juicy burger for dinner. Eventually, my hazy brain realised that I would need to soon drive and that food beyond chips was needed to sober up. The Tuolumne Grill was a) too far away; and b) closed. I pulled out the campstove, boiled up water, and tossed the dregs of remaining food and choked down the resulting unappetising mess of mashed potatoes with freeze dried veggies and old jerky. At this point, I cried. It all seemed too much.
10. I was forced to drive the whole way home non-stop late at night.  The AAA guy eventually arrived and got me started. He suggested driving out of the park to charge up the battery. I decided to camp just outside the park as I was so tired, but the battery warning light was on and did not go off. I kept driving to avoid being really stuck in the woods if I camped and the car wouldn't start the next morning. I battled to cling to a thin thread of consciousness. Fireworks from the small communities across the Central Valley added to the surreal feeling of the drive. So strung out, amidst the late night tide of traffic, I felt utterly alone. This was the most terrifying part of the entire trip.

I made it home at midnight.

Epic journey. 

The end.

Electra loop: Over the top.

As I said previously, one of the consequences of going solo is that you are responsible for your own mistakes. Early in the miraculously clear morning, I managed to grip the pot full of breakfast on an uninsulated section. The oatmeal cascaded down my rock perch. There was nothing for it; I had no extra food. I grabbed my spoon and scooped it up, spitting out the grit. At least it hadn't been the coffee!

This day had loomed large in my mind for many weeks. I would need to climb to the Sierra Crest on the ridge near Electra Peak, scramble to the summit, then descend  and traverse a seldom travelled horseshoe-shaped basin beneath another ridgeline of high peaks, cross North Clinch Pass (involving a section of easy rock climbing) and finally descend to my destination of Marie Lake. It was only 4 miles, but all well above the treeline (there around 10,500 ft) and over rough terrain. I had sought out the few accounts of the traverse, repeatedly studied maps, planned compass bearings that would take me on a connect-the-dot route between ridges, lakes and passes, and tried to estimate times for each 'segment'. Based on an old trip report which described a high traverse of the basin on "well-consolidated talus and slabs", I'd estimated that it would take me 6 or 7 hours. With an early start, I figured I could be safely over North Clinch Pass before the afternoon when the storms had been rolling in. This point was vital: being on the top of an exposed ridge in an electrical storm is not healthy. I'd had this experience before and was keen to avoid a repeat performance. If the weather came in earlier, I'd formulated a Plan B of descending to some lakes lower in the basin for the night, but I worried that the storms could gather out of sight beyond the ridges and roll in quickly, catching me up high. Again, I'd seen it happen before. It all added up to one thing: to minimise risk, I would have to move as fast and as accurately as possible. I shouldered the pack.

Almost 10 hours later, I came to a lake. It wasn't Marie Lake. I collapsed in a grimy, exhausted heap and decided enough was enough.

Starting up the first talus slope bright and early.

More talus up to Electra Peak

Nearly at the Sierra crest ~ 12,000 ft. Ridgeline to Electra Peak

Made it! 12,400 ft. Sadly not even close to half way there....

Electra Peak log - very few other parties and no women...

The basin to traverse, North Clinch Pass between the two triangular peaks in the distance. Do you see any talus?

Forced to drop down to this delightful spot to make the traverse easier

Typical traverse ground....

Scrambling back up to North Clinch Pass. Notice the reported "consolidated talus and slabs" of the high traverse? No, I didn't either.

The way up: third class section of loose crap to top of North Clinch Pass

Top of North Clinch Pass at about 8 hours: break out the Snickers bar (this explains the smile)

Yay! Marie Lake at last

Too bad this is the descent.

I came all the way down there to get to the wrong lake??

[Video taken on arrival omitted due to strong language inappropriate for family viewers]

Life lessons of the day

• Don't assume other people's perceptions are the same as your own: the accounts of the traverse must have been written by Alistair-style mountain goats who bounded across unstable rocks, and not by dodgy-knee teeterers like me.
• All the preparation in the world will not eliminate risk. Embrace this fact and be prepared to roll with the punches: The best map will not tell you everything. Neither will Google Earth. Multiple times, my charted route had cliffs in the way or crossed dangerously steep and unstable slopes, forcing me to reassess and detour (usually down and then up).
• Overwhelming tasks are made manageable by breaking them into small chunks: sometimes these detours caused great dismay, but by setting a series of intermediate targets ('I'll just get to that boulder, then I'll climb down that gully' etc), I was able to avoid frustration and stay calm and focused.
• Sometimes it's really smart to eat an entire Snickers bar in one sitting: yup, when you're really pooped and you're staring at yet another nasty challenge, nothing beats chocolate, caramel and peanuts!
• Be very thankful for the times when you catch a break: I found, in the vast black ocean of talus, a series of delightful grassy ramps and miniature flower-filled meadows that lead most of the way up to North Clinch Pass. Even better, the weather held off and I had blue skies all day. Given the time it took to get across this area, I was extremely lucky not to have been caught out there in a storm. Things could have gone bad, fast.....
• You're not necessarily lost if you arrive at the wrong destination. I had taken the wrong spur down a ridge and ended up at a lake on the other side of the ridge from Marie Lake. I was in the wrong place, but I knew where that was.
• Running the commonsense app on the I-brain will get you far; it's possibly the most important tool you can have.

In the end, I was incredibly grateful to have experienced this day, with all its trials and tribulations.

Life is learning.