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.

Out of the dark....

Two pairs of feet dangling in the thin air of the void. Two pairs of hands clasping wraps of salami and cheese. A sublime view, the best company. Alistair and I enjoyed lunch on a sundrenched aerie near the top of Mount Crocker on the divide between Pioneer Basin and McGee Creek. After a strenuous day and half, we had reached our own private Nirvana. For that fleeting half hour, all worries and concerns subsided;  the outside world cease to exist. All was light and happiness. But what is light and happiness without dark and misery?

It all started, really, with the decision at a wedding. For the first time since the birth of our two children, Alistair and I had enlisted grandparental babysitting services to attend the nuptials of a friend, one of the boys. I was 39 and it had been a rough decade. Simultaneous child-bearing and a long distance, protracted farewell to my mother had not been kind. I was overweight and out of shape. The wife of one of the other boys was off running every morning, through the rainforest by the wild beach. ‘If her, why not me?’ I asked myself. A year later and 60 pounds lighter, I launched myself into strenuous activity with the evangelistic fervor of the newly fit.  Climb harder, keep up with the boys, run those trails, outdo the young crowd at boot camp. I’d never thought of myself as athletic; with each success, the hubris grew, and how I defined myself, how I differentiated myself from all those other mothers, morphed until this pseudo hard-core persona was a huge part of my identity. But as we all know, pride cometh before fall.

The day before, we had started from Mosquito Flat, the highest trailhead in the Sierra  at 10,200ft and quickly shed the inevitable crowds by climbing towards Mono Pass. The snow across the 12,100 ft pass demanded attention but our micro spikes stayed in the pack. Likewise, the much discussed river crossing didn’t even require the removal of boots. After a steep descent into the Mono Valley, a final climb led us up into the Pioneer basin and to a lakeside campsite. The picturesque bowl of lakes surrounded by granite ramparts appeared deserted apart from Naked Swimming Man and the inevitable squadrons of mosquitoes. We gagged down a rather subpar melange of odd ingredients for dinner but relished the light play of the stormy sunset over the Mono recesses on the other side of the Mono Valley.

I blithely ignored the first ominous signs, a discomfort in the wrists, and kept obsessively doing push-ups and climbing harder and harder routes. When I finally bought my first real road bike, I charged up our local mountain giving no thought to the descent. Sitting like a sack of potatoes on my bike, I braked furiously down the precipitous hairpins. Perhaps it was the straw that broke the camels’ back. My forearms flared in pain. Ice, ibuprofen, splints, doctors, and finally a hand specialist’s advice: give up climbing. “I’d rather cut off my left leg”, I responded and continued despite the pain.

The Pioneer basin revealed itself shyly. The terrain was more convoluted than it had first appeared. We had decided to make for the ridge at the back of the basin, and possibly follow that along to Mount Crocker. It seemed a simple matter of following the chain of lakes upper valley and scrambling to the top of the ridge. Cliff bound lakeshores and hidden snowfields forced us to take an unpredictable route, a rather drunken stumble of the trail, that eventually led to the ridgeline and an astounding view into the McGee Creek drainage, surrounded by ancient red colored peaks, a striking change in geology from our granite perch. Easy walking and scrambling took us to our lunch rock. Alistair tackled the sturdier climb to Mt Crocker’s summit while I was content to rest and soak in the lofty magnificence.

Hidden meadows in Pioneer Basin

Al on the ridge between Pioneer Basin and McGee Creek, Mt Crocker at rear.
Note the change from granite to red volcanic rock across the divide.

‘Thoracic outlet syndrome is a bitch,a creeping, conniving, insidious bitch that takes away your life in a slow inexorable fashion’. My thoughts lingered there as nerve pain seared my arms, unassuaged by any over-the-counter medication. Opiates beckoned, but I resisted that slippery slope. Despite a near constant battle of every therapy or exercise people could think of, I was forced to drop activities that I enjoyed like so many precious packages off the back of a moving truck. Climbing, of course. The grieving took years. Then cycling, gardening, any kind of craft. Pieces of my identity, abandoned. Even mundane activities became a challenge - driving, cooking, shopping, housework, holding a book to read.  A TOI specialist pronounced my case a mild one when I told him that I was not bedridden. He shook his head on hearing my various exploits and adventures. “You are a classic case - this typically afflicts middle-aged A-type women”.

After returning to our camp for a quick restorative nap, we packed up and headed down into the Mono Valley. A fortuitously positioned campsite was available;  at 9887 feet, it just squeaked in below the 10,000 foot limit for campfires. We ate a terrifyingly greasy and salty meal of hashbrowns, eggs and bacon which was the most wonderful food on earth, and relaxed weary legs in front of the fire. Even the mosquitoes were at bay.  Life was good.

February 2017.  A fifth round of physical therapy seem to be helping, perhaps worth the expense and aggravation of the weekly battle up the 101. But after a trip to Yosemite involving snowshoeing with poles followed by driving home flared the TOS to even greater heights, black thoughts swirled. I had defined myself in large part by the activities I’d been forced to drop, but still had the promise of a backpacking adventure in the mountains to look forward to. But now that was even in doubt - if I couldn’t hold my trekking poles and I couldn’t drive, where would I go from there? What lay in the future? How much lower would I go? I just couldn’t see forward. Do life's lessons of humility need to be so harsh?

Intuition told me that a summer in the mountains would make things better, that mountains feed the soul and heal. Arriving in Mammoth Lakes in June, I resolved the battle again, to try harder.  I found a new physical therapist, worked feverishly on my exercises, walked as much as possible. Every day, the mountains beckoned and restored. Silicon Valley stress fell off my shoulders. The pain abated. I rode my bike, not far, but the freedom and the beauty of the rides lifted my spirits. I climbed - just one pitch at first, but finally three or four. Not an impressive amount by most standards, but I was beyond delighted. Finally, I was ready to tackle Mono Pass, hiking poles at the ready.

The return climb to Mono Pass seemed tough on a tired body. I moved slowly, one step at a time. Trudging forward, not backwards, climbing up and up. In that bleak, desolate pass, I could at last see forward. There was a future….. and it was here.

One of the Boys

Blurry eyed, early morning daze, hurried movement in the black before dawn.

Surreal drive up deserted road, winding snake-like past jagged peaks.

The car is full. Four warm bodies but only engine noise; a coffin hurtling upwards.

At the trailhead, strong joe and low grunts. Oatmeal stirred, spilled, shared.

Packs on, ropes coiled on to backs, sinuous and choking like rata vines, securing and binding.

World defined only by jumping pools of light on rocky trail, by ragged breath, by the dissonant clanging of gear penduluming from hips stride by stride, by sharp air redolent of pine and dust.

Doubt breeds, multiplies in those crystalline, jerky moments frozen in time for future retrieval.

The peak ahead, a dragon’s spine. Weather forecast ominous.

Doubt once more. The boys. Always the boys. Yet here I am, a substitute, only X chromosomes to offer. Can I keep up? Can I pull my weight? Can I be one of the boys? The sour taste of doubt.

Imperceptibly black turns deep blue that morphs, eventually, to the optimism of sunrise.

Later, we climb. Rock cold but warming to our fingers. Rough granite under Sierra blue.

Concentration, mind razor sharp, breathe deep the pool of thin air.

Kinesthetic pleasure of movement, moments of laughter, brief repose at belays.

The boys strung out along the knife edge like Christmas lights, bound by the thread of friendship, of shared mountain experience.

White cotton in the sky turns black, ominous rumbles encroach, playful puffs turn to malevolent gusts.

Rapid retreat, recalled only in sensations, brief glimpses. Chilled hands grasping wet ropes, fumbling, checking and rechecking. Deafening crashes, brilliant flashes.

Doubt. Banished by necessity. No choice now but calm in the wild frenzy. Unroped on slick rock. Do.Not.Fall.

Finally, safety, reunion, a pause to chew on sawdust sustenance, visions of hot culinary delights awaiting.

We trudge damply to the car, spirits high in companionship. The boys.

Alive, alive, alive.

****************************************************************************

Years of abuse and bad anatomical luck banish climbing with unexpected rapidity. Cruel injury, insidious, undiagnosable.

The mind’s darkness threatens.  Memory both fights and fuels the black.

Such vivid fragments remembered: of life on edge, of sounds, smells, taste, touch, of the boys.

These sustain me in the gloom, but also reawaken overwhelming visceral desire. The need to repeat, to capture new memories, to live so brightly in an instant.

How to find equaminity? I am still searching.

Mules, mountains, and a mystery solved

“Bells. Chiming. Church bells? Whaaaat? Though the haze of sleep I opened one bleary eye, wiggled my head out of my sleeping bag cocoon and looked around. There appeared to be a large blob standing a few meters away. Cow bells? I searched around for my glasses to get a better view. Horse. Correction, horses. And in the meadow, a wrangler clanging a bell. It was Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Or was I dreaming? I glanced at my watch. 6am. Ugh. Where the hell had this lot materialised from at this time of the morning? I clambered out and went over to say ‘Howdy pardner’, but by the time I stumbled over there, the wrangler was collecting up his train and moseying on down the trail.” 

-Curiouser and Curiouser: An Odd Day on the Trail. 9-14-2014. https://dallassierraadventure.blogspot.com/2014/09/curiouser-and-curiouseran-odd-day-on.html

This episode from a solo trip three years ago had always puzzled me. Why were there bells? Why were there horses?  As Tenaya, Tara and I set off in the early morning for the Rock Creek Pack Station (http://www.rockcreekpackstation.com/), I never suspected that the answer would be found amidst the peaks of the Hilton Lakes drainage, the destination for our first pack trip.

The idea from trip stemmed equally from a desire to take my daughters into the wilderness, and from their reluctance, nay, outright refusal, to continue our long-standing tradition of family backpacking. That would involve walking. Why not consider getting into the wilderness by other means? The girls had enjoyed shorter horse trail rides (I had tolerated them; Alistair had completely refused to sit in a saddle), and were totally won over by the idea of a longer trip, especially the prospect of fabulous meals as opposed to the usual minimalist backpacking fare. And did I mention not having to walk? It was all enough to make up for the early start.

.

At 7 AM  the Rock Creek Pack Station was a hive of activity. Guests were arriving by the car load, clad in outdoorsy clothes and unloading mountains of gear.  A manure scent clung to the still air. What first appeared to be a melee in a large, dusty corral resolved into packers in cowboy attire loading mules and saddling horses. Their obvious competence intimidated me; it was far beyond my realm of experience and I felt utterly inadequate. The idea of heading into the backcountry totally reliant on others’ expertise was disconcerting.

Packers at work loading mules at the Rock Creek Pack Station

To my relief, out of the chaos emerged a strong, weatherworn older woman with kind eyes and sandy braid who introduced herself as Patty, our cook. We learned that several groups were leaving at the same time, and that there would be three families on our Parent Child trip. Over a tasty breakfast of French toast, ham, fruit and strong coffee, we met the team: 14-year-old Andre with his grandparents Patrick and Charlotte from Redwood City, and six-year-old Gwen with her mom Brecken, from Altadena (“near Pasadena”). Accompanying us would be Patty, and packers Joe and Yuki.

Patty directs proceedings at the Pack Station

Eventually we were mounted on our horses and making our way along the dusty trail to Hilton Lakes led by Patty. 

On the trail

Tenaya and Tip

Tara and Levi

A 10:30 AM ‘lunch break’ was a welcome opportunity to not sit on the horse. I had concluded that my knock knees were entirely the wrong shape for any semblance of comfort in the saddle and vied with Charlotte to be the last person mounted again: ‘Last on, least pain’. 

Looking back up Rock Creek Canyon to Bear Creek Spire

"Lunch"

The ride was mercifully short, and after a brief wrong turn ending in the excitement of fording a small stream, we arrived at camp pleasantly situated in a broad swath of forest on the shore of the second Hilton Lake. 

The party crossing the stream

Soon tents were up, the outdoor kitchen was established, and camp chairs circled a gas ‘fire pit’. Around this ersatz campfire, in that comfortable and companionable space after dinner and before bed, friendships were forged, memories made, and mysteries solved.

The Hilton Lakes Valley has all of the grandeur of the neighboring Little Lakes Valley with its own string of jewellike lakes dominated by the towering Mount Huntington…. but a fraction of the people. We set out to explore the valley on the second day with a group, including Tenaya and Tara, heading out on horseback to the third lake, and then on foot to the fourth Lake. I opted to trot along behind on my own two legs and then go gallivanting crosscountry on a quest to find Lakes 5 to 7. There really is nothing that I enjoy more than following my nose to discover high and beautiful places in the mountains. It was glorious.

Early morning at camp with Mount Huntington

At the third Hilton Lake

The girls and I at the third Hilton Lake

Iceberg in the fifth Hilton Lake

Flowers line the sixth Hilton Lake

Back at camp, conversations ebbed and flowed between clients and staff in small groups that, in the late afternoon, coalesced around the makeshift kitchen where Patty held court, the sun to all our planets. The girls warmed to her friendly down-to-earth style born of the myriad of jobs she had held and experiences that she had had, many of them in the great outdoors. “You don’t need to go to college”, she told them, “I’m a great fan of technical education, you can go a long way in a trade”. They listened and I rejoiced. Never once in their privileged Silicon Valley upbringing had they received this message. Patty opened their minds and won my heart in a single simple statement.

Patty in her element - serving delicious food and dispensing sage advice

I was fascinated to hear Patty’s stories of her time spent in the mountains on horse trips like this. As a backpacker/climber, I was no doubt biased in as self-righteous sort of way towards self-propelled exploration and adventure.  My recent forays using the most modern, ultralight gear underscored this ethic. We had been given a baggage allowance of 35 pounds yet could barely get to 15 with my tiny sleeping pad and 800 fill down bag. In contrast, Patty rolled out a bedroll that weighed about 25 pounds. The girls and I were clad in convertible pants and mosquito proof shirts of quick drying fabric, high-tech layers with names like ‘Nanopuff’ and ‘Ghostwhisperer’. Patty wore jeans, a checked shirt and broad brim hat. Not a North Face or Patagonia label in sight. Yet I sensed a kindred spirit in her love of a rough backcountry life, and in the freedom and joy experienced in roaming the mountains.

L to R: Joe, Yuki, Andre, Patrick, and Charlotte gather around our 'fireplace'

   

At the end of the day, after the horses had been watered and fed and other chores attended to, Joe and Yuki quietly joined the circle. Joe, lanky and fair, had long been a mule packer; Yuki, a sturdy Japanese-American, was on his first trip after a lengthy spell in the Marines. Joe had studied cattle nutrition at college; Yuki was preparing for a degree in natural resource management and aspired to become a Park Ranger. Both were understated but good-natured: they were willing to be drawn out after initial reticence.

Joe tethers one of the mules

From Joe, we learned about the life of a mule packer. The predawn starts, the long, strenuous days, the nights spent under the stars with their stock, the rhythm of life not much changed in a century. Sometimes weeks at a time on the trail, beyond the reach of the electronic leash that tethers too many of us today. Winters spent earning money to supplement the hard-working, hard living summers. The excitement of the Bishop, CA Mule Days held in May, when contenders from the surrounding pack outfits came to compete in a variety of seemingly outrageous events….. and how even this had become almost mainstream: “Even Berkeley has a mule packing team now”. We learned that mules were definitely smarter than horses, would harbor a grudge for months yet were loyal to their rider. We learned that there was always only one mare on the pack trip, the bell mare, that was unequivocally the boss, and that all other mules were jacks that would follow the sound of bell around the mare’s neck. We also learned that the jacks could be tricked into coming to the sound of the same bell in the packer’s hand.

A thought occurred to me, and I asked Joe whether pack trips ran down the Mono Valley and explained my experience a few years ago. He told me that it was a common route, and that parties often camped upstream while the packers drove the mules downstream to graze in a meadow near the second Mono Recess, the exact spot at which I had camped. Mystery solved.

Evening campfire

In the fireside discussion that night, Charlotte, a poet, posited the importance of poetry in our lives and asked whether anyone had anything to recite. A number of us squirmed uncomfortably…but Joe shyly offered up some cowboy poetry entitled ‘The Bell Mare’. It reminded him, he said, of the bell mare he had once had: cranky, old, nothing much to look at, but always reliable, and of how much he had loved her.

In the introspective silence that followed, I realized that Charlotte was right, that I was ignorant, that my view of what constituted a ‘Sierra adventurer’ had been blinkered and narrow. This trip had been intended as backcountry therapy for my daughters; I was just along for the ride, so to speak. Tenaya and Tara loved the experience, but I returned feeling as if, in this collision of the parallel universes of backpacking and horse packing, my world, too, had expanded.

Thank you, Patty, Joe and Yuki.

The Bell Mare – Bruce Kiskaddon

She was nothin' much to look at, that there old fleabitten gray.

She'd a cranky disposition, but you liked her any way.

Wasn't big nor wasn't little, wasn't no particular breed,

But you kep her fer a bell mare 'cause she always took the lead.

When you had to work rough country where a wagon couldn't go;

Climbin' up onto the mesa with yore pack train movin' slow.

Through the pinnacles and ledges they would foller where she led,

It was good to hear the jingle of the bell mare up ahead.

In the swampy river bottoms, in the early mornin' hush;

When you started out to wrangle in the fog and in the brush;

If you once could git the bell mare why the rest was easy found,

And yore horse would chomp the bridle while you listened fer the sound.

'Round the campfire in the evenin' when they had big yarns to tell,

Faint and dim off in the distance come the jingle of the bell.

Or a driftin' down a canyon when the sun was blazin' hot,

How she kep the bell a ringin' to her steady even trot.

Years have gone, there's been big changes, but sometimes when yore alone.

Some sound you didn't notice, makes you recollect the tone.

And it starts your memory driftin' till at last you feel the spell.

Of the country where you wrangled, and the jingle of the bell.

When things go right: Ansel Adams Wilderness

Sometimes nothing needs to go wrong to make a backcountry trip memorable; sometimes things just need to go right.

Increasingly disillusioned with the competitive savagery overlaid with a veneer of civility that is Silicon Valley, my family and I decamped and moved to Mammoth Lakes, a resort town in the heart of the Sierra Nevada, for two months over the summer. We had few plans - a rented house, a couple of trips aimed at dragging recalcitrant electronic-addicted teenagers into the wilderness by different means, and a permit for Girl Scout backpacking trip into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. The rest, we’d wing. This approach flew directly in the face of all my Type A organizational instincts, a major step outside my comfort zone. Nevertheless, I plotted and planned and researched and prepared for months in advance to ensure a smooth transition to our new mountain abode.

From the start of summer, what could go wrong, did go wrong. Plan A turned into Plan B, C, D, even E…. over and over and over. To start with, the previous winter had dumped record amounts of snow across the Sierra Nevada. They were living up to their name. Just getting to Mammoth was a challenge with uncertainty as to whether passes would open and whether our new electric car would have sufficient range to surmount the 10,000ft passes. Plans changed daily as the stress levels ratcheted up. A last-minute requirement to attend a US citizenship ceremony after our planned departure date threw a further wrench in the works. On eventual arrival came the discovery that Mammoth Lakes did not have mail delivery, so the carefully organized USPS mail forwarding was quite useless, initiating a continuing mail snafu. On the first night in our rented house, the teens cooking on an unfamiliar gas stove managed to flame out the control panel rendering the oven unusable. Shortly thereafter our ‘new’ SUV suffered transmission failure and was declared kaput. My older daughter turned 16 and  easily picked up a job, but the obtaining the required work permit proved a far greater challenge.  One headache followed another and our first weeks in Mammoth were fraught with tension.

Still, I had the Girl Scout backpacking trip to the Ansel Adams wilderness to look forward to. I had mapped out a route six months earlier suitable for all levels and had enthusiastically (‘We’ll exit lower than we enter!!”) rounded up a group of ten to share in the adventure. What could go wrong? One by one, group members dropped out for assorted reasons - a baby shower, housesitting obligations.  My younger daughter declared in no uncertain terms that SHE was NOT walking ANYWHERE. A week before the trip, we were down to four. The nail in the coffin was the fact that the road to the trailhead was still closed due to winter damage and our exit trail was closed until September due to dangerously high waters in the aptly named Rush Creek. Everyone else dropped out. It would be an unanticipated solo trip.

I was bedeviled by a slew of unanswered questions. How much snow was on the passes? Were crampons needed? Which lakes had thawed? Were the rivers safe to cross? Could I get to the trailhead on my road bike? It was four miles from Mammoth Mountain over Minaret Pass and down to Agnew Meadows which seemed doable on the way in, but could I ride back up the steep road at altitude carrying a pack? I scoured the Sierra hiking forums for news and pumped the rangers for information….which unsatisfactorily ambiguous results.

“Mum, they have opened the road to Minaret Pass!” This welcome fact, gleaned from Facebook by my younger daughter the day before departure, was a turning point. It cut the approach to the trailhead virtually in half.  Alistair dropped me off at the pass the next morning, to my great relief, sans bike. 

From Minaret Vista, the iconic view of Ansel Adams wilderness to the west featured a dominating backdrop of the jagged Minaret Range, a volcanic ridge in the mid-distance above Yosemite like granite cliffs, the San Joaquin River Valley, and finally the eastern San Joaquin Ridge. 

Dusk from the Minaret Overlook: two daughters and a row of minarets.

Trip route: Day 1 - Yellow, Day 2 - Purple, Day 3 - Red

The area was a cornucopia of hidden lakes, splendid views, towering spires, lush gardens….. and above all, the summer especially, water: rivers, streams, brooks, rivulets, waterfalls, cascades. The area was bathed in the music of water flowing. The tinkling drips of melting snow, the chattering of exuberant streams, the deep roaring waterfalls exploding through tight chasms, and the sibilant San Joaquin gliding inexorably down the valley. To drought parched ears, it was a welcome symphony, constantly changing depending on position, always delighting.

Water, water everywhere.

Granite faces above the San Joaquin Valley, looking south to Mammoth Mountain

And indeed, I moved through this veritable Shangri-La in the state of delight and wonder. Each turn brought new treasures. The cheerful company of a group of women from Sacramento headed toward the trailhead to walk a loop approximately opposite to my own, and our fortuitous reunion at the apex of the loop, the women extolling the virtues of the Pacific Crest Trail running high above the valley and causing me to change my plans for the better. Shadow Creek thundering down its narrow precipitous drop into the valley, topped by Shadow Lake, and further up Ediza Lake, still mostly frozen, nestled in a basin beneath the Minarets and Mount Banner and Mount Ritter. 

Shadow Lake

The approach to Lake Ediza had some tricky routefinding

Lake Ediza emerging from the lingering grip of winter, below the Minarets

On the trail beneath Mt Ritter (L) and Mt Banner (R), the local giants.

A campsite perched on a granite bench favoring sunset over the range with glorious alpenglow. The arrival of evening neighbors, young Stanford neuroscientists (mostly), unexpectedly a source of lively and stimulating conversation. 

My friendly neuroscientist neighbours. My campsite was on the ledge behind the centre pine tree.

The coincidental arrival of the same group just down from the second campsite atop cliffs of basalt columns with killer views across the San Joaquin River to the west, and an invitation to share a mosquito repelling fire. 

Warding off the mosquitoes looking west to the Minaret range from the Pacific Crest Trail. 

Starry, starry night

Garnet Lake and Thousand Island Lake, progressively and paradoxically both more thawed and at higher elevation. Passes, snowbound yet softening in the Sierra sun, yielding to careful footsteps.

Garnet Lake and Mt Banner

Thousand Island Lake and Mt Banner

 Bright, verdant meadows, embracing sparkling streams, cascading down the steep slopes.

Meadows along the PCT on the San Joaquin Ridge

Lilies

 The kind couple who provided a lift from Minaret Vista to my front door after the slog back up the road at the end of the trip.

The irony was that I was unable to record any of these marvels on film, having accidentally left my phone (camera) behind. Somehow, freed from the pervasive pressure to photograph, I was able to truly see, to perceive, to deeply imprint memories of sights, sounds and sensations. 

Yes, this was a trip on which everything went right.

Looking pretty happy at the end.

Note: the photographs were very kindly provided by Arnold and Aparna, my Stanford neighbors. We traveled almost identical trails about one hour apart!