Electra loop: Why solo? Risk and control as a mother.

The High Trail dove down to cross the Lyell Fork of the Merced river, and laboured up switchbacks on the other side. I stepped off the trail and headed up river. It was midday, and I'd been charmed up the lower reaches of Lewis Creek with its waterfalls and great rushing waterslides over granite slabs, and inspired by glimpses of the far reaches of the park through the woods of the High Trail that sidled along high above  a deep valley - Red Peak is aptly named. 

Red Peak from the High Trail

But now it was time to turn off cruise control and venture into a seldom travelled part of the park. I'd seen no-one all day (and only 2 hikers the day before), and would see none for another two days.

Why do I venture out solo? Apart from the pragmatic reason of not being able to find a willing and available partner (strangely, my suburban mother acquaintances show little inclination in this direction...), I find myself quite content with my own company. But the real motivation, I believe, is comprised of two elements: risk and control, that I find lacking in my daily humdrum life.

Although I work part-time in a stimulating and rewarding job, my primary responsibilities revolve around motherhood: kids and school and a never-ending cycle of  housework and homework and volunteering and the expectations of being An Upstanding Member of the Community; of saying the correct things at the correct times. But I have never mastered the latter in this country- I lack the ability to gush appropriately in the American-mother style, my Kiwi upbringing leaves me socially adrift and there is a constant feeling of never quite fitting in and of knowing that that will never change. Of course, with this inability to live up to expected standards comes guilt. The mountains, therefore, are my salve and my saviour. A solo trip into these remote regions involves a certain degree of risk. But by eschewing the everyday safe life that is paradoxically so burdensome and fraught with social danger, I find freedom.  Dean Potter, a visionary climber and wingsuit BASE jumper known for pushing the boundaries and taking extreme risks wrote: 'I long to be that free, flying above the cluttered world of normalcy, where so many are half alive'. Sadly, Dean suffered the ultimate consequence of his extreme risk taking, but his words resonate with me.

Many would say that the assumption of unnecessary risk is irresponsible when you are a mother. But what are the risks? Injury, getting lost, difficult terrain, problems with altitude or gear, insufficient fitness, bears, weather, the possibility of death by a billion mosquitoes. The question becomes, how can you minimize them? I would say by extensive preparation and research, by training hard, by the incremental accumulation of backcountry know-how and climbing experience over many years, by the careful selection of equipment, by improving knowledge through navigation and wilderness first aid classes, by carrying a SPOT beacon and letting many people know your plans, by knowing where your risk limits lie (for example, I will scramble up and down third class (steep rock that requires hands) terrain alone, but will not attempt anything more difficult - this is a firm limit for me). When viewed from this perspective, risk become acceptable and liberating.

The second reason I enjoy solo trips is because I am in complete control over all decision-making and therefore assume full responsibility for my actions. Although I love to go venturing off with Al, he often ends up taking the lead by virtue of superior leg length and overall strength (and, truth be told, his 'mountain goat' genes), Not his fault at all, it's just biology. But the fact is that I want to lead, I want to make decisions, I want to be independent. There is a burning desire to prove myself capable. When you're alone, there's no bitching, no resentment, no blame. It's difficult to argue with yourself. You screw up, you deal with it. Simple.

Venturing beyond the confines of established trails increases risk and the need for control. It is constantly challenging: you must always be alert to your surroundings, must always be making navigational decisions, must always be thinking of Plan B and Plan C in case things don't go according to plan despite your best efforts or due to external factors such as weather. There is no plodding along mindlessly. You enter a state of heightened awareness. The pursuit of this mental state is the reason Dean Potter gives for putting himself in harms way, by 'pushing into fear, exhaustion, beauty and the unknown'.

Ultimately, I believe that these experiences, this assumption of risk and the ability to control it, makes me a better mother and wife. My head is clear, I have more patience, more confidence. I take pride in being a strong and independent role model for my daughters.

Lyell Fork of the Merced, Electra Peak and Mt Ansel Adams in center distance

=Looking down the headwall

The Lyell Fork of the Merced presented a range of navigational challenges as I worked my way up to a lake beneath Mt Ansel Adams. There were streams to cross on slippery logs. One attempt was a soggy failure. Meadows and bogs had to be circumvented and lastly a headwall consisting of a maze of cliff bands had to be to negotiated. 

Camp under Mt Ansel Adams.

I made camp under grey skies and watched, mesmerised, as the clouds swirled around the high peaks, lowering to engulf the lake in fog then rising to give tantalising glimpses of the Sierra Crest.

A stormy dinner

Another storm rolled in for

 a repeat performance of 

the previous day. 

Where I'm headed tomorrow....

Self-doubt threatened to overtake me as I contemplated the following day's planned climb of Electra Peak and traverse to the east of the crest. Would I make it? An intense electrical storm at 3 am did not bode well.

Electra loop: Stormy skies

Enormous puddles and damp campers were testament to the previous night's inclement weather. Driving through the Tuolumne Meadows campground en route to the trailhead, I eyed the uniformly leaden skies, confused and unsure. What did they signify? Were they just the remnants of a storm clearing out, or were they harbingers of worse to some? It was humid and still, almost oppressive. The conditions were unlike any I'd seen in the area before. The weather forecast called for 30-40% chance of thunderstorms for the next week; I packed rainpants, storm matches, waterproof stuff sacks.

The first couple of miles climbed gently on a well-used trail to Elizabeth Lake, where the beaten path ended and the adventure began. Retracing the steps of our recent family backpacking trip, I followed the inlet stream  up through open forest and meadows to some unnamed lakes west  of Johnson Peak. Unlike the previous trip, when these jewels had glowed sapphire under the great Sierra Blue, the lakes were pearl grey.

Unnamed lakes near Johnson Peak on the last trip; this time the skies were leaden...

 The sun almost peeked through, and I thought my theory of a passing storm might be correct. A traverse down across slabs and  through forest to the east of Rafferty Peak on a carefully computed compass bearing eventually brought me out to the Rafferty Creek trail just a few minutes from Tuolumne Pass. I congratulated myself on my superior navigation skills. This trail is a backcountry highway leading to the Vogelsang High Sierra Camp, where, for a price you can ride a mule to outfitted tent cabins and enjoyed chef-produced fine food and wine. Maybe in another few decades! Of course, all the necessary provisions have to be transported somehow... and that means mules. I had to jump aside for no fewer than five mule trains and dodge their inevitable unpleasant output in the mile or so up to camp. Curiously, there were no other backpackers to be seen.

During lunch near Vogelsang HSC, the clouds seemed to thicken, and first clap of thunder rumbled around in the nearby high peaks. Time to hurry along. One possible spot for the night was at Vogelsang lake, a mile above the HSC - we had stayed at this gorgeous lake last year on our family trip - but it was exposed and the prospect of a stormy night there in the ultralight shelter wasn't appealing based on previous experience (see "Bad-Ass Mamas Go Peakbagging"). So I hurried along past the lake and climbed gently up across granite slabs and pocket meadows of wildflowers to Vogelsang Pass at 10,800 ft.

Vogelsang Lake from near the pass with Rafferty Peak at rear left. Lots of black clouds...

There the view changed abruptly. Two fat and happy marmots occupied a perfect perch overlooking the Lewis Creek Canyon which headed west below, and the lakes in hanging valleys to the south side, nestled under the highest peaks in Yosemite along the Sierra Crest. Stunning. I wanted to linger, but black clouds roiled and grumbled their warnings. So it was off down the precipitous switchbacks hewn out of the flanks of the canyon to the wooded (and hopefully more sheltered) valley floor. 

Stone steps lead down into Lewis Canyon. Looking towards Bernice Lake and Mt Lyell , the highest point in the park on the Sierra Crest

Upper Lewis Canyon

It started raining on and off, and so around mid-afternoon I saw an appealing campsite on the side of some cliffs through which the river cascaded noisily and decided to call it a day; I was a couple of miles further on that my most optimistic prediction. Getting down to the river was a bit of a scramble, but I was rewarded by views up to several waterfalls....and a patch of wild onions. Fresh greens for dinner! I couldn't help but think of all the climbing potential along the cliffs lining the gorge. What fun it would be to return with gear and partners and explore more thoroughly.

Lewis Canyon camp. How deluxe is that?!

The rain let up enough to get up the shelter (you'd need delusions of grandeur to call the thing a tent), to enjoy a snack of crackers and freeze-died cheddar (yes, seriously - Moon Cheese is da bomb!), and to relax a bit.

If only I'd been prepared to carry the weight of the backcountry beer......

However, I'd barely finished dinner when the heavens opened and all hell broke loose. Hail pelted down and bounced into the shelter while thunder reverberated in the narrow canyon. One blast was so loud that it rattled my teeth, pounded my chest and scared me silly.  If I were inclined to religion, it would have been a good time to pray. As a mere atheist, I could only hunker down and hope. Fortunately, the shelter stayed up and the worst of the storm passed in a couple of hours. I went to bed to flashes of lightning and the sound of thunder rolling around over the pass towards Vogelsang lake. It was a fitful night punctuated by more rain; I burrowed further into my bag and tried to ignore it. Ostrich. Head. Sand.

Electra Loop 2015: Inspiration

Over the winter, I was searching for the summer’s next big challenge, and came across a blog by Leor Pantilat (https://pantilat.wordpress.com/2014/10/15/electra-loop-electra-peak-lyell-fork-merced-river/) which described a loop into a remote area of Yosemite. Phrases like ‘remote and rugged’, ‘amazing view’, ‘chiseled ridgeline’ and ‘spectacular alpine lakes’  leaped from the screen and instantly had me hooked. The loop he described was about 45 miles long, had 10,000 ft of elevation gain and loss, and included a cross-country traverse of the Sierra Divide. This animal covered the distance in 11 hours; I figured five days no worries.

Leor Pantilat’s Electra Loop – from Mile 15-25 is off-trail, but I added in some extra off-trail miles (both planned and unplanned), and did the loop in reverse.

Six months of training and preparation ensued. How light could I make my load and still be safe and partly comfortable? My creaky knees thanked me for every item deemed unnecessary and I even resorted to learning to use a Kindle, a major step for a Luddite like me. After much deliberation, obsessive weighing of every item, and paring down of food (I was once stuck in the Alaskan wilderness for an extra day due to a recalcitrant grizzly bear, and ran out of food. It clearly made a lasting impression as I tend to pack too much ‘just in case’), the final pack weight was a shade under 25 pounds including all gear, clothing, boots, food and water.

 Packed and ready to go.

On the training side of things, the picnic table again became an essential tool, but only when Alistair wasn’t looking – I had previously broken it by walking over it loaded with my pack thousands of times for a previous trip and Al has been forced to rebuild the thing. This time around the rebuilt table remained intact judicious use, and Al’s fearsome wrath was avoided.

With the rest of the family dispatched to various places around the world – Tenaya to Nicaragua on a Girl Scout service trip, Al to Australia on business and Tara to New Zealand to stay with family, I was finally free to go adventuring. Well, not really – technically I was meant to be able to be contacted in case of emergency….. but that was just the small print.

Veitch locations around the world – T1 = Tenaya, T2 = Tara; and you can guess the rest.

The mountains sang their siren song and I succumbed without resistance. As John Muir said: " Mountains are calling my name and I must go".

Bad-ass mamas go peakbagging ....and fail.

On a recent stop at our favourite water hole, Rainbow Pools just outside Yosemite, I was about to clamber up to the top of the Big Rock for the ritual leap, when I was stopped by a young rapper dude. He inquired whether I was planning on jumping off, and so I replied that I was, as was my habit each visit. "Whoa, yo bad-ass mama!" he exclaimed.

The phrase sprang to mind again en route to the high country last weekend. It had been planned as a girls' backpacking trip, by one by one, friends had dropped out and now it was just Leigh and I driving past the same spot. Leigh, of all people, is seriously bad-ass, earning a black belt in Tae Kwon Do **post-kids** among many other accomplishments. And she grew up being dragged off to the mountains by an insanely (mis)-adventurous father to boot. We had been on plenty of Girl Scout-y sorts of trips with the girls, but this was our first time venturing off alone. The plan was for a quickie peak-bagging trip: a hike into Young Lake out of Tuolumne Meadows via Ragged Peak, then a run up to the top of Mt Conness the following day and directly back home. Forecast looked pretty good with only 20% chance of showers, and we were travelling light, borrowing Al's ultralight gear once again. What could possibly go wrong?

'Bad-ass mamas'

We set off from Lembert Dome in the early afternoon under smoky skies courtesy of the enormous forest fire further north near Tahoe. A few puffy white clouds floated around, but nothing too ominous. After a couple of hours, we left the trail, headed up to the saddle below Ragged Peak and dumped our packs to scramble to the pointy top.

Ragged Peak from Young Lake, saddle at the center.

Heading off trail toward the saddle, mid-left skyline. Still blue sky...

At the saddle, back clouds gathering

There was a distant rumble. We pretended it was a passing plane and started on up. There were three more rumbles in close succession. Perhaps we could at least get to the summit ridge and not go on the very pointy bit? There was a flash and immense clap. We ran down tout de suite. Peak No.1; FAIL!

From the saddle, it was a steep drop straight down to lower Young lake which we bypassed in favour of the smaller middle lake.

Lower Young Lake from the saddle, Mt Conness in background

After we had got ourselves sorted out with the ultralight shelter up and were about to get dinner started, the heavens opened and the sound and light show began in earnest. Apparently, all bets on the weather are off in the Sierra Nevada are off this year. We hunkered down in the ultralight 1 person shelter as puddles, then lakes of water formed around it: we had pitched the thing on a typical Sierra campsite consisting on a lovely flat gravel area covering underlying granite slabs. Terrific territory for drainage....right under the shelter!

The ultralight shelter sagging in the rain and hail...

Trying to fit into the 1 person shelter with aid of the space blanket

The rain changed to pinging hail, and so we took the opportunity to retreat under a space blanket that Leigh had had the foresight to bring which we rigged in the trees. It might have be been slightly drier but by that time everything was damp so it was difficult to tell. Certainly, it was quite convenient for doing dishes as the the water poured off directly into the pot. Eventually, Leigh decided that the ultralight shelter might be slightly less damp rigged actually IN the tree, so we got cracking like good girl scouts and did some shelter innovation and possibly improvement. Again, it was hard to tell as everything was wet.

Leigh's cosy 'tree-pitched' shelter

Staying not quite soaked under space blanket tarp

Amid an intense storm, we gave up jumping into each other's laps in fright, and clambered, shivering, into clammy sleeping bags for the night, Leigh in the shelter partially encased in a rubbish bag, and me in the bivy sack under the space blanket canopy. The storm had moved away from our lake basin and was apparently hammering the other side of the ridge - the flashes of lightning were like the end of a 4th of July fireworks display in black and white instead of colour. Strangely, though, we could hear no thunder. It was a cozy night. We both managed to avoid hypothermia (blue foam is remarkably warm to sleep under when soggy down isn't doin' it for you, and rubbish bags work well) and electrocution, so we couldn't complain.

Leigh tweaked my toes at some ungodly hour of the morning and sat up all perky and ready to climb Mt Conness. She really is the Ever-ready bunny in human form. Bad-ass! In contrast, I was feeling groggy and damp. Ugh. Coffee, please. The lighter and stove weren't happy with being abandoned in the storm, but with Leigh's storm matches and some TLC (we love you, stove, we really do), breakfast and a brew were soon going and so were we.

The day improved as we headed up towards Mt Conness, past an unusual body of water that we termed 'Mitochondrial Lake' which featured a very playful coyote.

Mitochondrial Lake

Leigh near the top of the steep climb above Mitochondrial Lake

A steep climb took us up to the 'plateau' next to Mt Conness, where the accumulated night's hail turned to a couple of inches of ordinary snow. It certainly felt icy when the wind blew - a far cry from the intense heat of the last Sierra trip only 3 weeks earlier.

Approaching Mt Conness across snowy plateau

Flower poking up through the snow

We reached the east side of the plateau and were treated to superb views of the Twenty lakes basin area behind Saddlebag lake.

Leigh above the Twenty Lakes basin

The last couple of hundred of feet to the summit of Conness are narrow and exposed  although very well-constructed; I had descended this route before without trouble. However, this time the narrow steps and ledges above large drop-offs were covered in slippery, melting snow, and I was shod in some cheap boots with bad traction (in aid of a dicey ankle) instead of grippy approach shoes. We very carefully climbed about half way up the last section, then I decided that if going up seemed sketchy then going down would be even worse... so we turned around and teetered our way back down along the ridge. Peak No. 2 : FAIL!

Beating a teetering retreat down the slippery summit ridge of Mt Conness

Large face on Conness.

So back down to the soggy gear at camp we trotted and out to the car via a rather tedious trail, as more clouds gathered for the day's storm. It had been a memorable trip: I'd learned a few things, not least of which was the importance of having someone who can keep their chin up when things don't go according to plan....and who can spot you a pair of lacy knickers when yours are soaked! A true friend indeed. Thanks, Leigh, let's do it again sometime. Apart from the cold and wet part.....

Hiker heaven at the VVR....and drought

The Vermilion Valley Resort (VVR) is hiker heaven. Owned and run by Jim, who personally comes out to greet every new arrival, it offers free camping, showers, a range of simple accommodations, a well-stocked store (with an impressive range of beers), a small restaurant  and best of all, the camaraderie of similarly-minded folks.

 The front porch at VVR -usually populated by a grubby looking lot (this was early morning)

Most of the customers are hikers stopping to enter, exit or resupply along the John Muir Trail (JMT), or the much longer Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The latter runs the distance from Mexico to Canada along the mountains, and ‘thru-hikers’ – those who are trying to cover the distance in a season – have a special status at the resort  (including a free beer on arrival) and refer to themselves by their trail name.  These are bestowed on the thru-hiker by another hiker and usually reflect one or more of their characteristics – if you have read ‘Wild’ by Cheryl Strayed, you’ll get the picture. Suffice to say that I had been greeted by one of these specimens, pre-shower, whose trail name was too long to remember (even pre-inebriation).  He showed me his pace-maker and told me that he’d taken up backpacking after a heart attack a few years ago. He thought he wasn’t going to make it all the way this year, but would be back the next unless he died on the trail first, a prospect with which he seemed quite comfortable.

The resort had such an interesting vibe, a mix of international visitors and down home locals. All were invited to linger outside the store and on the restaurant patio and share stories and advice. The standard question was ‘You come north or south?; I had to reply “From the east”, which confounded a few. If you had no cash, no worries, you were invited to wash some dishes to pay your way. The bearded thru-hiker told me he had spent nearly three weeks the previous year doing just that while he was recovering from a dose of Giardia. Jim ran up all expenses on a tab and seemed to instantly know everyone’s names.  At dusk, a campfire was lit and hikers gathered, some almost unrecognizable after a shower. Emotions ran high. Four young Germans were jubilant at having completed their walk from Yosemite in a week, while Gilbert, a Southern Californian in his late 50s had been defeated by the same stretch of trail which had taken him over 3 weeks with a 50 lb plus pack, and was clearly gutted. He had been aiming for the end of the JMT at Mt Whitney, but instead the VVR was the end of the line for him.

All packed up and ready to head home

The following morning, I was truly homeward bound. I rode the resort shuttle with Gilbert and the Germans over the tortuous Kaiser Pass and past the series of hydro lakes built by the Southern Californian Thomas Edison Company. Our driver was a fount of knowledge about the area and she pointed out more evidence of California’s current extreme drought. She told us that ‘The Company’ had been forced to drain Lake Edison down to 4% of capacity - the sign at VVR said it all: ‘If you’re still watering your lawn, don’t complain about the lake levels’.  Jim up at VVR had explained the mysterious operations of the boat taxi in the lack of lake: in fact, they took a truck across the lake bed from the resort a couple of miles to the nearest water and then ran a small shallow draft boat which they managed to wind through channels and portage over a couple of high spots before dropping off or picking up hikers a mile from the end.  While at VVR, I’d seen a party come in with their two pack goats (apparently they each carried a load of 50 lb) wanting a ride down the lake. They were told that the boat could not float with a load of goats (and presumably the portages would be tricky as well).

In the goats' dreams....

VVR were fortunate to have a solid business built up around hikers and was not entirely dependent on the fishermen it also targeted. As we drove down the western slope of the Sierra and into the Central valley, it was clear that many others were not so lucky. Our driver pointed out the empty campgrounds surrounding Shaver Lake, usually overflowing with sailing enthusiasts (presumably meaning empty pockets for local businesses reliant on summer recreationists); a farm run for 50 years by a couple and recently abandoned because their well went dry; the barren fields where huge groves of orange trees had been pulled out, empty now except for the ghosts of irrigation past; further groves of mature fruit trees simply left to die from lack of water. Heartbreak was everywhere. Like a slap in the face, a smattering of enormous new houses with water-guzzling lawns and landscaping consisting of plantings wildly inappropriate for the climate had been built on the foothills outside Fresno. Our driver indicated that there was no regulation of ground water resources in the area – if you were rich enough to have a deep well drilled then you got water, and if you didn’t, then tough luck. Those emerald lawns must have been salt in the wounds of the hurting farmers surrounding them.

From Fresno, I travelled north up the Central valley on the Amtrak and saw life from the train tracks. It mainly consisted of poverty and hardship, people living in abject conditions in what looked like third world shacks. I don’t think this could be entirely blamed on the drought; these workers have always lived a hardscrabble life far from the eyes of the major cities but the impact of the drought on the economy must have hit these people first and hardest. I decided that a tour of the area for the rich of Silicon Valley should be compulsory and resolved to turn off my lawn watering immediately on return.  Let’s hope the rains come this year…

From Stockton, a bus carried me towards the Bay Area and a final train took me to within a few blocks of home. I walked in the front gate at 5:15pm, at the precise moment that Al opened it to see where I was.

A huge thanks to Al for being my partner in crime, and then having the faith to let me venture off on my own. About a decade ago, he gave me a book entitled “Solo: On Her Own Adventure”.  It took a while…..

Curiouser and curiouser.....an odd day on the trail.

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. Back in the meadow, some dawdlers seemed to have been left behind.

Maybe the white one was a unicorn?

I communed with them for a while then decided that a return to my warm bag for further snoozing until the sun hit was the wisest course of action. 

How could I resist such a cozy bed?

An hour later, my dozing was interrupted by whinnying and the clomping of hooves in the near vicinity. Bugger. Fervently wishing that someone would hand me a cup of coffee, I dragged myself up for real as the miscreant equines passed through camp on their way upriver. As I sat sipping a warm brew a while later, the wrangler appeared searching for his missing stock which were duly rounded up and herded off down the trail.

So it was that I ended up following piles of steaming droppings strung out downriver like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. The consolation was that this would be an easy day, about 8 miles mostly downhill on good trails to the head of Lake Edison, where I had arranged to meet a boat taxi at 4 pm to ferry me the remaining 5 miles down the lake to the road. There was no need to hurry. The game plan was to arrive at the ferry pick up a couple of hours early to fit in a swim, some laundry and some well-earned lolling about. So I ambled along, enjoying the aspens, some waterfalls and the bark of the trees in the sun. Simple pleasures.

After a couple of hours, I met up with the John Muir trail (yes, him again), the main ‘highway’ running north-south from Yosemite south to Mt Whitney. After having seen no-one but the wrangler since saying goodbye to Al, it took only about a minute to be overtaken by one hiker. In a mile and a half or so on this trail, I came across half a dozen more people.  Crowds! It was a relief to turn off onto the final stretch of trail leading to the lake.

Fancy sign. Must be the JMT.

I rounded a bend on the trail and got my first view of the lake. Or rather, not of the lake. It didn’t appear to be there any longer. I knew it was a drought year, but how could a huge lake just not be there?

'Lake' Edison

A notice was pinned above the sign for the turn-off to the boat ferry dock. It informed me that to get to the current boat ferry pick-up, I should proceed down the trail a further quarter of a mile and then follow the signs for a mile along the beach. Simple enough. I did as instructed and walked down onto the ‘beach’. This turned out to be a desolate lake bed: there was a hot head wind, loose sand and bleached stumps of long dead trees which had grown before the valley was dammed. 

A pleasant stroll along the 'beach' - not!

In the distance was a stretch of blue that I guessed must be the current lake. I trudged towards it, following a rough trail of footprints.

Finally found the lake....no sign of the boat taxi

Turned out, this easy day had a sting in its tail. I could see no sign of the ferry pick-up at the first puddle of lake I came to, nor was it obvious that this pathetic body of water was even connected to the larger one I could see further along.  Surely, the boat pick up point must be further along. But no, an hour later there was still ferry. After a couple of hours roughly following the lakeshore (underwater according to Al’s view on the SPOT beacon), I surmised that I’d be walking all the way and cut up from the lake shore to try and find the trail that ran the length of the lake. Manzanita and bluffs proved impenetrable, so it was back to the ‘beach’. Out of water, I headed to the lake to refill, only to sink ankle deep in muck before reaching the edge.  I managed to scoop up some highly dubious brown liquid, and sucked it down directly out of the filter.

Lake water - yum.

Finally, in the distance, I spotted the clearly out-of-service boat taxi, a couple of miles from the nearest water, and beyond that, the small cluster of buildings that was the Vermilion Valley Resort. 

The usual boat taxi, high and dry this year.

Half an hour later, I rounded the corner of the main building and was immediately greeted by an grizzled

older man sporting a wild beard and an extremely grubby shirt with worn hiking boots.  “Did you walk here?“, he hollered, “Have a beer!”.  

And this one tasted especially wonderful...