Year of the Lemming

As I headed up the valley floor toward Pinchot Pass, I had no idea that I was already well into the routine which would rule my life for the next segment. I climbed into the snow field bowl before Pinchot feeling intimidated to be tackling these giants alone. I was comforted to hear other hikers calling to one another and trying to dodge between the few plots of solid ground. From these rocky vantage points we could assess the best approach to the pass. One tiny dot of a figure waded through the snow, often disappearing to his waist. Eventually four of us gathered on a rocky outcropping at the foot of the pass. I recognized Green Tortuga (now clothed), and met Hurricane and Shanghai. Each of us gathered our inner reserves and charged up the snow bank to the pass. According to my notes Forester Pass was 'intimidating', Glen Pass was 'challenging'. I labeled Pinchot 'irritating'. We enjoyed the vistas for a few moments and took the advantage of the view to consult maps and place our best navi-guesses as to where the trail would be coming out of the snowy mess.

A few miles later Green Tortuga and I began to see signs of switchbacks and soon the snow patches gave way to definite trail. Thrilled to be on a surface on which we could actually move at a reasonable speed, we made our way down to yet another canyon floor, edged our way through the enthusiastic North Fork King's River and on up the next canyon. That night the two of us cowboyed just at the hem of the snowy skirt of Mather Pass. As the sky passed into dusk and we cooked our dinners, Green Tortuga recited the Ballad of Blasphemous Bill to the delight of myself and that austere landscape in which we had made camp.
Early the next morning we headed up the 'frightening' pass. It was certainly the most treacherous pass yet. The ascent climbed at an angle up a sheet of snow which blanketed the mountains at probably something like a 30 degree angle. We carefully tread in the footsteps left by those who passed before. Honestly, I have been doing that a lot. Even when I stood at the top of the pass and consulted my maps I knew that when I dropped into the next basin I would be more likely to follow the footsteps rather than make my own. There is some strange comfort in knowing that whatever you do, someone else has been there too. Whether I would follow them over a cliff was still left to be seen.

From Mather we were again rewarded by a beautiful and secluded run down yet another tree clad canyon. As Tortuga and I moved I enjoyed the smells, shade, and flowers. Less pleasant were the mosquitoes. We spent the afternoon labouring up toward Muir Pass, the last of the 1200 ft. passes. We camped in a grove of trees just before the earnest part of the ascent. I reviewed my maps and found that we had done some 20 miles that day, really a rather significant accomplishment for the Sierras; this year in particular.

I awoke the next morning and felt all the previous miles weighing heavily on my body. I was exhausted and had many miles yet to cover. By 7:20 am we were on yet another seemingly endless fields of white; I stood on a snow bank looking across 20 feet of flowing water at even more snow. I choked back tears of frustration. Truly, what option did I have but to show those relentless slopes what I was made of. Tortuga and I encountered another group of hikers. Curly was moving along with the Kiwi Klan and we all ended up closely navigating the confusing complex of canyons. My notes call Muir Pass 'navigationally challenging' and I was immensely grateful to be moving with a group. As we came to the foot of the pass we congregated on yet another rocky island. Wika suddenly called, "oy, everyone, Dave is up to his neck." I turned around and sure enough one of the older fellows had been swallowed whole by a post hole along a rock's edge. Only his head popped out of the snow, looking around. His team dug him out and we all arrived at the Muir Hut just after mid morning. The small stone cottage sat nestled in the middle of the pass, offering shelter for those caught in poor weather. Fortunately we were blessed with wonderful weather and I wandered out around the hut taking photographs and greeting the various local residents. A marmot squeaked at me, trying to look cute enough to earn food. A tiny kangaroo mouse bounded across the snow and stood outside his hole, peering at me as I peered across the cirque bowl containing Wanda Lake. On our ascent we had passed Helen Lake; each named for Muir's daughters. I wondered whether there had been any sibling rivalry regarding the fact that Wanda's Lake was twice the size as Helen's.

In the end we spent nearly nine miles on solid snow over the course of that path. By the time we hit actual trail again we were so exhausted that we didn't even care that Evolution Creek had swollen over her banks and encroached on the trail space. We slogged along and made camp just before the crossing of Evolution Creek. This was an intentional plan because we both knew that rivers are always lower and easier to pass in the morning...right?