Sirens of the Middle Fork River

Knowing that a mere 11 miles stood between myself and a potential swimming spot, I was packed and headed out quickly the next morning; despite some stiff legs. As I descended through the trees I had to focus on staying in the moment and enjoying myself rather than getting fixated on the fact that I knew that every foot of elevation I dropped meant having to climb back up once on the other side. The river was at the bottom of a gorge and just past several delicious, icy cold springs. As we descended we passed a trail crew working diligently on the trail, as their dogs played overseer and watched from a comfortable looking spot in the shade. I thanked them for their work and took a moment to greet the dogs before scuttling on. I listened as the sound of rushing water became ever closer. Eventually the bridge came into sight. The heavy metal frame had been helicoptered in to where is sits now between two rock banks some 40 feet above the river itself. A truly impressive feat! Descending over a talus pile I found my way down to the water's banks and began assessing my swimming hole options even as I took my shoes off.The water was at a perfect level to be played in. It was still high enough to be flowing through plenty of side pockets, spilling from one into the next, creating perfect pockets of rock where you could rest your shoulders and allow the pummeling water massage sore hiker muscles. Then there was the center of the river where a good current ran. Moving quickly, I could make it out to a barely submerged rock and hop into the current, allowing it to carry me out into the middle of an open pool. As I floated in the calm eddies along the side I looked up the canyon walls and reveled in the moment. "You probably can't find a view like this in very many swimming pools," I thought.On the rocks along the opposite bank I first saw Gin. She had just ridden down a length of rapids on an inner tube and was tucked up onto the rock wall. I thought it unusual to see non hikers out in this area but, as always, I think its pretty rad to encounter other folk who like to come celebrate these sorts of awesome spots. I swam over and began to chat with Gin and her boy Joey. Then Liz came out to our small mooring point. We were still trying to put together one another's stories and I was still trying to figure out how all these folks had come together and ended up at such an awesome spot. Two chocolate labs began bounding about, swimming and battling over fetching sticks. Seeing all the humans localized, they flopped into the current and swam out to share our perch. Finally Kim came down the river on an inner tube, having just returned from a toiletries bag rescue mission some distance up stream. Now the story came clear, I was sharing a rock with three stunning sisters and one very lucky boyfriend. We enjoyed the sun warmed rock and I told my hiking story as Gin explored potential spots on the rock from which to jump. I decided this was a good idea and, in the spirit of showing off, went to launch myself into a deep pool. My foot slipped and I pretty much just fell in. Ah the subtle reminders...We sat and chatted some more as they told of having come down to this river since they were wee; the youngest having been carried out in a baby carrier by her mother. With every move the girls demonstrated an easy comfort with the water itself. Understanding the eddies and twists in the river wall with such ease; I was impressed. At this moment the Queen of the Middle Fork appeared, floating down the current in a large tube, with a coffee mug holder in the side. It was her perfect throne. She drifted about lackadaisically, manipulating through the eddies and pools effortlessly. Somehow she caused her tube to drift upstream without any effort.Eventually I crossed back over to my side and picked up pack. Rif-Raf and I climbed over the bridge and dropped down to the girls' campspot. Man, they knew how to do it right. As they explained, they only had about a one mile walk in to that spot, but they had to carry everything on their backs, and jeez luise, those packs couldn't have been light! Inner tubes, 2 stoves, the big comfy variety of sleeping bag, etc. etc. etc. Oh yeah, and food; which they shared. Some large and in charge cookies and any of a vast array of hot drink mixes.I looked around and was impressed at the amenities of the camp itself. Driftwood benches were scattered about. A plywood table. The rocks of the fire ring were so intricately arranged and structurally solid, I couldn't imagine a trail team investing so much effort in to one particular camp. I commented on the setup and the daughters elucidated that most of it had been their mother's doing over the course of years.As we all lounged around they told us stories of how their mom, the Queen I described from earlier, had an insatiable wandering spirit and had transmitted it to her daughters by taking them out to spots like this, hikes on the John Muir Trail, and many many others. I enjoyed witnessing the family dynamics, as they bantered and jockeyed with one another. It made me miss my own family, in particular my mother and sister (no offense boys).The interaction caused me to ruminate in my journal as to all the different ways of enjoying the outdoors. As hikers, we get caught up in our own hiker mindset. Making the miles, lightening the load, etc. This was something else entirely; and I admired it. No matter what or how you do it, get outside! I have encountered so many marvelous folk, out here in so many different styles and capacities, and each one of us is doing it just right by our own terms. That is what being out here is about; exploring ways to fulfill your spirit.

Through the woods

"I made it over the mountains, now through the woods, to Canada I go."
That little one line ditty (to the tune of 'to grandmother's house') has certainly been jangling through my head for the past couple hundred miles... that and the Adam's family song (the short one about Uncle Fester farting). Clearly the trail is improving my musical taste.
After three days of eating and sitting on the couch watching the food network with Frog and Rif-Raf the latter two of us got back onto the trail. Frog, being struck by a serious bout of GI distress, was in no condition to contend with the trail at that time. We planned to meet up with him again when we hiked up to Truckee.
For three days we hiked along a beautiful rim which offered views into valleys of pine and fir. They rolled away into the seemingly eternal distance. At some points we were walking along the highest ledge of the earthen rim, at our feet were an assortment of fragrant flowers, over the ledge we could catch glimpses of Lake Tahoe. Often the heat made us wish we could leap the distance to the water. There were certainly enough water sources to make it but we were still in 'Sierra Mode', expecting to encounter water at every turn. Delicious, pristine, icy cold water. While we were still technically in the Sierras, conditions had changed. We have had to go back to purifying the water, as the source is not usually immediately identifiable. We had to carry water for 10 mile stretches, and let me tell you, the heat was making us sweat, and sweating means you need to drink; a lot.
The end of that short section was a descent down an exposed ridge, to Donner Pass. I found it invigorating. We hitched a ride into Truckee with a traveling locksmith, as we wound down from the pass I missed most of the conversation for all the jangling keys and the fact that my chair was rolling about; I thought it was really fun.
Once in town we met up with Frog and his lovely lady, Nancy. Frog was looking thin and wan and Nancy was looking concerned. Unable to hold much down in the way of food is tough on a hikers' body. We spent a day or so enjoying one another's company and then met up with a gathering of Frog and Nancy's friends at a decadent French restaurant where we enjoyed a five course meal in celebration of Bastille Day. The tiny 'Le Bistro' was something from a different planet as far as I could tell, but this did not diminish my appreciation of the succulent and elaborately decorated tidbits which were set before us. Everything was wonderful and a memory to which I knew I would be clinging as I ate dinner on the trail for the next several weeks. This did not change the fact that by the time we got back to our camp I was digging in my bag for a snack. Trail hunger has set in.
Again we got back to wandering northward. Unfortunately Frog was still under the influence of his illness and did not have the weight to sustain his body through it so he had to head back to San Francisco with Nancy for some serious healing time.
Mercifully for Rif-Raf and I, the trail kept to tree cover, somewhat easing the sweltering, humid heat which had set in. Despite it I was feeling strong and, as the terrain was so much easier than the past several hundred miles had been, I wanted to test myself as far as miles. We hiked a 30 mile day. I stopped at a water source at about 6 and, in order to avoid having to carry my dinner water to what would be a dry camp, I cooked right there. At about 8:30 I rolled into camp and flopped down, a bit tired, not too worn but so very very content.
As I lay in my sleeping bag, reviewing notes for the next day I saw that we would have a swimming opportunity in about 11 miles at the Middle Fork Feather River. While I was thrilled at the idea, I had no idea just how great of a spot it would turn out to be.

Reunited

It was 1 pm and I had just learned that Frog and Rif-Raf were only some 10 miles on up the trail. I quickly tore up toward the trail's Sonora Pass. Passing two day hikers, I happily saluted them and had a quick trail chat. They insisted on giving me some extra power bars and even offered up their water. There are SO many amazing, kind, generous and positive people out here!
I moved on and found myself in snow again. I quickly found myself on a snow bank with no signs of footprints. I spent about an hour tossing about this one small pass area, looking down a snow bank into the valley where I hoped the trail would be. Clouds formed overhead and began to dump hail on me. I put on my awesome green rain jacket, flipped up the hood and stood in the middle of the snow field, munching on one of the power bars I had just been given, determined not to be beaten by the weather. Three other hikers appeared on the far side of the snowfield and we joined up, looking for the trail. As soon as we found it, they stopped for a snack and I tore on. I was so excited I just started running. According to my completely unfounded assessments, I expected to come into the area of my boys by around 6. At 5 I passed two cairns built up just alongside the trail. I was 10 feet past them when I paused to think. I figured I should probably investigate. Sure enough, there in a pretty little glen just off the trail were the boys. The rain eased up, allowing us to recount the adventures of the time we had spent apart.
For the next three days we encountered increasing numbers of mosquitoes, easier terrain, decreasing amounts of snow, and massive fields of flowers, growing in the rich soil at the skirts of uniquely shaped peaks of volcanic and basalt rocks.
We came down through the trees to the shore of Echo Lake where I picked up a resupply package. While I had planned to push on, I was beginning to feel a serious sense of tiredness and drag. I had not washed myself or my clothes in nearly a month, I was still covered in cuts and bruises from previous adventures and my socks were now specifically left/right footed. Frog informed us he had a friend in Truckee who was out of town and had offered up his home as a resting place. None of us were inclined to pass up such an offer. We hiked 18 miles by 2:30 pm and then, through a series of hitches found ourselves blessed with a delicious supper, shower, and real beds!
I have now had two days to get affairs in order, to call REI and figure out a way to trade out my warped pack for a new one, and to contact family and friends. Tomorrow I will hitch back down to Echo Lake and start progressing again. Frog and Rif-Raf may stay around fro another day as Frog has fallen unfortunately ill and Rif-Raf is planning out some mailed resupplies.
Half-way mark, here I come!

To Yosemite and Beyond

The sections just after the High Sierras have been my favorite. Their beauty doesn't come from the sense of austere grandeur through which we had just passed but hold an impressive allure all their own. Through Yosemite we moved through amazing reddish rocky formations. Tiered walls of granite begged to be climbed. Waterfalls cascade all around and along our trail; they were made all the more beautiful by the fact that we did not have to try to cross them, and if we did, there was a bridge. Snow still sometimes slowed our progress, but nothing like what we had just survived.
I reveled in the undulating bowls and mounds of rocks. While some of the ascents surpassed 1400 feet there were plenty of beautiful lakes and meadows to distract the attention. At one point I climbed into a pine blessed pass area and found the trail ahead of me was in use by a bear. At about 300 pounds he lumbered along ahead of me, indifferent to my presence. We meandered into a pretty little meadow. He crossed it and then turned around and looked at me. The look said, "you are off the trail, young lady, come much further and you will be on my nerves." I looked around and realized that in my fixation on this beautiful animal, I had indeed followed him off the trail. I quickly made my way back to human designated turf and moved through the rest of the morning in a sense of elation.
It was incredibly fun to hike with Red Head and Green Mile; their hiking style was much different than what I had become accustomed to. They awoke late and made no hurry of a morning. However, once they were moving, they sure did move! I felt myself pushing my limits and found that I generally ask a lot less of myself than what I can do. We hiked quickly and rested earnestly. Meal and snack schedule was the same, only a few hours later than someone who woke and moved early. At about 7 each evening we chose as mosquito free of an area as possible and cooked supper before hiking another hour or two. We usually ended the days with head lamps on and stars starting to wink awake above us. Not once did we set up our tents, preferring instead to enjoy the clear skies and warm nights (at least, much warmer than 11000 feet had been).
On the morning of July 4th we realized we were 25 miles and only three formidable climbs away from the 1000 mile mark. All enraptured by the idea of hitting 1000 miles on a national holiday, we moved rapidly. As evening fell, we were on the final descent to that mile marker. Through the darkness and trees, I spotted a campfire burning. We rolled up to a gathering of some 10 other thru-hikers and we all sat around the fire-pit, telling stories and sharing our favorite moments thus far. My sense of accomplishment, exhaustion, and joy made it a surreal evening. I have never done anything like this before! And here I was, feeling strong and exactly just right. It was a great event.
The next day granite stone gave way to volcanic rock. Trees gave way to open, wind swept ridge-sides and we moved along the rocks which changed in color from black to red, orange, and purple. Florescent orange and green lichens adorned the rocks and added an almost carnival-esque sense to the unique landscape. An 18 mile day and we came in to Sonora Pass, where a trail angel named The Owl had set up a "hiker coffee house." We snacked hungrily and enjoyed the comfortable chairs he had set out.
The next morning I hitched down to Bridgeport and resupplied in the expensive little grocery store in Bridgeport. Upon my return to the pass I encountered several other hikers who informed me that Frog and Rif-Raf had passed through that morning and were camping some 10 miles out.

How to Make Something Simple, Difficult

Via an intricate system of awesome public transit I was able to drop off the trail into Mammoth Lakes for a quick resupply. The first leg of the trip took me through Yosemite down to Mammoth ski resort. I was only slightly surprised to see snow still on the mountain. At the base of the hill I encountered both the late season skiers and snow-boarders, as well as the swagger mountain bikers who were shredding up the lower slopes. It was pretty cool to encounter new varieties of outdoor enthusiasts.
By that afternoon I was back up on the trail. By lunch the next day I caught up with Red Head, Double D, Green Mile and a couple of his friends who had come out to hike for the weekend. We sat on the shore of beautiful and iced over 1000 Island lake. That afternoon Red Head, Double D and I made our way up through a snowy field to Donohue Pass, reputed to be the last and easiest of the passes. We cowboyed on some rocks up on the pass and watched as the evening light bathed the long, lush green valley to our north. My two compadres, being a local Cali boy, related stories of ventures in the area from their childhood. Also being avid fishermen, they noted that the river was much higher than they had seen before. We slept happily under a blanket of stars and satellites. The next morning we took off at the bright and early hour of 10 am.
We shoe-skied down the initial slope and at the point where the snow bank became a cliff we decided it would be prudent to climb down the exposed rock field rather than maneuver the snow fields where the trail probably passed. The first 150 feet or so was a simple rock hop. Then it became a downward clamour. Then I suddenly realized I had made my way onto something of a cliff. I continued to carefully move between rocks, looking for hand and footholds. At one point I found myself on a sketchy section of rock where water ran over most of the surface. Again, fear and adrenaline made me shaky. I decided the next several yards would be doable without a pack. A large boulder, some 30 feet down seemed like a probable place for my pack to wait for me. I dropped it off my shoulders and rolled it toward the rock. It went exactly where I had meant for it. And then it kept going. I turned around from climbing down to see my pack against the backdrop of a blue sky; quite airborne. One of my poles was flying in one direction and my pack soared in another. A sense of horror threatened to overtake me but I was focused on getting myself down more safely than my pack. I would worry about that when I was on safe ground.
It was a literal rock climb for the next 150 feet. I was terrified. Hugging my body to the rock I would pick out a foothold but as I moved to step down the water trickle which my body had held up would gush down, drenching everything I was headed for. Finally I was on the last face above the snow field below. I was happy to see that Red Head had made it down safely. In order to safely make it down the final length I threw down the pole I had kept with me. As I came to the top of the snow bank I scanned the snowfield and saw my pack and one pole. My second pole had slid directly into an ice-cave at the base of the rocks. Red Head verbally guided me to the spot where it had disappeared and after some kicking and digging I got it out. I slid down the snow to my pack and Red Head. We sat, allowing the nervous shaking in my legs to subside. A few moments later Double D appeared from the snowy chute which ran alongside the rocks. The backs of his hands and his knees glowed a florescent orangish red. I took off my sunglasses and realized that his hands had been ground nearly to the meat. Having decided the rocks were dangerous he opted to glissade the snow and the icy stuff had torn his flesh up, much as a grater might have.
We sat there in the snow, thrilled to be alive and still functional, though somewhat nonplused by the decision making skills we had displayed at the top of the cliff. Fortunately my pack was whole and had suffered relatively little damage as compared to what might have happened. Granted the stays were warped, but it was still wearable. In fact, the stays had already been folding under themselves, digging into nerves in my back, causing my legs to go numb. The air-trip had more than corrected this, in fact, the back of the pack hardly came in contact with my back except at my hips. Double D displayed impressive resilience, rejecting most of our offers of help. Red Head suggested we could hurry on down to Tuolumne Meadows where D could tend to his wounds. "Nah, I still want to fish," D replied.

We quickly found the trail and were on our way down one of the most beautiful, lush valleys I have ever moved through (probably colored so wonderful by the proximity to serious danger that morning). We moved quickly and confidently over the next many miles. In the filth and familiarity with the mountains through which we had just passed, we found the south bound John Muir Trail aspirant hikers quite amusing as they stopped at small creeks to remove their boots and nervously tread through ankle deep water.
That afternoon we came in to Tuolumne Meadows camp store and mauwed down on hamburgers while comparing stories with the many other thru-hikers relaxing there. That evening the boys took me down to the river where I took my first shot at fishing in many years. I didn't catch anything but certainly came to appreciate the peace of the activity itself.
The next morning Green Mile caught up with us. Double D headed off to finish the John Muir Trail and conclude his 350 mile trip, the other three of us headed on along the PCT. We made camp in pretty little opening just before yet another river crossing.

How to Sweep a Girl Off Her Feet

How to Sweep a Girl Off her Feet


The next morning, Green Tortuga and I packed up and hiked the one mile to the Evolution Creek crossing. To be honest we moved with some trepidation, having heard plenty of horror stories about deep water and a strong current. According to a note posted at the ranger station a few miles before, we were going to try to cross some 25 yards up river of where the trail actually hit the water. When we arrived at the morning light splashed river, we pulled up short. Whoever decided to call this thing a creek must not have seen it at this time of year. Seriously, the thing was a river.


Up stream did not look that much different but we headed up through the trees and splashed through the small overflow streams. Once I had plotted the most likely looking path by which to cross, I decided that standing there, looking at it wasn't really accomplishing much so I pushed in. Facing up stream and planting my trekking poles firmly, I began to sidestep out toward the center of the current. As I got out into the middle of it the water was about butt deep and the force of the water made my poles vibrate in my hand. I breathed deeply and tested my footing. While the current was strong, my legs were holding strong. Several deep breaths later and I was able to let the current push me toward a tree trunk which had fallen over the water. I climbed out the other side, pretty shaken but confident. As Green Tortuga did not have poles I shouted to him to go back up the trail and cross through the meadows up there where the water was deep but not nearly as strong. Another hiker, Anne, was over there with him so I moved on down the next set of switch backs.
I was glad I had crossed before I saw what was downstream. The water gushed and rampaged against rocks and over cliffs. Truly it was a beautiful display, with the mists creating rainbows in the morning sun. This did not change the fact that it would tear a human body apart. I developed an even healthier respect for the immediate power of nature. I thanked all those whose prayers protected me, as well as the river itself for allowing me safe passage. It crashed along, seemingly indifferent to my appreciation.
During my morning lunch break, Tortuga caught back up. Apparently he had decided to cross at the same spot as I had. As it turns out my voice doesn't carry across 30 feet of raging water. Either way, we had both made it and we hiked on in squelchy shoes. Every time they threatened to be nearly dry, we had to cross another small creek. All in all I would say there were about a bazillion little crossings. While I probably could have log or rock hopped across most of them, that just seemed silly, so I splashed through with bravado. Tortuga, being more balance blessed and dexterous than myself stayed slightly drier. As evening drew nigh, we came upon Bear Creek, another reputed challenge. Driven by the determination of the day, we planned to cross that night and camp on the other side.
Again, we scouted the river up and down but upstream it was a narrow canyon with a raging torrent, downstream was very treey and Tortuga came back with a report of nothing better. We assessed the water and plotted the best course by which to maneuver the currents. I stepped into the chilly water and three steps in, I was up to my waist. A third of the way out the water was pounding against me, causing me to lean forward. Carefully I moved each of my four grounding points on at a time. In the span of a single instant I felt one of my poles slip as my leg was turned by the power of the water. The taste of metal gushed into my mouth and I quickly made my way back to Tortuga.
Back on the bank I breathed deeply, determined to maintain composure and not to be defeated. I stepped in again and was almost half way out when I felt that the current was stronger than I could handle. Only a few steps of this, certainly I could handle it. I continued to thrust my poles up stream and drove them down as hard as I could, trying to get purchase before the water hurtled them past me. On the next step I felt my footing give. As I twisted in a moment of panic, trying to maintain my balance my vision flashed on the bank where Tortuga stood, his face aghast and his hand over his mouth. In that moment everything flashed before me and came quite clear. If I lost it here there wasn't much anyone could do and I would be at the water's mercy. The water did not seem to be feeling very merciful that evening. Your prayers and thoughts held me strong and I regained my footing and quickly side scuttled back to Tortuga.
For the rest of that evening my legs remembered the feeling of the force of the current and my hands shook as if still holding onto vibrating poles. We made camp right there and for the rest of the night, the river taunted me. I tried to convince myself that the water would be lower in the morning, that I was meant to accomplish this and there would be a way. The roar of the "creek" just laughed. "You just have to try again in the morning little girl, and I've got ALL season," it seemed to say. Sleep came in short fits, I repeatedly jerked awake thinking I was being washed away. As I lay under the mesh of my tent I looked up at the stars. I can only do what I can do, and that's that. If I am meant to get across this river, I will. I knew I was meant to, and so I would but that would have to be a worry for the next morning. I gave up the weight of the worry and slept as best I could.
The next morning a cold sense of dread saturated my spirit more deeply than my wet shoes and pants did my lower extremities. I hunched over my breakfast of pop-tarts. Tortuga decided to scout downstream and I went upstream again. There was a log about 6 inches under pounding water. It would be less deep but pretty much death if you slipped. I was further disheartened. "What did you find?" Tortuga inquired when we met up at the trail. I gave my dismal report. "Well, a little further down the water spreads out into several braids and looks a lot more shallow," he beamed. I breathed a sigh of relief. We headed down to see what there was and, while wide, the water was no more than two feet deep. I don't know how to explain the depth of thanks which I offered up once we were across. I knew God had been holding that spot in store for us but it just seemed so wonderful that it could be nothing but a concession that, yes, I was meant to hike this trail.
I hiked the rest of the day with a jubilant gait and none of the rest of the river crossings were nearly as challenging. Well, the mono creek ones seemed pretty intimidating but Tortuga's scouting and map reading had us cross lower down and then we climbed up a large rock pile to catch the trail at a point where it was already past the second two crossings. Tortuga was very proud to have made it past those crossings with perfectly dry feet.
The next day we climbed over Silver Pass which didn't hold a head-lamp to its predecessors. I am not sure what it was but something snapped in me up there. I was sick and tired of being challenged to my limits every day and I just wanted to be done with it. After making our way across two or three more snow clad dips in the hillside, I was just done. I didn't dare talk to anyone because I knew I didn't have anything nice to say.
At about 4:30 pm we came across two other hikers, Double D and Danny were washing their faces in a creek. They planned to hike another 9 miles in to Red's Meadow that night to catch up to two other of their buddies. Their plan made sense to me. It would mean hiking later into the evening than I had planned, and it meant a 27 mile day but damned if that wasn't what I was going to do. I charged ahead, sometimes breaking out into a run. I got in to Red's at 7:30 and was thrilled to find the little store there was still open. I happily munched on food and drew a great deal of solace in the cheerful and happy company in which I found myself. Double D and Danny came in a bit after me and we gathered up with Green Mile and Red Head. We made camp and had a fire and their positive energy quickly drew me back from the mire of the funk toward which I had been headed. It was a joyous evening.
I had come out of the Sierras battered and bruised but not broken.

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?