We cut our three and a half day hike down to three days because today we did 16 miles. It was mostly down hill on dusty, blasé terrain, but it was liberating to actually make decent mileage. It made me believe I could go on. However as the hours went on, my calves were cramping. I felt spent. I hadn’t stopped or taken my pack off since our 1:15 lunch break.
I didn’t get into Red’s Meadow until 5:50. Terry had gone ahead thinking that the Red’s Meadow Resort store and cafe would close at 6:00, and it turned out he was correct. He arrived ten minutes before I did and bought some cold drinks. He headed over to the cafe hoping to buy French fries. I purchased two ice cream bars and two showers. They didn’t have fries so he returned with two ice creams. Ice cream supper it was. At least we thought we could take a shower. As it turned out we could have if the cashier had told me we needed to pay for soap and towel rental. Oh well.
We felt lucky to get a spot to put up our tent in the backpackers campground. We shared a beer, a large one, and headed over to the hot springs tub (106 degrees) and I was at peace with my broken body again. We would worry about how to get back to our car tomorrow.
It’s clear that I’m not the woman I never was. What was I thinking? We only made 9 miles today. Sure it’s up and down on trails with large steps and rocks. And we’ve stayed between 10,000 and 11,073 feet. But 9 stinking miles?
The scenery is incredible at every turn. And that is why we’re here.
I must write about my solo hike gig. I make all my own decisions and have no one to blame. It changes your thinking. Shortly after the Covid SIP, I felt like I was suppose to disappear some where for forty days and forty nights. I would surely discover the real wilderness by being alone. Then my friend, Robin, put me onto the series Alone. It makes you feel as though you can do things you haven’t considered. So I took my own mini alone hike, forty miles from Donner Pass to Sierra City. It felt empowering.
Terry and I missed out on a number of planned trips this summer. So we were looking at the possibility of backpacking in the Sierra. But everybody is backpacking because the wisdom is “It’s Covid safe.” It was hard to get permits for the popular shorter hikes. Terry said he really wanted to do the JMT again. My first thought was that it was too much work. But I submitted three trip agendas and we got a pass. But by then Terry was roofing his house and couldn’t go, so I thought it was a good opportunity to go it alone.
Now I feel broken. I’m comparing this to my hike in July. I was averaging two mile an hour and now it’s closer to one mile an hour. But of course this is so much harder. My body hurts.
It’s not possible for me to go on by myself without planned food drops. I can’t carry enough food for my slower speed. Food drops have to be arranged in advance. So I’ll exit with Terry at Red’s Meadow.
Disappointing, by well worth the great weather, no smoke and no mosquitos.
It had been a month since we were treated to dark skies and billons of stars. The air remained clear without a hint of smoke. The last time we we visited Tuolumne was when we hiked the PCT in 2014. it was packed with visitors, campers and thru hikers. The cafe and post office had lines of people. Now the post office and cafe are closed, deserted and dilapidated. The tent cabins are just frames standing ghostlike.
Our campsite for hikers was quiet all night, no snoring or talking, just the hoots of great horned owls. We were one of the first hikers to leave at 7:30 and remained alone for an hour or so. But when the hikers started to show up, it was a stream heading north from Reds Meadow. I guess the Mammoth area has fewer Covid restrictions.
The Meadow was healthy and the river running through it was clear as trout swam near the shore. About three miles before Donahue Pass we started our ascent. It began with a steep incline over rock steps. A half mile into the drudgery my pace was barely a crawl. I was overcome by the altitude and insufficient training. Perhaps a week breathing unhealthy levels of smoke didn’t help. If I had been alone, I would have called it a day. This would have offered another day of acclimation. Terry was feeling it too? But at 2:00 who wants to end their day? So Terry slack-packed me for at least an hour. He went ahead and dropped his pack and came back and got my pack. This allowed me to hike without a pack.
We found a campsite near a steam. We had only put in an 8 hour day but we were both spent. We’re still 1.75 miles shy of the pass. With no news or word from home. Terry has decided to continue with me. We know the days ahead will be less challenging and if thekp evacuation is still in effect, he can’t roof his house in Scotts Valley.
From Tuolumne Meadows to the beginning of our Climb
Terry drove me up through thick smoke. We were navigated to Highway 49, but it was closed. The fire was spreading out from Groveland. We had to backtrack. We went up some backroads to highway 120. About ten miles out of Yosemite the smoke cleared. The white granite mountains shone brilliantly. Our first clear vista in a week. The air smelled of air.
We were amazed by no lines or cars on the roads. You had to have a permit to enter. In a few hours we had our permits checked twice. The numbers were held to their prescribed quota. Few people get to experience Yosemite as such an intimate setting. It’s similar to winning the lottery to drive the length of Denali at the end of the season. I was driven to pursue that opportunity and this. The loneliness that is ours.
It was about 1:00. We thought we could be on the trail by 2:00, but the ranger set us straight. If your permit said August 25 that’s when you’re supposed to leave. She sent us to the backpacker campground for the night. It’s probably a good thing because between the smoke and the altitude, I was feeling it.
I put my backpack on and walked the 1/4 mile from the parking lot to the campground. I rolled the pack off onto the picnic table and deemed it way too heavy for a 1/4 mile passage let alone a 13 day trek. I had to do serious culling. All food is supposed to fit into a bear canister. I couldn’t fit it all in. So I was carrying a bag with extra food. Well this is illegal. I started there. I looked at each item of food for caloric value and weight.
Terry will hike the first day with me and spend the first night on the trail with me. Part of the idea is to carry one day of food. Good this gives him room to take my excess food. I tore apart my whole pack until I felt I had trim superfluous items. It felt much better.
We headed down the road in our car to locate the parking lot and trailhead from whence we will begin tomorrow. A hiker came from over a bridge and asked for directions to the hiker campground. it was hard to direct her. So after she got out of earshot we confessed to each other that our directions sucked. So we decide to give her a ride and show her where to go. Her voice reminded me of a friend in Hayfork . They had the same inflections. Into our conversation she told us she lived in an intentional community. She told me the name and I said I had a friend that used to live there. Yes she knew her. We had an instant connection. We’ll connect again.
Day turned from red sky’s at morn to smoke and roaring evacuations. This day I was going out the door early to bear the weight of my pack, training for my upcoming hike but it was too smoky. I had a sharp rebuke from a friend questioning why I was doing this. At this point the hike is becoming tenuous. The weather will follow me. It’s fire season. But leaving family and friends behind when they’re suffering seems selfish.
I woke up in time to meet Bam-Bam. I didn’t ask about his trail name. He asked me to guess where he was from. He hadn’t said much to me. But what the hell? He asked for a guess. “Hmmm ahhh Scotland?”
“Czechoslovakia.”
But, of course. Please don’t ask me how to spell it.
He had caused me a great deal of consternation last night. After he arrived, I fell sound asleep. He woke me, not knowing I had fallen asleep, to tell me a deer was licking the ground near my tent. And then in the middle of the night, I heard the zipping and flapping of nylon. If you’re in Fairbanks they say that when you’re skijoring and the dogs hear the sound of nylon skidding on snow, it’s their signal to stop. This sound indicates that the dogs are dragging their fallen skier across the ice on her belly. And, pretty much, that’s the only reason they stop.
When you’re backpacking it means that someone is leaving or entering their tent or sleeping bag. So when it went quiet, I wondered did he leave? Then I remembered the warnings from my female friends, “it’s not the four legged creatures you need to worry about it the two legged.” Was he tip-toeing over to stab me bloody?
Really? Really Deborah? You’re going to worry about this? Maybe I’m naive, but if I turned a corner and saw a bear, I’d be frightened. If I saw a person, I’d probably be startled but that would be it. I trust people.
So looking over Bam-Bam, this diminutive, scruffy thru-hiker who is just trying his best to make it to Canada, I realize he has no time to kill me.
This will be an easy day. A simple downhill run into town. I was on trail by 7:00. I stopped at 10:00 for a short break. I knew I could make good time. I figured I only had about 10 or 12 miles to go. My downhill run was a series of steep switchbacks with lots of stumbly rocks to slow me. Terry had told me there was a shortcut into town. I came to a really nice footbridge over the Yuba River. I turned and was watching the river. I had seen a sign but it wasn’t clear that I was leaving the route toward a shortcut. I spotted a neat well dressed couple heading up from that suspected shortcut. They had no packs. This gave me a green light to try their trail. One would think I’d ask them? But I remained taciturn. If you haven’t talked all day, it’s a leap into uncharted territory. Well after about a mile I saw no hope and returned to the bridge. I must be close to town with the day hiking couple just walking about. I didn’t need no stink in’ shortcut.
Things were going fast until I made a left turn. Both the route straight ahead and to the right had sticks piled up in front of them. I thought the sticks indicated not to enter. Well I plowed along to the left getting closer to being helplessly mired in WTF “I’m lost.”
This could have been big trouble. I had no signal. There were no other people. And there were many unmarked trails branching out as though I was standing at the Arc de Triomphe not knowing which avenue was the Champ de Elyees. I divagated for 45 minutes until I recognized some garbage.
Lucky me. I was back on the trail. One more bridge over the Yuba and I was on the highway by 4:00. I walked into town fretting the whole way that it’d be shut tight. I anticipated no camping, no rooms, no food. On the front porch of the bar, a man seated in a chair said “Howdy.”
Them’s some pretty friendly worlds. “Do you think I can get a room here?
“I got one cabin left.”
“I’ll take it and two cold beers.”
Welcome to Sierra City. Where they have no Covid cases in the whole county. Cheers!
It was a bit cold on waking. My fingers weren’t up to par. The tent was down and rolled quickly. But I could not get the lid off my bear canister. The plastic was unmovable at that temperature. You needed strong manual dexterity to push past the little bump that latches the large lid on the canister. Even the large paw of a bear can’t span and push in the little notch. I must have spent a half hour on this before The plastic softened and let me in. The canister not only houses my food, it also houses any thing that has a strong odor. I wanted my tooth paste. I believe if Terry had been with me, I would have been audibly whining over my struggle. But I have no reason to vocalize without an audience.
The morning was picturesque. I moved from mule’s ears to volcanic formations. From no apparent crawlers to lizards. After a couple of hours, without seeing a human, Stack came walking my way. They (this pronoun is not used as plural, but rather as gender-neutral) told me about a poor night’s sleep in the hammock because they forgot an important attachment for the hammock’s stability. So it goes..
At 11:55 I had hiked 7 miles. At noon I came upon four trail angels. They had chairs and tables set up and a huge spread of food. They drove their RVs up a forest service road. The four angels hadn’t see many hikers. It appeared to me that the PCT hiker population had been reduced about 90 percent. In 2014 when Terry and I hiked the PCT, I went ahead to Sierra City via car while I nursed a sprained ankle. It was the Fourth of July. The hikers seemed to come off the trail in droves. Now no one. Just me with more food in my pack than I could eat plus free drinks on ice and many homemade selections. I sat awhile in peace. No jets. No contrails. No fireworks. Just a virus potentially lurking anywhere people meet.
I can only think the animals, the land, the skies have never in their lifespan witnessed such peace. I carried on nourished with an iced Frappuccino and a bar with caramel m&ms and peanut butter cups. What could go wrong?
Five miles forward, I started to hear “civilization.” It sounded like shouting voices, and jet skies. I could see Jackson Lake. By that time my shoulders were sore and my blisters hurt. I was coming down a hill unprepared for what awaited me. The trail ended at a paved road. Usually when you come to a road the trail clearly continues on the other side of the road. Nope. There was a small group of teenagers playing football in the street. I didn’t expect they’d be of any help and they weren’t. I walk back and forth on the road looking for an arrow or a sign or a local person. I did not whine or vocalize my frustration. I wasted about 45 minutes when a guy in a truck slowed and asked it I needed help. He thought I would get back on the trail across the bridge and to the right. It didn’t look like it could be the PCT or any trail. And then I saw the little triangular PCT sign on a tree. In three miles I found the campsite. There were several sites. All mi were empty. I had eaten dinner, another P,B&J while walking. I had spotted an evening grosbeak. It was almost 8:30 and I was ready for bed.
In the gloaming, I set up my tent, unfurled my bedding, set my bear canister away from my tent and crawled into my shelter. I fell sound asleep. Shortly I was wakened by a guy asking if he could share the camp with me. But of course.
After driving five hours from Corralitos to my friend’s house in Truckee, I lighten my load by emptying some items from my backpack. Then I could actually lift it into Sue and Clyde’s car.
Their dogs Hana and Blanca were reluctant to share the back seat. But soon we were turning off highway 80 onto a forest service road just off the PCT. The quartet hiked about a half mile with me, and then I was left alone. At this point of the trail a number of day hikers are coming and going. The number of hikers thinned quickly. I proceeded at a decent clip through the ups and downs, past dense patches of aromatic Mule’s Ears.
I was in my normal hiking state—eyes glued to each footfall. Then I glanced to my left. What do you know, it was the Peter Grub Hut. I stopped to investigate the hut and eat my first P,B & J.
After that point, I only saw one other hiker, named Stack. They were heading to a good spot for their hammock.
I wanted to reach the campsite located 12 miles in from the trailhead. My pace was good. The temperature was perfect, no mosquitoes, and good terrain. I came to an earlier site with two other campers. It was on a marshy stretch and that meant mosquitoes. So onward.
I found a good source for water from a pipe at snowmelt creek. I was shocked to hear a jet. I crossed a dirt road and met up with another hiker who mentioned how unusual it was to hear a jet. The trek to the campsite was up switchbacks. I sat and ate my dinner another P,B&J. Then I continued to the campsite on a saddle just over the pass. Nice site, clear and level. The wind picked up. It was beautiful, loud and wild. No one was there except me. There was no loneliness, only mountain peace.
Mountain Peace 