Hi all, managed to get some time off to investigate the first bit of the JMT a few weeks ago. Here is what I found out. I apologize for the wordiness - I tried to shorten a trail journal written for the JMT facebook page, but this is quite thick still.
This is quite a bit more pedestrian than your lovely gorgeous cross country high sierra adventures, I hope this is not a bore!
Day1 - Happy Isles to Little Yosemite Valley.
Starting the hike on Sunday 1st, Labor day Holiday, Yosemite Valley is an absolute zoo teeming with crowds and car traffic. The JMT starts at the same place as the popular Vernal Falls/Nevada Falls day hike, and a bustling crowd of hundreds is heading up the trail. 10 minutes in, the JMT separates from the day hiker’s path to Nevada falls, the crowds vanish and I climb in peace and shade. I take a nice break at Nevada fall, wading in the river up to my hips to refresh. Then onward to Little Yosemite Valley, just a couple miles away.
Per permit conditions I have to spend the first night there. This is also the staging area for people climbing half dome, and the place is packed full. As I pitch my tent, my neighbor asks me if I want cans of beans (plural) “I am trying to lighten my pack” he says. I decline without being able to repress a smile, and I suggest he eats more. As I walk by his camp I see that he has lugged a 3 gallon plastic water bottle with his cans of food.
The only upside of Little Yosemite Valley’s campground is the river next to it - there is plenty of time left in the day and I go for a nice, deliciously refreshing swim in deep water, then I climb the valley’s slopes off trail to a peaceful remote granite balcony where I can nap and read.
At night the camp is loud with people laughing and screaming late into the night. My can of beans neighbor decide to build a giant fire and whacks large branches late into the night, his girlfriend screams to beg him to stop. Around 11 pm I get up to tell him to cut it off. “this is the last branch” he says with a thin voice. He keeps feeding his fire until midnight.
In the future I would do absolutely everything to avoid camping here again. In effect no Ranger checked on me and I could easily have just pushed the hike to the Half Dome junction or Cloud’s rest junction.
TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
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Satchel Buddah
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TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
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Satchel Buddah
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 2 - Half Dome summit, Cloud’s rest Junction
My alarm goes off at 3 am and I jump out of bed, still seething from the lack of sleep and the frat party feel of the campsite last evening. Everyone is now asleep at last.
My first goal of the day is sunrise on top of Half Dome. I barely slept, and I am moving much too slowly breaking camp. When all is done I start to hike at 4:30.
This is a hard morning, I start fatigued, sleep deprived and my unfit body struggles to haul my heavy pack up the trail. I suffer from the altitude, not acclimatized at all yet. It takes me one hour and a half to reach the JMT/half dome junction, I drop my pack 50 yards into the JMT, stick my bear can under a tree, grab my tiny summit bag.
Daylight is starts to appear as I reach a large granite shelf with a lovely view of Half dome and Yosemite Valley, I stop to take pictures and resume the climb.
Next is a long set of “stairs” alternating with steep plates of granite to climb “little half dome”, the approach to the final summit. A handful of a people pass me. Around 7:30 am I reach the final part of the climb: the cables - it looks a bit insane and it is! The first sight of the cables is breathtaking.
Here I have to confess that I was absolutely unprepared for this - Since this climb is so popular and I heard there were “cables” to climb it I totally discarded it as a serious endeavor and thought this was just a silly little Yosemite tourist attraction, and did not bother to read anything about it before the climb. How wrong I was.
The reality of it is that reaching the base of the cables after the long strenuous climb up the steps and steep granite plates is already a small achievement and takes quite a bit of you if you are unacclimatized. Next, the final cable ascent demands strength and focus as you are pretty much rappelling and hauling yourself up by the pure force of your arms, at a 45 degree slope, trying to keep your feet gripped on the slick granite floor.
There is a pile of garden gloves that climbers pick and drop at the base of the cables to protect their hands - I pick my choice of gloves, drop my summit bag on a granite shelf and start the final climb with my camera bag strapped tightly around my chest.
The climb is fine, I am grinning at the craziness of this setup and enjoying myself quite a bit. Altitude beats me up and I am struggling for breath and strength but this is fun, a bit of adventure at last. I finally make it to the summit around 7:15 and watch the light fill in the valley.
On the way down, I choose the face downward approach, it feels right to me: easier to place feet, able to see climbers coming up and places to pass or rest, enjoying the gorgeous landscape and observing the straining focused expressions of the climbers coming up. I pass the only person that looked actually prepared for this - A young women going up with a climbing harness and a carabiner locking her to the cable. The only smart person on the mountain that day.
After the descent and until the middle of next day, I cannot hold my camera steady - my arms are irepressibly shaking under any physical strain.
So my original crackhead plan for day 2 was to summit Half Dome, then climb Cloud’s Rest and spend the second night on the summit doing night photography with a new moon sky - Cloud’s Rest is the summit north of half dome and is a bit higher still. Lovely on the paper and possibly doable with a fit body used to altitude, but reality sets in: Half dome was not just a little side skip. After getting back to my big bag on the JMT, drinking my extra liter of water in one go, I have to confront reality: it is about 11 am and I am pretty much done for the day, utterly exhausted, my left knee is sending sharp pain signals, my feet feel like pounded meat. A second summit climb with the heavy pack and an extra 5 liters of water for the dry camp and the day after is out of the question.
I move forward at a snail pace, grab some water and find a nice camp close to Cloud’s rest trail junction half a mile further down. After setting down the tent, I go explore this bit of mountain slope to relax my legs with a little walking, making note of other potential camps.
Back at camp, the intense fatigue brings a dumb stupor. Every little task turns into a struggle - I pick an item, move it around, loose track of original intent, loose the item and restart all over again. My left knee at that point is seizing, and I have to move my lower leg with both hands to avoid sharp pain while sitting. I pray that my hike is not over already.
My alarm goes off at 3 am and I jump out of bed, still seething from the lack of sleep and the frat party feel of the campsite last evening. Everyone is now asleep at last.
My first goal of the day is sunrise on top of Half Dome. I barely slept, and I am moving much too slowly breaking camp. When all is done I start to hike at 4:30.
This is a hard morning, I start fatigued, sleep deprived and my unfit body struggles to haul my heavy pack up the trail. I suffer from the altitude, not acclimatized at all yet. It takes me one hour and a half to reach the JMT/half dome junction, I drop my pack 50 yards into the JMT, stick my bear can under a tree, grab my tiny summit bag.
Daylight is starts to appear as I reach a large granite shelf with a lovely view of Half dome and Yosemite Valley, I stop to take pictures and resume the climb.
Next is a long set of “stairs” alternating with steep plates of granite to climb “little half dome”, the approach to the final summit. A handful of a people pass me. Around 7:30 am I reach the final part of the climb: the cables - it looks a bit insane and it is! The first sight of the cables is breathtaking.
Here I have to confess that I was absolutely unprepared for this - Since this climb is so popular and I heard there were “cables” to climb it I totally discarded it as a serious endeavor and thought this was just a silly little Yosemite tourist attraction, and did not bother to read anything about it before the climb. How wrong I was.
The reality of it is that reaching the base of the cables after the long strenuous climb up the steps and steep granite plates is already a small achievement and takes quite a bit of you if you are unacclimatized. Next, the final cable ascent demands strength and focus as you are pretty much rappelling and hauling yourself up by the pure force of your arms, at a 45 degree slope, trying to keep your feet gripped on the slick granite floor.
There is a pile of garden gloves that climbers pick and drop at the base of the cables to protect their hands - I pick my choice of gloves, drop my summit bag on a granite shelf and start the final climb with my camera bag strapped tightly around my chest.
The climb is fine, I am grinning at the craziness of this setup and enjoying myself quite a bit. Altitude beats me up and I am struggling for breath and strength but this is fun, a bit of adventure at last. I finally make it to the summit around 7:15 and watch the light fill in the valley.
On the way down, I choose the face downward approach, it feels right to me: easier to place feet, able to see climbers coming up and places to pass or rest, enjoying the gorgeous landscape and observing the straining focused expressions of the climbers coming up. I pass the only person that looked actually prepared for this - A young women going up with a climbing harness and a carabiner locking her to the cable. The only smart person on the mountain that day.
After the descent and until the middle of next day, I cannot hold my camera steady - my arms are irepressibly shaking under any physical strain.
So my original crackhead plan for day 2 was to summit Half Dome, then climb Cloud’s Rest and spend the second night on the summit doing night photography with a new moon sky - Cloud’s Rest is the summit north of half dome and is a bit higher still. Lovely on the paper and possibly doable with a fit body used to altitude, but reality sets in: Half dome was not just a little side skip. After getting back to my big bag on the JMT, drinking my extra liter of water in one go, I have to confront reality: it is about 11 am and I am pretty much done for the day, utterly exhausted, my left knee is sending sharp pain signals, my feet feel like pounded meat. A second summit climb with the heavy pack and an extra 5 liters of water for the dry camp and the day after is out of the question.
I move forward at a snail pace, grab some water and find a nice camp close to Cloud’s rest trail junction half a mile further down. After setting down the tent, I go explore this bit of mountain slope to relax my legs with a little walking, making note of other potential camps.
Back at camp, the intense fatigue brings a dumb stupor. Every little task turns into a struggle - I pick an item, move it around, loose track of original intent, loose the item and restart all over again. My left knee at that point is seizing, and I have to move my lower leg with both hands to avoid sharp pain while sitting. I pray that my hike is not over already.
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Satchel Buddah
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 3.
I wake up around 4 feeling like a champ, all hurts forgotten and start the hike as the last stars vanish. The hike is on.
My target for tonight is Lower Cathedral lake, about 13 miles away including scrambling up ridges and viewpoints. I climb up to a small pass north of Cloud’s rest through a burn area as the first rays of sunlight caress the landscape - a beautiful passage where the darkened trunks contrast with a lush undergrowth of ferns, grasses and flowers, and creeks singing down the mountain.
After a an arid high plateau, the descent towards Sunrise Meadow begins, and stunningly beautiful vistas of Sunrise Meadow and bald granite mountain ranges appear. I keep plowing forward towards the pointy bits of the Cathedral range and drink in the landscapes, slowly but surely the cathedral summits grow ever closer.
I reach the upper lake at about 3pm. My goal is to camp at the lower lake - still about 2-3 miles off. I drop my pack on the side of the trail, put my rain jacket on to cut the wind, grab the camera and explore the lower lake. I climb the ridge that separates both lakes and meet 3 lovely northbound JMT hikers about to finish their hike in a couple days. They have Illuminated faces and gaunt bodies, all muscle and skin, they have done the whole bit since mount Whitney, all 211 miles. We exchange jokes and precious info about the next day’s travels in our respective directions. We observe lightning strikes in the distance, dark fast clouds have built up through the days and fill the southern sky. We can see rainfall brushing the mountains. I gaze at the lower lake behind the ridge.
The weather freshens and I hurry back to my pack. At long last I reach the lower lake around 5 pm. I feel very good about the day hike - managed both pace and travel distance while stopping for all the detours and explorations and pictures I wanted on the way. I am still feeling strong.
I select the perfect spot for the pitch - a finger of granite with both a sunset and sunrise view. I set up the tripod and lay out camera and lenses, then pitch the tent, filter water, and go for a delicious refreshing swim. Feels like a million bucks. The light is fading and sunset is near, I have gathered dinner bits but decide to get to it when the light will allow.
The clouds slowly disperse after nightfall. I cook and eat dinner around 10 pm while shooting long exposures. The long evening of stargazing is wonderful, and I finally hit the sack around 11pm. Every evening before falling asleep, I observe some amount of pain traveling through my legs, feet and toes. It tickles and warms and travels and fades and pops. Slowly, my legs are reconfiguring and trying to become hiker legs.
I wake up around 4 feeling like a champ, all hurts forgotten and start the hike as the last stars vanish. The hike is on.
My target for tonight is Lower Cathedral lake, about 13 miles away including scrambling up ridges and viewpoints. I climb up to a small pass north of Cloud’s rest through a burn area as the first rays of sunlight caress the landscape - a beautiful passage where the darkened trunks contrast with a lush undergrowth of ferns, grasses and flowers, and creeks singing down the mountain.
After a an arid high plateau, the descent towards Sunrise Meadow begins, and stunningly beautiful vistas of Sunrise Meadow and bald granite mountain ranges appear. I keep plowing forward towards the pointy bits of the Cathedral range and drink in the landscapes, slowly but surely the cathedral summits grow ever closer.
I reach the upper lake at about 3pm. My goal is to camp at the lower lake - still about 2-3 miles off. I drop my pack on the side of the trail, put my rain jacket on to cut the wind, grab the camera and explore the lower lake. I climb the ridge that separates both lakes and meet 3 lovely northbound JMT hikers about to finish their hike in a couple days. They have Illuminated faces and gaunt bodies, all muscle and skin, they have done the whole bit since mount Whitney, all 211 miles. We exchange jokes and precious info about the next day’s travels in our respective directions. We observe lightning strikes in the distance, dark fast clouds have built up through the days and fill the southern sky. We can see rainfall brushing the mountains. I gaze at the lower lake behind the ridge.
The weather freshens and I hurry back to my pack. At long last I reach the lower lake around 5 pm. I feel very good about the day hike - managed both pace and travel distance while stopping for all the detours and explorations and pictures I wanted on the way. I am still feeling strong.
I select the perfect spot for the pitch - a finger of granite with both a sunset and sunrise view. I set up the tripod and lay out camera and lenses, then pitch the tent, filter water, and go for a delicious refreshing swim. Feels like a million bucks. The light is fading and sunset is near, I have gathered dinner bits but decide to get to it when the light will allow.
The clouds slowly disperse after nightfall. I cook and eat dinner around 10 pm while shooting long exposures. The long evening of stargazing is wonderful, and I finally hit the sack around 11pm. Every evening before falling asleep, I observe some amount of pain traveling through my legs, feet and toes. It tickles and warms and travels and fades and pops. Slowly, my legs are reconfiguring and trying to become hiker legs.
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Satchel Buddah
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 4
I open my eyes and force myself out of bed around 4 am. The stars are still on and I want to do some more photography work, and keep shooting through sunrise.
To exit Lower Cathedral lake, I have to do a bit of trail climbing out a gully to reconnect with the JMT. It’s a mix of steps and dirt, granite gravel, trees and bushes and granite boulders small and huge.
At 7:30, the light is still dim under the trees. I start hearing a piercing repeated scream, emmited in my direction, sharp and clear and powerful, coming from the top of the mountain eeeeee! eeeee! eeeee! Then the rumble of a large animal barreling down the slope towards me. A large california mule deer appears above me on the left at about 30 feet, running at breakneck speed downslope, jumping and galloping over boulders, all the while screaming eeeeee! eeeee! eeeee! with an amazing steady voice. He vanishes behind me in a second. I turn my head to follow him. When I turn my head back in front, a large mountain lion is in the frame, 30 feet away from me, running down at a crazy speed. In one leap he reaches a small boulder above me, and with a swing of its long extended tail, leaps to my left behind a huge boulder. I gingerly walk around the large boulder hoping to have a last glimpse but everyone is long gone. The forest return to silence. The whole encounter with the deer and the lion lasted maybe 2 or 3 seconds. In hindsight, it was good news that the puma had committed to a deer breakfast - he could have leaped on top of me in a fraction of a second, at the speed he was coming down. I keep wondering if my own noise and scent did not mess his hunt - His trajectory seemed to be headed between the deer and me, and he turned sharply to my left to get off my way at the last moment.
The goal for today’s hike is a short stop at Tuolumne Meadows, then race as far as I can down the Lyell Canyon to be in a good spot for Donahue Pass the next day. In my head it’s more like a connecting day.
I reach Tuolumne around 11 am, tired, low energy - it’s an off day. I grab a resupply package,I buy a cheap pair of sunglasses - lost mine while filtering water in my dumb fatigue stupor on evening 2. I purchase the cheesiest postcard I can find to let my wife know I am still alive (“Saw a mountain lion. All is well!). I have no change for the postcard stamp, the hiker next to me gives me 35 cents with a smile. People inside and out are oozing kindness.
I grab a burger and a fruit salad at the grill. I claim a large picnic table to break down my resupply package and sort food, surrounded by other cheerful backpackers - everyone is fussing with gear, grabbing a bite, taking a break, getting their hike ready. On the neighboring table, 4 lean and strong young hikers with bright eyes and smiling faces have fabricated Colorful JMT embroidered patches as a gift for all the JMT hikers they meet on the trail. “On denim, because that’s what John Muir was wearing on the mountain”. Very sweet, classy move, I grab a rad one. I give them my excess food - 2 energy bars, a pound of homemade trail mix, some instant oatmeal, some fruit paste strips. I had packed about 2000 calories per day but I can barely eat 1200, typical.
All that said and done, it’s time to hike. I push forward. The burger feels heavy in my stomach, my limbs are lazy and tired, my backpack harness feels off and pulls on a shoulder, unbalanced. I stop for a small rest, lying down on a tender patch of lush grass in the shadows of Lyell canyon, hoping to regain some chutzpah that never comes. I hike some more, but I am very slow today. I drop the towel around 4 pm, not very pleased with myself - I am short about 4 miles from my intended stop, and these miles will add up to tomorrow’s hike - it now looks like a 16 mile day tomorrow over Donahue and Island pass.
I open my eyes and force myself out of bed around 4 am. The stars are still on and I want to do some more photography work, and keep shooting through sunrise.
To exit Lower Cathedral lake, I have to do a bit of trail climbing out a gully to reconnect with the JMT. It’s a mix of steps and dirt, granite gravel, trees and bushes and granite boulders small and huge.
At 7:30, the light is still dim under the trees. I start hearing a piercing repeated scream, emmited in my direction, sharp and clear and powerful, coming from the top of the mountain eeeeee! eeeee! eeeee! Then the rumble of a large animal barreling down the slope towards me. A large california mule deer appears above me on the left at about 30 feet, running at breakneck speed downslope, jumping and galloping over boulders, all the while screaming eeeeee! eeeee! eeeee! with an amazing steady voice. He vanishes behind me in a second. I turn my head to follow him. When I turn my head back in front, a large mountain lion is in the frame, 30 feet away from me, running down at a crazy speed. In one leap he reaches a small boulder above me, and with a swing of its long extended tail, leaps to my left behind a huge boulder. I gingerly walk around the large boulder hoping to have a last glimpse but everyone is long gone. The forest return to silence. The whole encounter with the deer and the lion lasted maybe 2 or 3 seconds. In hindsight, it was good news that the puma had committed to a deer breakfast - he could have leaped on top of me in a fraction of a second, at the speed he was coming down. I keep wondering if my own noise and scent did not mess his hunt - His trajectory seemed to be headed between the deer and me, and he turned sharply to my left to get off my way at the last moment.
The goal for today’s hike is a short stop at Tuolumne Meadows, then race as far as I can down the Lyell Canyon to be in a good spot for Donahue Pass the next day. In my head it’s more like a connecting day.
I reach Tuolumne around 11 am, tired, low energy - it’s an off day. I grab a resupply package,I buy a cheap pair of sunglasses - lost mine while filtering water in my dumb fatigue stupor on evening 2. I purchase the cheesiest postcard I can find to let my wife know I am still alive (“Saw a mountain lion. All is well!). I have no change for the postcard stamp, the hiker next to me gives me 35 cents with a smile. People inside and out are oozing kindness.
I grab a burger and a fruit salad at the grill. I claim a large picnic table to break down my resupply package and sort food, surrounded by other cheerful backpackers - everyone is fussing with gear, grabbing a bite, taking a break, getting their hike ready. On the neighboring table, 4 lean and strong young hikers with bright eyes and smiling faces have fabricated Colorful JMT embroidered patches as a gift for all the JMT hikers they meet on the trail. “On denim, because that’s what John Muir was wearing on the mountain”. Very sweet, classy move, I grab a rad one. I give them my excess food - 2 energy bars, a pound of homemade trail mix, some instant oatmeal, some fruit paste strips. I had packed about 2000 calories per day but I can barely eat 1200, typical.
All that said and done, it’s time to hike. I push forward. The burger feels heavy in my stomach, my limbs are lazy and tired, my backpack harness feels off and pulls on a shoulder, unbalanced. I stop for a small rest, lying down on a tender patch of lush grass in the shadows of Lyell canyon, hoping to regain some chutzpah that never comes. I hike some more, but I am very slow today. I drop the towel around 4 pm, not very pleased with myself - I am short about 4 miles from my intended stop, and these miles will add up to tomorrow’s hike - it now looks like a 16 mile day tomorrow over Donahue and Island pass.
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Satchel Buddah
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 5
I am up at 4. I feel strong and rested. No hot water this morning to save time, cold coffee and energy bar, and soon enough I am pounding miles with the headlamp. I have a 6 miles stretch of flat trail on the floor of the canyon before ascending Donahue, this is my chance to make up yesterday’s lost time and mileage. I devour the trail, my feet pound a fast and steady beat on the crunchy gravel. The goal for the end of the day is the northwest shore of Thousand Island lake, about 16 miles away.
Dawn softly caresses the land. In the slowly rising light, the Tuolumne river is smoking in the frozen morning. Cold is great for a fast pace, I am wearing running shorts, a thin merino t-shirt, flimsy uv arm sleeves and thin liner wool gloves. If I get cold it means I am not walking fast enough.
I reach the end of the canyon and start climbing towards the pass. On the steeper bits the trail turns into stairs, sometimes with beautiful stonework - made with love by skilled trail builders and stonemasons. The climb goes through 2 large forested terraces, following the river waterfalls, I pass several deers. I climb higher and higher, the snowy slopes of the high alpine summits that surround the pass slowly get closer. Around 10 am I reach a lovely little alpine circus, cut by a waterfall, that shelters a tiny lake and a small meadow covered in flowers and lush green grasses. A throne of perfectly proportioned rectangular rocks beckons me to sit, take a break and drink in the landscape.
The climb goes on, and on, always higher. I pass several hikers coming down and a few going up, I am passed by a few faster hikers catching up. I keep stopping to take pictures every few hundred feet - not helping my pace, but I decided before the hike that I would never let pace get in the way of enjoying the travel and taking time for detours, explorations, photography - the only time to enjoy these places is now, in a few steps it will be too late.
The alpine rocky landscape beckons, stark and beautiful, sometimes interrupted by a creek and a lush patch of wildflowers on its banks. The big snowy summits keep growing. The air is cold and the wind picks up, there are large dark clouds racing above, I don my rain jacket and it feels just right - not overheating through the effort, not freezing.
Just as I am about to summit the pass, two trains of pack horses come down on the trail, led by two men that look the part perfectly - an older cowboy with wise eyes and a large beard, a handsome young gun with a square jaw, sparkly blue eyes and a white stetson hat. A young woman on a beautiful horse follows. “How are you doing?”, with a big grin, “I am in awe of you guys taking horses through these trails!” “It’s fun”, she says. They vanish down the trail.
The cold wind strengthen, above us grey wet clouds pass at high speed, there is a little sprinkle of raindrops now and then, possibly mixed with some crystals of snow. An old broken wooden sign held together with a nylon string, and a metal plate fixed on a rock respectively announce the boundaries of the Ansel Adams Wilderness in Inyo national forest and John Muir Wilderness in Yosemite National park: the top of the pass.
The plateau under the pass is a fairy garden. Creeks murmur down the slope, wildflowers surround the trail, here and there a tarn or a tiny lake appears, small waterfalls and rapids are chirping, boulders of granite large and small dot the landscape, marmots and birds and small alpine mammals go to their businesses.
To the right, the two summits of the Ritter range poke their heads behind the mountain, skimming through the fast moving clouds: Banner and Ritter.
I am now descending down the mountain towards rush creek, then up again through Island pass. I start struggling a bit and slowing down, I compute time and pace and I think I can still do it - reach thousand island lake around sunset. The big reward is that I planned a “Zero day” at Thousand island tomorrow - I will leave the heavy gear and tent and just go climb stuff and go rogue with a light pack. A gang of Scottish or maybe Irish hikers cheer me on as they pass me “don’t give up!” they say.
The shadows grow long. I pass the scottish gang a little further, they are pitching their tents in a cute spot around tiny lakes on the island pass plateau, surrounded by wildflowers. I keep pushing on. The view of Banner and Ritter rise up, their summits are still bathing in dark clouds endlessly flowing east.
I observe Banner with apprehension: It’s on my menu for tomorrow, and I have been dreaming of summiting it for weeks, studying its approaches and facets on photos and maps, but seen from here, in this weather, in its rocky frozen flesh, it looks dark, stark, forbidding, so tall, so real.
Suddenly the downslope sharpens and I get my first glimpse at Thousand island lake. I had very high expectations for this view and there is no disappointment, glorious landscape, this is one of the jewels of the sierra indeed, the large shimmering blue lake with countless tiny island of granite, some of them harboring vegetation. At the western end of the lake, Banner and Ritter rise up and dominate the landscape, with Glacier pass still harboring snowfields to their north.
I reach the shore of Thousand island around 6:30, I hurry past the first campsites, all have been claimed. The light is falling fast now - It is a spectacular sunset show, with a dramatic cloudscape capturing the grazing lights of the setting sun. This morning, I have buried my tripod out of reach at the bottom of the backpack, trying to balance it perfectly for the long day hike, but now I am bitterly regretting it. I need to find a camp fast if I want to capture something, I am too tired to dump my pack and pull everything out.
The northern shore of thousand island lake is a granite fractal. Imagine pouring thick melted chocolate on a sloped frozen marble top, it would solidify in countless puddles. Countless granite shelves overlook the lake and cradle their own secret micro gardens, seen only from the inside or from higher grounds. Only a few of them harbor a suitable campsite. I start see-sawing the northern slope of the lake up and down while heading deeper west.
A little after 7:30 I finally find a happy place to pitch the tent. Night is falling and I am too beat for photography (this cheaty picture of the camp is from the following night, no clouds). I warm some water for a miso soup and a dehydrated cod brandade (yes, French backpacking food is the best.). I feel pretty snazzy having reached my intended target for the day, about 16 miles all told, with a good chunk of elevation change, plenty of stops for contemplation and lollygagging. I managed to resist the urge to worry about pace and mileage for most of the day, but I regret the missed opportunity with the evening light. Tomorrow is another day. I am exhausted, pounded feet, warm legs, energy store at zero. A great feeling. I started the day’s hike more than 14 hours ago, and I do not last long. I am in bed at 8:30.
I am up at 4. I feel strong and rested. No hot water this morning to save time, cold coffee and energy bar, and soon enough I am pounding miles with the headlamp. I have a 6 miles stretch of flat trail on the floor of the canyon before ascending Donahue, this is my chance to make up yesterday’s lost time and mileage. I devour the trail, my feet pound a fast and steady beat on the crunchy gravel. The goal for the end of the day is the northwest shore of Thousand Island lake, about 16 miles away.
Dawn softly caresses the land. In the slowly rising light, the Tuolumne river is smoking in the frozen morning. Cold is great for a fast pace, I am wearing running shorts, a thin merino t-shirt, flimsy uv arm sleeves and thin liner wool gloves. If I get cold it means I am not walking fast enough.
I reach the end of the canyon and start climbing towards the pass. On the steeper bits the trail turns into stairs, sometimes with beautiful stonework - made with love by skilled trail builders and stonemasons. The climb goes through 2 large forested terraces, following the river waterfalls, I pass several deers. I climb higher and higher, the snowy slopes of the high alpine summits that surround the pass slowly get closer. Around 10 am I reach a lovely little alpine circus, cut by a waterfall, that shelters a tiny lake and a small meadow covered in flowers and lush green grasses. A throne of perfectly proportioned rectangular rocks beckons me to sit, take a break and drink in the landscape.
The climb goes on, and on, always higher. I pass several hikers coming down and a few going up, I am passed by a few faster hikers catching up. I keep stopping to take pictures every few hundred feet - not helping my pace, but I decided before the hike that I would never let pace get in the way of enjoying the travel and taking time for detours, explorations, photography - the only time to enjoy these places is now, in a few steps it will be too late.
The alpine rocky landscape beckons, stark and beautiful, sometimes interrupted by a creek and a lush patch of wildflowers on its banks. The big snowy summits keep growing. The air is cold and the wind picks up, there are large dark clouds racing above, I don my rain jacket and it feels just right - not overheating through the effort, not freezing.
Just as I am about to summit the pass, two trains of pack horses come down on the trail, led by two men that look the part perfectly - an older cowboy with wise eyes and a large beard, a handsome young gun with a square jaw, sparkly blue eyes and a white stetson hat. A young woman on a beautiful horse follows. “How are you doing?”, with a big grin, “I am in awe of you guys taking horses through these trails!” “It’s fun”, she says. They vanish down the trail.
The cold wind strengthen, above us grey wet clouds pass at high speed, there is a little sprinkle of raindrops now and then, possibly mixed with some crystals of snow. An old broken wooden sign held together with a nylon string, and a metal plate fixed on a rock respectively announce the boundaries of the Ansel Adams Wilderness in Inyo national forest and John Muir Wilderness in Yosemite National park: the top of the pass.
The plateau under the pass is a fairy garden. Creeks murmur down the slope, wildflowers surround the trail, here and there a tarn or a tiny lake appears, small waterfalls and rapids are chirping, boulders of granite large and small dot the landscape, marmots and birds and small alpine mammals go to their businesses.
To the right, the two summits of the Ritter range poke their heads behind the mountain, skimming through the fast moving clouds: Banner and Ritter.
I am now descending down the mountain towards rush creek, then up again through Island pass. I start struggling a bit and slowing down, I compute time and pace and I think I can still do it - reach thousand island lake around sunset. The big reward is that I planned a “Zero day” at Thousand island tomorrow - I will leave the heavy gear and tent and just go climb stuff and go rogue with a light pack. A gang of Scottish or maybe Irish hikers cheer me on as they pass me “don’t give up!” they say.
The shadows grow long. I pass the scottish gang a little further, they are pitching their tents in a cute spot around tiny lakes on the island pass plateau, surrounded by wildflowers. I keep pushing on. The view of Banner and Ritter rise up, their summits are still bathing in dark clouds endlessly flowing east.
I observe Banner with apprehension: It’s on my menu for tomorrow, and I have been dreaming of summiting it for weeks, studying its approaches and facets on photos and maps, but seen from here, in this weather, in its rocky frozen flesh, it looks dark, stark, forbidding, so tall, so real.
Suddenly the downslope sharpens and I get my first glimpse at Thousand island lake. I had very high expectations for this view and there is no disappointment, glorious landscape, this is one of the jewels of the sierra indeed, the large shimmering blue lake with countless tiny island of granite, some of them harboring vegetation. At the western end of the lake, Banner and Ritter rise up and dominate the landscape, with Glacier pass still harboring snowfields to their north.
I reach the shore of Thousand island around 6:30, I hurry past the first campsites, all have been claimed. The light is falling fast now - It is a spectacular sunset show, with a dramatic cloudscape capturing the grazing lights of the setting sun. This morning, I have buried my tripod out of reach at the bottom of the backpack, trying to balance it perfectly for the long day hike, but now I am bitterly regretting it. I need to find a camp fast if I want to capture something, I am too tired to dump my pack and pull everything out.
The northern shore of thousand island lake is a granite fractal. Imagine pouring thick melted chocolate on a sloped frozen marble top, it would solidify in countless puddles. Countless granite shelves overlook the lake and cradle their own secret micro gardens, seen only from the inside or from higher grounds. Only a few of them harbor a suitable campsite. I start see-sawing the northern slope of the lake up and down while heading deeper west.
A little after 7:30 I finally find a happy place to pitch the tent. Night is falling and I am too beat for photography (this cheaty picture of the camp is from the following night, no clouds). I warm some water for a miso soup and a dehydrated cod brandade (yes, French backpacking food is the best.). I feel pretty snazzy having reached my intended target for the day, about 16 miles all told, with a good chunk of elevation change, plenty of stops for contemplation and lollygagging. I managed to resist the urge to worry about pace and mileage for most of the day, but I regret the missed opportunity with the evening light. Tomorrow is another day. I am exhausted, pounded feet, warm legs, energy store at zero. A great feeling. I started the day’s hike more than 14 hours ago, and I do not last long. I am in bed at 8:30.
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Satchel Buddah
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 6
The wind has blown through the night, now and then a short rain sprinkling on the tent. I force myself off bed around 5 am and get on photography right away: Sunrise is already casting glorious light on a spectacular shredded cloudscape still pouring in high winds from behind Banner and Ritter.
This is an off day. The pattern repeats again, on and off. Yesterday was a big, long strong hike day and today I am paying the price, tired, beat, limp.
Today’s original plan was a “Zero day” - leaving the camp in place and going berserk scrambling up the mountain with a light pack. My very prime objective, given the right conditions, was to summit Banner Peak - spent many hours studying that climb, I asked for this forum’s wisdom about it, and on the paper, with good weather it is within my capacities, no technical climbing. Before the hike I had to promise my wife I would not attempt it if I was not feeling strong, if the mountain “looked bigger than me”, if the weather was bad.
Looking at it this morning, thick fast clouds are still pouring at high speed through the summits, and this does not look like a climbing day. I have long passed a decent start time, and my body feels beat. I conclude it’s urgent to not take a decision, let’s wait a little and see what comes. I do some maintenance, a little sponge bath, the weather is too frigid for a swim.
7 AM. I stare at the threatening clouds still spewing from Banner and I make a strong decision for the next step in my adventure: a nap.
11 am. After a long inner debate, I am heading towards Glacier Pass and Banner. My pan B was to day hike to Garnet lake cross country across the ridge south of Thousand Island lakes, but Banner is pulling at me. Clouds are pouring in still, at very high speed near the summit, but the weather could stabilize while I ascend Glacier. It’s very late in the day to get started and I know my odds for summit are now extremely thin, but who knows, one step at a time. At least I can study the way up and learn a thing or two. I grab a light pack and leave the camp in place, pot filled with water, a reserve of filtered water at the ready and stove ready to fire, the promise of an easy lazy evening.
The first step of the ascent is yet another fairy garden, the hard rock version of the one past Donahue. This one is louder and less gentle than yesterday’s : roaring waterfalls, fast creeks, lush grasses, thick concentrations of wildflowers, the rocks here are angry, angular, sharp, fresh breaks of the mountain mostly not weathered yet, their volcanic colors are bolder and more threatening, shades of stark blacks stained with rust and lichens.
There was a small use trail guiding me from the lake at the beginning, but I lost it early on and I am now going up the mountain, trying to make wise choices about there to head. I exit the vegetation layer and arrive at last large balcony with a tarn and some faint weather beaten greenery, at its far edge I see a small alpine tent. The wind is irregular, sometimes blowing hard in a rage, sometimes a little milder. Patches of blue appear in the sky, some patches of sunlight reach me, the clouds are maybe a notch higher, but they still look too fast and a bit threatening.
I reach the rockfall in the center of the pass. A large gully filled with large angular rocky chunks from the mountain faces surrounding it. At the center some rocks are very large, the size of cars, trucks and houses, on the outside they are smaller size. I start in the center, retract the hiking sticks and pack them, it’s easier to rely on my balance as I clamber from one rock to the next. This is fun, I am enjoying myself quite a bit but I recognize that pace has slowed down dramatically, on the large rocks I am now half hiking and half scrambling to get from one rock to the next. It’s time to get off the center and I head to the south slope, towards the smaller easier stuff and the first snowfield.
I meet two hikers with tiny day packs there, taking a break on the way down. They are maybe a little older than me, big smiles on their faces. “Hi guys! How high did you go?” They went through the pass, around lake Catherine and reached the base of the glacier on the saddle between Banner and Ritter - the “easy” route for the summit that I was hoping to follow. They say they have wanted to climb Banner on this route for years, but today is still not the day - too late in the day and the weather is too harsh. Still they are delighted to have reached the final glacier and that accomplishment illuminates their faces, bright smiles and sparky eyes. They have climbed Banner and Ritter several times in times past from the south side of the mountains, via Lake Ediza. “The summit looks really close from here”, I remark. All three of us stare at it in silence for a minute, there is a bit of longing and computation of effort and time in our gazes. “That is true”, one of them says, smiling. We laugh and make jokes about shamefully walking back from a commitment to a summit climb with made up excuses. We bid each other safe and fun travels, and I resume the ascent.
I am now on the steep snowfield and I don the microspikes and ice axe. The ice axe is still a bit of an exotic object for me, and I drill the emergency self arrest motions on each arm for a couple minutes.
The snow travel teaches me a first good lesson - Just as some of you tried to explain to me, the microspikes are rubbish in summer, their tiny teeth cannot reach the hard frozen snow through the top wet snow, and they offer very little solid footing. Next time I come here I will bring crampons. On the other hand, the ice axe feels great, at each step I plant the spike and it feels solid in the frozen ice underground - this is something I can hold on and trust, and it feeds great confidence in the travel on the long slope.
Past the snowfield, I reach the last obstacle of the pass: a moraine of large broken rocks that looks a bit like a great wall. I am at respectably high altitude now, a little under 11200 feet, and the altitude beats me up a little, I feel lazy and tired, I need to rest every few steps. A hiker appears on top of the moraine, he is coming down from the pass. We wave at each other, he screams over the wind “I am coming to your side” and clambers through the rock wall. “I recognize you”, he says with a smile, “we met in Tuolumne”. He was one of the hikers oozing kindness, that offered us JMT patches back on the picnic tables in front of the post office, and I had given him my little bit of excess food. He comes from Ohio, and he made his way to this pass from Tuolumne cross country. Hiking badassery, I am working my way up to it, one step at a time. We say our goodbyes and in one tiny last push, I am over the moraine and on top of Glacier pass, taking in lake Catherine, the Banner and Ritter summits that feel so close now, I could nearly touch them. I stare at the lip of the glacier that separates them and leads up to Banner summit. The black mineral stone walls, with sloping ice and snow surrounding the perfect blue waters of Catherine look otherworldly. Wonderland high alpine landscape.
It is now 14:30. The wind blows furiously, my rain jacket emits a constant obstinato of whip cracks. There are patches of blue sky piercing above finally, but heavy clouds are still racing over. In my mind I think about the summit... I could maybe make it by 5... And then go down with the headlamp. But this just looks iffy. The wind must be straight dangerous higher up and some clouds are still obscuring the summit now and then. I am replaying our earlier jokes about shamefully walking back a summit commit, I grin and decide to turn back to camp. See you next time, Banner.
The hike down is peaceful and much easier - coming down I find a small use trail on the south wall, criss crossing a creek. I hear waterfalls roaring from the opposite wall. The slowly falling sun casts wide cloud shadows across the landscape. I make it to the lake’s edge by 4:30 pm, and start to hike back to camp. I am beat, this was not as heavy a day as yesterday but the accumulated fatigue starts stacking up. I am grinning and feel lifted by my little adventure of the day - climbing that pass was fun, and I shall return. I am thinking about my neatly setup camp ready to welcome me. I will relax, maybe go for a swim, read, and do some photography at sunset.
Last night, a good while before setting camp, I passed a blue duplex tent - very recognizable. I nearly reach it now - I must have passed my campsite without realizing, daydreaming does that. I start hiking back west to the mountain. 20 minutes later, I realize I have hiked too far west, I must have missed my camp again. I turn around, now scanning for the small landmarks I think I remember about my camp: this large dried tarn. This strange large angular rock towering over a stained granite plate. There are many similar landmarks but none of them quite perfectly fits. I reach the blue tent again. Maybe I have aimed too low, time to go higher up the ridge so I can see inside the granite balconies. My tent is made of camouflage fabric and it does not help - spotting it at a distance is going to be a toughie, and finding it at night would be a miracle. I start seesawing up and down the slope, westward and eastward, making notes of excellent potential future campsites, each time stopping at the blue tent.
This game lasts for two hours, all through which my adrenaline is amping up, I step faster and faster as various nightmare scenarios start playing in my fuzzy mind. Daylight starts falling as the sun hides behind the Ritter range. I can only point at the dumb stupor fatigue syndrome to explain the mental block. Getting water after nightfall and finding back camp was easy yesterday.
In the end, I pull out the camera and study pictures of the landscape taken from the campsite this morning. Examining details of the pictures on the camera screen is awkward and time consuming. I try to identify the lake’s island shapes in the fading light, their perspective, their position relative to the snowfields on the opposite side, the probable angle of the camera favoring Banner and composition from the campsite. Science, geometry and triangulation can lift the world. I walk past the blue tent and up 50 yards, and drop my pack next to my tent.
This blue duplex tent of course belongs to a different hiker, and he pitched unknowingly just under my invisible campsite. I walk down to his camp, a couple other hikers have joined him to chat, I tell them about the silly end of my adventure day. “I did see you walk by, it was a while ago”. “Two hours ago” I say with a pained smile. “You should have come and ask. I discovered your campsite this afternoon”.
Why did I not come and ask ? The sin of pride, the certitude of self reliance. I flatter myself that my sense of orientation and spatial awareness is flawless, but the memory of a blue tent was enough to wreck it. I am full of dumb, and humility would have served me much better. This was a great lesson with no harm done - I will be wiser in the future.
Time for dinner - Miso soup, channa massala, a handful of haribos, a cup of chamomile. The stars show up, the sky is finally clear. I make a few long exposure stacks and wrap up the day, exhausted. I have two days to make it to Red’s, without any major objectives, easily done. The leisure hike will begin tomorrow.
The wind has blown through the night, now and then a short rain sprinkling on the tent. I force myself off bed around 5 am and get on photography right away: Sunrise is already casting glorious light on a spectacular shredded cloudscape still pouring in high winds from behind Banner and Ritter.
This is an off day. The pattern repeats again, on and off. Yesterday was a big, long strong hike day and today I am paying the price, tired, beat, limp.
Today’s original plan was a “Zero day” - leaving the camp in place and going berserk scrambling up the mountain with a light pack. My very prime objective, given the right conditions, was to summit Banner Peak - spent many hours studying that climb, I asked for this forum’s wisdom about it, and on the paper, with good weather it is within my capacities, no technical climbing. Before the hike I had to promise my wife I would not attempt it if I was not feeling strong, if the mountain “looked bigger than me”, if the weather was bad.
Looking at it this morning, thick fast clouds are still pouring at high speed through the summits, and this does not look like a climbing day. I have long passed a decent start time, and my body feels beat. I conclude it’s urgent to not take a decision, let’s wait a little and see what comes. I do some maintenance, a little sponge bath, the weather is too frigid for a swim.
7 AM. I stare at the threatening clouds still spewing from Banner and I make a strong decision for the next step in my adventure: a nap.
11 am. After a long inner debate, I am heading towards Glacier Pass and Banner. My pan B was to day hike to Garnet lake cross country across the ridge south of Thousand Island lakes, but Banner is pulling at me. Clouds are pouring in still, at very high speed near the summit, but the weather could stabilize while I ascend Glacier. It’s very late in the day to get started and I know my odds for summit are now extremely thin, but who knows, one step at a time. At least I can study the way up and learn a thing or two. I grab a light pack and leave the camp in place, pot filled with water, a reserve of filtered water at the ready and stove ready to fire, the promise of an easy lazy evening.
The first step of the ascent is yet another fairy garden, the hard rock version of the one past Donahue. This one is louder and less gentle than yesterday’s : roaring waterfalls, fast creeks, lush grasses, thick concentrations of wildflowers, the rocks here are angry, angular, sharp, fresh breaks of the mountain mostly not weathered yet, their volcanic colors are bolder and more threatening, shades of stark blacks stained with rust and lichens.
There was a small use trail guiding me from the lake at the beginning, but I lost it early on and I am now going up the mountain, trying to make wise choices about there to head. I exit the vegetation layer and arrive at last large balcony with a tarn and some faint weather beaten greenery, at its far edge I see a small alpine tent. The wind is irregular, sometimes blowing hard in a rage, sometimes a little milder. Patches of blue appear in the sky, some patches of sunlight reach me, the clouds are maybe a notch higher, but they still look too fast and a bit threatening.
I reach the rockfall in the center of the pass. A large gully filled with large angular rocky chunks from the mountain faces surrounding it. At the center some rocks are very large, the size of cars, trucks and houses, on the outside they are smaller size. I start in the center, retract the hiking sticks and pack them, it’s easier to rely on my balance as I clamber from one rock to the next. This is fun, I am enjoying myself quite a bit but I recognize that pace has slowed down dramatically, on the large rocks I am now half hiking and half scrambling to get from one rock to the next. It’s time to get off the center and I head to the south slope, towards the smaller easier stuff and the first snowfield.
I meet two hikers with tiny day packs there, taking a break on the way down. They are maybe a little older than me, big smiles on their faces. “Hi guys! How high did you go?” They went through the pass, around lake Catherine and reached the base of the glacier on the saddle between Banner and Ritter - the “easy” route for the summit that I was hoping to follow. They say they have wanted to climb Banner on this route for years, but today is still not the day - too late in the day and the weather is too harsh. Still they are delighted to have reached the final glacier and that accomplishment illuminates their faces, bright smiles and sparky eyes. They have climbed Banner and Ritter several times in times past from the south side of the mountains, via Lake Ediza. “The summit looks really close from here”, I remark. All three of us stare at it in silence for a minute, there is a bit of longing and computation of effort and time in our gazes. “That is true”, one of them says, smiling. We laugh and make jokes about shamefully walking back from a commitment to a summit climb with made up excuses. We bid each other safe and fun travels, and I resume the ascent.
I am now on the steep snowfield and I don the microspikes and ice axe. The ice axe is still a bit of an exotic object for me, and I drill the emergency self arrest motions on each arm for a couple minutes.
The snow travel teaches me a first good lesson - Just as some of you tried to explain to me, the microspikes are rubbish in summer, their tiny teeth cannot reach the hard frozen snow through the top wet snow, and they offer very little solid footing. Next time I come here I will bring crampons. On the other hand, the ice axe feels great, at each step I plant the spike and it feels solid in the frozen ice underground - this is something I can hold on and trust, and it feeds great confidence in the travel on the long slope.
Past the snowfield, I reach the last obstacle of the pass: a moraine of large broken rocks that looks a bit like a great wall. I am at respectably high altitude now, a little under 11200 feet, and the altitude beats me up a little, I feel lazy and tired, I need to rest every few steps. A hiker appears on top of the moraine, he is coming down from the pass. We wave at each other, he screams over the wind “I am coming to your side” and clambers through the rock wall. “I recognize you”, he says with a smile, “we met in Tuolumne”. He was one of the hikers oozing kindness, that offered us JMT patches back on the picnic tables in front of the post office, and I had given him my little bit of excess food. He comes from Ohio, and he made his way to this pass from Tuolumne cross country. Hiking badassery, I am working my way up to it, one step at a time. We say our goodbyes and in one tiny last push, I am over the moraine and on top of Glacier pass, taking in lake Catherine, the Banner and Ritter summits that feel so close now, I could nearly touch them. I stare at the lip of the glacier that separates them and leads up to Banner summit. The black mineral stone walls, with sloping ice and snow surrounding the perfect blue waters of Catherine look otherworldly. Wonderland high alpine landscape.
It is now 14:30. The wind blows furiously, my rain jacket emits a constant obstinato of whip cracks. There are patches of blue sky piercing above finally, but heavy clouds are still racing over. In my mind I think about the summit... I could maybe make it by 5... And then go down with the headlamp. But this just looks iffy. The wind must be straight dangerous higher up and some clouds are still obscuring the summit now and then. I am replaying our earlier jokes about shamefully walking back a summit commit, I grin and decide to turn back to camp. See you next time, Banner.
The hike down is peaceful and much easier - coming down I find a small use trail on the south wall, criss crossing a creek. I hear waterfalls roaring from the opposite wall. The slowly falling sun casts wide cloud shadows across the landscape. I make it to the lake’s edge by 4:30 pm, and start to hike back to camp. I am beat, this was not as heavy a day as yesterday but the accumulated fatigue starts stacking up. I am grinning and feel lifted by my little adventure of the day - climbing that pass was fun, and I shall return. I am thinking about my neatly setup camp ready to welcome me. I will relax, maybe go for a swim, read, and do some photography at sunset.
Last night, a good while before setting camp, I passed a blue duplex tent - very recognizable. I nearly reach it now - I must have passed my campsite without realizing, daydreaming does that. I start hiking back west to the mountain. 20 minutes later, I realize I have hiked too far west, I must have missed my camp again. I turn around, now scanning for the small landmarks I think I remember about my camp: this large dried tarn. This strange large angular rock towering over a stained granite plate. There are many similar landmarks but none of them quite perfectly fits. I reach the blue tent again. Maybe I have aimed too low, time to go higher up the ridge so I can see inside the granite balconies. My tent is made of camouflage fabric and it does not help - spotting it at a distance is going to be a toughie, and finding it at night would be a miracle. I start seesawing up and down the slope, westward and eastward, making notes of excellent potential future campsites, each time stopping at the blue tent.
This game lasts for two hours, all through which my adrenaline is amping up, I step faster and faster as various nightmare scenarios start playing in my fuzzy mind. Daylight starts falling as the sun hides behind the Ritter range. I can only point at the dumb stupor fatigue syndrome to explain the mental block. Getting water after nightfall and finding back camp was easy yesterday.
In the end, I pull out the camera and study pictures of the landscape taken from the campsite this morning. Examining details of the pictures on the camera screen is awkward and time consuming. I try to identify the lake’s island shapes in the fading light, their perspective, their position relative to the snowfields on the opposite side, the probable angle of the camera favoring Banner and composition from the campsite. Science, geometry and triangulation can lift the world. I walk past the blue tent and up 50 yards, and drop my pack next to my tent.
This blue duplex tent of course belongs to a different hiker, and he pitched unknowingly just under my invisible campsite. I walk down to his camp, a couple other hikers have joined him to chat, I tell them about the silly end of my adventure day. “I did see you walk by, it was a while ago”. “Two hours ago” I say with a pained smile. “You should have come and ask. I discovered your campsite this afternoon”.
Why did I not come and ask ? The sin of pride, the certitude of self reliance. I flatter myself that my sense of orientation and spatial awareness is flawless, but the memory of a blue tent was enough to wreck it. I am full of dumb, and humility would have served me much better. This was a great lesson with no harm done - I will be wiser in the future.
Time for dinner - Miso soup, channa massala, a handful of haribos, a cup of chamomile. The stars show up, the sky is finally clear. I make a few long exposure stacks and wrap up the day, exhausted. I have two days to make it to Red’s, without any major objectives, easily done. The leisure hike will begin tomorrow.
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Last edited by Satchel Buddah on Sun Sep 22, 2019 4:24 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Satchel Buddah
- Topix Acquainted
- Posts: 98
- Joined: Mon Jan 09, 2017 3:23 pm
- Experience: Level 2 Backpacker
Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 7
Lazy morning. Up around 6. The weather is fresh but the sky is blue and spotless, Banner’s face shines in the morning light. The goal for the day is to come down the mountain, nearly exit but not quite - a last night somewhere around Trinity lakes 10 miles away for an easy exit at Postpile or Red’s meadow tomorrow morning. I feel pretty relaxed - the rest of my itinerary should be tender, a nice warm down to the end of the hike.
Today is going to be lake day: Emerald Lake, lovely Ruby lake, Garnet, Shadow lake, Rosalie lake, Gladis lake, Trinity lakes. I had the misconception that today’s hike was a long smooth downslope motion but gazing at the topo map I obviously have my trails wrong, the PCT is the lazy trail with a seemingly flat finish to Crescent Meadow. The JMT makes a point to climb every possible ridge then dive down to touch every lake at the bottom of the valleys. Every time a new set of switchbacks appears I cannot resist a wicked grin, this must be some sort of practical joke. But a lovely joke it is, and a beautiful travel it is.
In my head a little wimpy voice pokes at me - maybe I should exit at Crescent meadow and shorten the hike, maybe I should just crush the rest of the trail and make it to Red’s for dinner... I resist the little voice, I want that last night in the wild, just one more, stick to the mountain while it can be had, I want that last day of peaceful travel. Milk it while it lasts. I walk at a relaxed pace.
Past Garnet some day hikers have started to appear, and the trail feels a bit less wild. A crowd of tents has claimed the shores of Shadow, Rosalie, Gladis lakes - I remember now, this is a saturday, and week-end hikers are on the mountain.
The weather freshens, the light starts to fade as the sun hides behind the Minarets, I reach Trinity lakes around 6pm and leave the trail, exploring the slope - I am looking for some sort of shelf with an open view on the night sky. I settle for an open space on granite sand, nested between 3 small lakes, this is a large flat terrace with many downed tree husks on the ground, there has been a catastrophic weather event around here in 2011 that fell thousand of trees. If you are into creepy this would be a choice camp.
The wind strengthens through dinner, and it gets very cold. I tighten the tent and place some heavy rocks on the stakes. Through the night a violent gusty wind is howling on the mountain slope and screeching in the tree branches. At times if feels like a small tornado is vacuuming the mountain, traveling in circles, licking at the tent here and there, but the tent is taut and steady.
Around midnight, the wind calms down at last and I hear something I have never heard before: A large pack of Coyotes is yipping in the night, loud and clear and too close for comfort. They seem to be just a bit lower down the mountain, maybe a few hundred yards. A first howl, thinner than a Wolf’s or a Dog’s, triggers a torrent of fast yips, seemingly coming from countless voices, the voices keep adding up in a large cacophony. The yipping goes on for a couple minutes and dies off slowly, the voices vanish one after another. In the night it sounds like a large pack, maybe 20 or 30, and my usually unflappable self is suddenly feeling very unsettled. Bears and mountain lions do not trigger fear, but pack predators is a whole different story - what can you do if you are surrounded by 20 hungry dogs ? Chest haired romantic visions enter my mind: A man standing by a camp fire, a long wooden torch in hand, aimed pointlessly at the surrounding darkness. Around him, a constellation of gleaming, hungry eyes flicker and bide their time. A lovely bedtime heroic story. I go back to sleep.
This incident tickled me enough that once off trail, I read some articles about coyotes yipping. The sound of their vocalizations make it seem like they are more numerous than they actually are, and it is a safe bet to halve your estimated headcount - This was maybe a pack of about 10.
Lazy morning. Up around 6. The weather is fresh but the sky is blue and spotless, Banner’s face shines in the morning light. The goal for the day is to come down the mountain, nearly exit but not quite - a last night somewhere around Trinity lakes 10 miles away for an easy exit at Postpile or Red’s meadow tomorrow morning. I feel pretty relaxed - the rest of my itinerary should be tender, a nice warm down to the end of the hike.
Today is going to be lake day: Emerald Lake, lovely Ruby lake, Garnet, Shadow lake, Rosalie lake, Gladis lake, Trinity lakes. I had the misconception that today’s hike was a long smooth downslope motion but gazing at the topo map I obviously have my trails wrong, the PCT is the lazy trail with a seemingly flat finish to Crescent Meadow. The JMT makes a point to climb every possible ridge then dive down to touch every lake at the bottom of the valleys. Every time a new set of switchbacks appears I cannot resist a wicked grin, this must be some sort of practical joke. But a lovely joke it is, and a beautiful travel it is.
In my head a little wimpy voice pokes at me - maybe I should exit at Crescent meadow and shorten the hike, maybe I should just crush the rest of the trail and make it to Red’s for dinner... I resist the little voice, I want that last night in the wild, just one more, stick to the mountain while it can be had, I want that last day of peaceful travel. Milk it while it lasts. I walk at a relaxed pace.
Past Garnet some day hikers have started to appear, and the trail feels a bit less wild. A crowd of tents has claimed the shores of Shadow, Rosalie, Gladis lakes - I remember now, this is a saturday, and week-end hikers are on the mountain.
The weather freshens, the light starts to fade as the sun hides behind the Minarets, I reach Trinity lakes around 6pm and leave the trail, exploring the slope - I am looking for some sort of shelf with an open view on the night sky. I settle for an open space on granite sand, nested between 3 small lakes, this is a large flat terrace with many downed tree husks on the ground, there has been a catastrophic weather event around here in 2011 that fell thousand of trees. If you are into creepy this would be a choice camp.
The wind strengthens through dinner, and it gets very cold. I tighten the tent and place some heavy rocks on the stakes. Through the night a violent gusty wind is howling on the mountain slope and screeching in the tree branches. At times if feels like a small tornado is vacuuming the mountain, traveling in circles, licking at the tent here and there, but the tent is taut and steady.
Around midnight, the wind calms down at last and I hear something I have never heard before: A large pack of Coyotes is yipping in the night, loud and clear and too close for comfort. They seem to be just a bit lower down the mountain, maybe a few hundred yards. A first howl, thinner than a Wolf’s or a Dog’s, triggers a torrent of fast yips, seemingly coming from countless voices, the voices keep adding up in a large cacophony. The yipping goes on for a couple minutes and dies off slowly, the voices vanish one after another. In the night it sounds like a large pack, maybe 20 or 30, and my usually unflappable self is suddenly feeling very unsettled. Bears and mountain lions do not trigger fear, but pack predators is a whole different story - what can you do if you are surrounded by 20 hungry dogs ? Chest haired romantic visions enter my mind: A man standing by a camp fire, a long wooden torch in hand, aimed pointlessly at the surrounding darkness. Around him, a constellation of gleaming, hungry eyes flicker and bide their time. A lovely bedtime heroic story. I go back to sleep.
This incident tickled me enough that once off trail, I read some articles about coyotes yipping. The sound of their vocalizations make it seem like they are more numerous than they actually are, and it is a safe bet to halve your estimated headcount - This was maybe a pack of about 10.
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Last edited by Satchel Buddah on Sun Sep 22, 2019 4:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Satchel Buddah
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Day 8
I wake up around 4:30 and the temperature is frigid. I warm up water for breakfast just outside the tent, still wrapped into my cozy warm quilt. The plan for the day is to hike to Red’s resort, maybe 5 or 6 miles, grab a shower and a breakfast, rejoin mammoth airport and pick up the car, for a long drive back to LA. I feel strong and rested, and I hope to finish the trail at a glorious pace.
I don the skimpy outfit, running shorts, thin t-shirt, UV arm sleeves, thin wool gloves and start hiking. Cold is a glorious motivator for a fast pace, but this morning it’s cold enough that I cannot get quite enough warmth into my limbs, and I make big circles with my arms while hiking in a most dignified manner. This is my take on the ministry of silly walks.
Just after daylight starts to appear, I come across a hiking couple heading up to the mountain. They are maybe early 60’s, or very fit late 60’s, the man adorns a large shining white beard, the woman’s face is framed by a baklava. Large smiles and luminous eyes. They both lug Zpacks bags of the right size, these guys know what they are doing. “What a shiny frozen morning”, the lady greets. “Cold makes you hike faster”, I say with a grin, “where are you headed tonight?”. “Ahhh”, the man says, “we are on mile 171 so now it does not matter much. we are going that way”, pointing at the mountains behind me. “There is so much beauty ahead of you, it’s your lucky day”, I answer with a smile. We wish each other a safe hike and separate after a fist bump. I wish I had taken their portrait, their beautiful and enlightened faces stay with me, oozing with kindness.
I finally step into Devil’s Postpile around 9, soon crowded by families seeing the sights and day hikers in trendy clothing. Scents of soap and fresh bodies. Civilization caught up with me at last. I cross the road and step into Red’s meadow campground. A few minutes later I purchase 10 precious minutes of hot water, a delightful soapy shower ensues. I hit the restaurant and grab breakfast, sharing war stories with other hikers. I catch the shuttle and finally retrieve my car at mammoth Airport.
On the way back to lost Angeles, past Bishop I see a large white cloud slashing through the sky, and soon enough I see wildfires on the eastern sierra. It instantly brings back memories of the previous summer, when all of California was on fire and large ash clouds were covering several states. I was hiking in august, steering away from the omnipresent thick smoke from the many fires. my heart goes to all the hikers still on trail, may the fires vanish, your skies stay clear and your air breathable. I wish you all happy trails.
I wake up around 4:30 and the temperature is frigid. I warm up water for breakfast just outside the tent, still wrapped into my cozy warm quilt. The plan for the day is to hike to Red’s resort, maybe 5 or 6 miles, grab a shower and a breakfast, rejoin mammoth airport and pick up the car, for a long drive back to LA. I feel strong and rested, and I hope to finish the trail at a glorious pace.
I don the skimpy outfit, running shorts, thin t-shirt, UV arm sleeves, thin wool gloves and start hiking. Cold is a glorious motivator for a fast pace, but this morning it’s cold enough that I cannot get quite enough warmth into my limbs, and I make big circles with my arms while hiking in a most dignified manner. This is my take on the ministry of silly walks.
Just after daylight starts to appear, I come across a hiking couple heading up to the mountain. They are maybe early 60’s, or very fit late 60’s, the man adorns a large shining white beard, the woman’s face is framed by a baklava. Large smiles and luminous eyes. They both lug Zpacks bags of the right size, these guys know what they are doing. “What a shiny frozen morning”, the lady greets. “Cold makes you hike faster”, I say with a grin, “where are you headed tonight?”. “Ahhh”, the man says, “we are on mile 171 so now it does not matter much. we are going that way”, pointing at the mountains behind me. “There is so much beauty ahead of you, it’s your lucky day”, I answer with a smile. We wish each other a safe hike and separate after a fist bump. I wish I had taken their portrait, their beautiful and enlightened faces stay with me, oozing with kindness.
I finally step into Devil’s Postpile around 9, soon crowded by families seeing the sights and day hikers in trendy clothing. Scents of soap and fresh bodies. Civilization caught up with me at last. I cross the road and step into Red’s meadow campground. A few minutes later I purchase 10 precious minutes of hot water, a delightful soapy shower ensues. I hit the restaurant and grab breakfast, sharing war stories with other hikers. I catch the shuttle and finally retrieve my car at mammoth Airport.
On the way back to lost Angeles, past Bishop I see a large white cloud slashing through the sky, and soon enough I see wildfires on the eastern sierra. It instantly brings back memories of the previous summer, when all of California was on fire and large ash clouds were covering several states. I was hiking in august, steering away from the omnipresent thick smoke from the many fires. my heart goes to all the hikers still on trail, may the fires vanish, your skies stay clear and your air breathable. I wish you all happy trails.
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Last edited by Satchel Buddah on Sun Sep 22, 2019 4:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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grampy
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
Thank you for the report! I don’t think it was “too thick” or “too pedestrian” in the slightest; on the contrary, it was quite relatable. I went on a trip years ago that included a version of your “cans of beans” neighbor (in our group); I don’t think he ever went backpacking again 
Great photos; I especially liked the final two from Day 5.
Great photos; I especially liked the final two from Day 5.
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paula53
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Re: TR - A little walk on the JMT, Happy Isle to Red's 09/01 to 09/08
I enjoyed reading about your hike. In my mind I was hiking beside you. The pictures were awesome. Thank you for posting.
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