Sierra Odyssey

Hello and Welcome

In the summer of 2003, my teenage son and I hiked the John Muir Trail.  In an age where every sport must be "extreme" to be notable, hiking the John Muir Trail seems rather tame.  It is, after all, just walking.

Outdoor adventure literature is all about the extreme.  It's too bad.  Most of us are regular people whose aspirations for adventure are modest.  We know we will never summit all 14 of the 8,000-meter peaks.  It's beyond our physical capability and it requires a sacrifice and commitment that we are unwilling to make.  Though these amazing accounts are true life, for us regular folks, they are a wild fantasy.

But we can imagine ourselves undertaking an adventure like Colin Fletcher.  With no experience or special skills, Colin simply decided to walk the length of California and later, the Grand Canyon from end to end.  Nearly all of us can walk.  The critical difference between Colin Fletcher and the rest of us is that he went and did it.  We have reasons, real or imagined, why we never get around to it. 

When I browse the bookstore shelves, I keep looking for a tale told by a regular person like me of an adventure I might take.  For example, if I trek to Everest Base Camp, what should I expect?  How will I feel?  Will the altitude trouble me?  I have a guidebook; there are plenty of those.  But I'd like to learn from another person's experience what to expect and how I can enhance the trip I am planning.  What did you enjoy?  What was troublesome? 

So, I thought the story of a man and his teenage son walking the John Muir Trail together might interest other would-be adventurers like it would have interested me.  Beginning at 4,000 feet in Yosemite Valley, the John Muir Trail travels the Sierra crest for 220 miles over eleven mountain passes culminating at the summit of 14,494-foot Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the lower 48 states.  People considering such an adventure might wonder:  What is it like to backpack for three weeks?  When I take a four or five-day trip, I am always anxious to return.  Can I walk all day every day for three weeks - at altitude?  If I do it with my child, will we grow together or will we just bicker?  Perhaps our experience will give you an idea of what to expect.

I hope you will find this to be an entertaining and lively journal with some nice photos to light the way.  If you are contemplating such a trip, I encourage you to go.  If you do, along the trail, you will surely wonder what the hell possessed you to go.  Hopefully, the stunning beauty will see you through, because no matter how full your life might be with great memories, this trip will be among the sweetest.

The Night Before

Tuesday, July 15.  Backpacker Camp, Yosemite Valley.  8:45 P.M.

Tonight my son Drew and I are at Backpacker Camp in Yosemite Valley anticipating tomorrow's departure on a trip we cannot fully comprehend.  The numbered  campsites, flushing toilets, and running water we are enjoying here are luxuries we won't see for nearly a month.

Along with the excitement, I feel a sense of nervous anticipation.  There are so many questions to be answered that will end up defining this trip.  Do we have enough food, toilet paper, moleskin, insect repellent, camp stove fuel?  Or, maybe worse, do we have too much?  Are we up to the task ahead?  Or will we be done in by the heavy load, the altitude, blisters, the lousy food, bad weather, the bugs, crapping in a hole, or just the painful tedious effort of walking this rugged trail all day every day?

My nervous anticipation is magnified by the fact that I am doing this with my 18-year old son, Drew.  We made a deal.  If he comes along and carries a video camera (I have a commercial idea for its use and am carrying a still camera and lenses), I will help him purchase a second hand car he longs for.  Drew reluctantly resigned himself and now seems to have warmed a little to the adventure ahead.  But will the realities of backpacking for three weeks, with your father of all people, quickly cool that warmth into resentment?  Resentment that will be directed at me - and there is nowhere to hide in the backcountry in a two-person tent.

Tomorrow we will begin to answer these questions.  In the morning, we will shoulder our 45-pound packs and begin a 21-day 220-mile walk over eleven mountain passes reaching as high as 13,600 feet to our goal, the 14,494-foot summit of Mt. Whitney.  After weeks of planning, checking and double-checking our gear, there is nothing left to do but go.

Yet I know that all the careful planning cannot eliminate the possibility of a trip-shortening problem.  In the backcountry, a small oversight or careless mistake can have huge consequences.  I was reminded of this fact today in a powerful way when I jeopardized our entire trip through my own stupid carelessness.

We needed to come to Yosemite a day early in order to obtain a Wilderness Permit in-person.  When I decided to do this trip, I went online to check availability of permits for the month of July at the Happy Isles trailhead.  Advanced reservations for every day in July were gone.  The demand for overnight trips to Little Yosemite Valley and Half Dome makes this a popular backcountry access point, but reservations are only given for 60% of the permit allocations.  The rest go to applicants who appear in-person the same day or the day prior to a trip.

So, our family decided to come up a day early and spend the night at Curry Village.  That allowed me to be at the Wilderness Office this morning at 6:00 A.M. to be sure of obtaining a permit when they opened at 7:30.  Once that was done, we spent the rest of the day sightseeing.  On our way back from Glacier Point, we stopped at Bridalveil Falls and walked the short path to a viewpoint below the falls.

Signs warn of slippery footing on the rocks above the trail caused by the constant glaze of mist from the falls.  But like many others on the rocks above, the lure of getting closer to the falls was more than I could resist.  I scrambled up a less-traveled portion of the steep talus that Bridalveil Creek flows through below the falls when I came to an impasse.  I turned around and walked down to search for an alternate route when instantly, I was falling.  I knew I was in trouble, because it was the kind of fall where you have time to realize you are falling and wonder when it will stop.  The fall is jumbled in my memory, but I do recall a head-over-heels somersault.

Finally, I stopped.  I lay face up, my feet below me, reclining on a smooth inclined rock as though I had come there to sunbathe.  I lifted my head to get my bearings and take stock.  Amazingly, I appeared to be all right.  I waved to my daughter, who had seen the whole thing, to assure her.  I sat up and put my head between my legs to fight the onset of shock I was feeling.  I had a growing bump on my head, abrasions on my legs and a sore left foot, but that was all.

I was at once amazed at my good fortune and my outrageous carelessness.  I should be in the hospital. The trip should be scrubbed.  But miraculously, there didn't appear to be anything wrong with me that would jeopardize our plans.  After carefully descending to where my daughter was, I told her and Drew not to tell my wife.  She would worry enough while we were gone without adding this to the mix.

So, this day is done.  The steely-dusk sky is fading to black.  After dinner at Curry Village, Renee and Vanessa dropped Drew and I here at Backpacker Camp.  Good-bye kisses and hugs were exchanged with a little more feeling than usual, and I made no progress in assuring away the worry in Renee's eyes.

They are halfway home by now, while Drew and I, excited and nervous, quietly anticipate tomorrow like some adventurers on the verge of an unknowable epic quest.  But this trip, after all, is just walking.  Yet, I worry.  All evening, Drew has been the sweet and considerate kid that has been hidden behind the combative shroud that descends when kids on the verge of adulthood flex their budding independence.  He is clearly excited about the adventure ahead, but how will he feel after a week on the trail?  Two weeks?  Three?

When this is done, will Drew and I warmly remember the experience of a lifetime or shake our heads in disgust recalling our agonies, arguments and misadventures?  Some of that warmth from Drew comes from a reliance on me to provide safe passage - the one with backpacking experience who will make everything OK.  I feel the responsibility.  I want this to be good.

Day 2

Thursday, July 17.  Cathedral Lake.  11.5 miles.  9,585 ft.

These mountains are beating us up.  The heavy load and steep terrain took their toll again today.

After finishing my entry last night, we were visited by the two other "crazy" bears that the ranger had told us about.  In the dark, they were quite close to us before we noticed them.  Thrashing into action (Where are my glasses?  Get the flashlight.), we spooked the bears to a safe distance where they glanced back in frustration. Four green retinas eerily reflected our flashlight back at us, one pair higher than the other.  I threw a couple of rocks harder than Drew thought appropriate, but I wanted the locals to know that they were not welcome here.  One stone elicited a pathetic bear-ouch sound and off they went.

When we shouldered our packs this morning, our tender hipbones and shoulders reminded us how much we had relied on them yesterday.  But the early going was shaded and moderate - a night's sleep and two meals had restored our strength.  We felt fresh and strong along the mostly flat upper reaches of Sunrise Creek, which offered occasional dramatic views across the Merced River drainage to Mt. Clark and the Yosemite high country.

Sunrise Creek dwindled as we rose to its source.  Here the shoulder of Sunrise Mountain steepened dramatically and we climbed from 8,000 feet to 9,600 feet in a mile or so.  Drew had no problems with the climb while I struggled, stopping often.  But Drew was the perfect companion, letting me think that my plodding pace was his preference.

After a pleasant flat mile beyond the climb, our finest view so far opened in front of us.  Rousing us from our plodding stupor, the forest unexpectedly opened and the land ahead dropped away revealing the sweeping reach of the Cathedral Range.  A half-mile directly ahead, peaceful Long Meadow served as a striking foreground and contrast to jagged Cathedral Peak beyond.

Some photos and a snack later, we dropped down into the meadow.  The views in every direction were stunning:  the lush meadow delicately intruded by a lazily twisting creek; the peaks beyond.  It was an Eden-like setting spoiled only by swarms of mosquitoes.

Our energy was renewed by the views and the level going.  Drew was anxious to fish and therefore adamant about reaching Cathedral Lake.  I wasn't sure I had the stamina to make it, knowing that we still had to cross Cathedral Pass.

Passing under Columbia Finger, we reached our high point of  10,000 feet just before we crossed Cathedral Pass.  After nine miles, I was still struggling while Drew felt strong except for tender hipbones.  I told him to go on ahead so he could start fishing.  Off he went.

At Cathedral Pass, the view of Cathedral Peak is spectacular  From there, the trail crosses, then drops down two large steps to Cathedral Lake.  The tread of each step is a half-mile meadow with Cathedral Peak always the dramatic backdrop.

We chose a campsite well above the lake for privacy and for refuge from the mosquitoes, which are bad everywhere but unbearable near water.  While Drew fished, I bathed and washed clothes on a sun-splashed granite slab beneath a gentle cascade of snowmelt. 

Drew returned empty handed from fishing just as dinner was ready.  He could only get down two bites before he was down on all fours vomiting.  Oddly, we have reversed roles.  I fell renewed, but today's effort had obviously taken its toll on Drew.  Perhaps the sprint to the lake at the end of the day did it.  Poor kid.

There is nothing to do but make him comfortable.  I rolled out his bag, made him some lemonade and told him to rest while I went looking for a place to photograph Cathedral peak in the evening light.

When I returned, Drew had set up the tent to escape the mosquitoes. He had vomited again.  A good night's rest and he'll be as good as new.

Good night.    

Day 3

Friday, July 18.  Lyell Canyon, 1/2 mile before the junction to Ireland Lake.  11 1/2 miles.  8,800 ft.

Writing these entries at the end of a long day is a chore.  The burdened walking strips me of the will and turns my brain to mush.  Already, the day seems like a jumble of snapshots that I can't reassemble into the day's sequence of events.

I awoke at 6:00 as usual and decided to let Drew sleep in.  Since he was sick last night and I didn't feel much better, I felt the rest would do both of us some good.

By 10:00, we were on the trail.  In a reversal of yesterday's pattern, we began the day feeling poorly though the going was easy.  The first four miles of the trail work around the base of Cathedral Peak and then drop 1,000 feet to Tuolumne Meadows.  Over the easiest terrain we have walked, I felt the worst.  A searing pain knifed through my back - my load seemed huge.  The continuing heat and the loose footing on the sandy glacial moraine were aggravating, but it was not enough to explain my difficulty over such easy going.

Tuolumne Meadows is one of only two places where a road intersects the John Muir Trail.  But we were delighted to reach it because we knew the Mountain Grill was there.  A couple of burgers, sodas and shakes revived our bodies and spirits.  We bought a few items at the general store next door (ibuprofen for the back, more insect repellent).  Clouds enclosed the sky and rain began to fall.  Typical afternoon thundershowers in the Sierra are short lived, but this one persisted.

Drew and I debated our options.  Considering the weather and how poorly we felt, should we call it a day in order to rest up and wait out the weather?  Or should we venture into the rain - an unwelcome prospect.  Convinced that the rain would soon pass, we donned our rain gear and walked through the Tuolumne Meadows campground looking for the point where the trail picked up again.

Now it was pouring.  Lightning and almost simultaneous thunder rattled the campground restroom we ducked into.  What the hell, let's go.

We entered Lyell Canyon through a steady rain and enjoyed the best walking on the trip thus far.  A full belly, cool temperatures, firm footing and easy going more than compensated for the rain which itself invigorated and energized us.  Drew's feet got soaked in his new Gore-Tex boots while mine were bone dry in silicon-treated non-Gore-Tex boots.  I should have treated Drew's boots.  What is the Gore-Tex for?

Lyell Canyon is a ten-mile long valley that divides the Kuna Crest from the Clark Range.  Its entire length is a broad meadow dotted with lodgepole pines and bisected by the Lyell fork of the Tuolumne River.  Here, the river meanders peacefully, gathering strength for the drama in the canyons below Tuolumne Meadows.

On a granite outcrop by a stunted lodgepole growing from a crack, I looked into a quiet pool and saw, even in the dingy light, every luminous shade of blue and green.  Just upstream, the river broadened a moment and rushed over a uniform granite slab in a thin glassy sheet, churned briefly below and then rested into the pool by which I stood.  All the moods in Lyell Canyon are peaceful.

Somehow, the rain refreshed us and dissolved the pains in our feet, hips, shoulders and backs.  Add to this the glorious setting, and we were exultant.

Five miles down the canyon we decided to pitch camp.  Drew could no longer resist walking by the promising fishing spots.  The rain had stopped, but the sky still threatened.

I could see Drew fishing below me while I set up camp.  I finally responded to his constant calls to come witness his fish-every-cast luck.  What a transformation there has been in him.  The confounding teenage Drew that inhabits the lowlands has been replaced here by a model companion.  He is considerate, determined, proud, helpful, and a source of encouragement when things are grim.  Last night,  when he was sick, he didn't complain; he was only sorry.  Earlier this evening, I was frustrated when some silly things got to me.  Drew spoke up in a constructive way, "Dad, I know I'm the worst, and I hate it when people say this to me when I'm frustrated, but...," and he proceeded to tell me exactly the right thing in the right way to adjust my attitude.

Recently, at home, there have been many reasons to wonder whether Drew has lost his way.  We have faced serious confounding issues.  But here, our uncluttered life of just walking is revealing the solid core in Drew that my wife and I worried was lost.  Between Drew and I, he is often the more grown-up.

Day 4

Saturday, July 19.  Lyell Base Camp.  10,300 feet.  6.5 miles.

Saturday.  I didn't realize it until I wrote it here.  People are mowing their lawns, washing their cars, taking their kids to soccer games and watching baseball on TV.  That all seems so distant, almost otherworldly, in this mountain setting.

Once again, I couldn't bring myself  to wake Drew from his well-earned sleep.  So, once again, we got a late start.  No complaints from me though.  I enjoyed watching the morning sun slowly light Lyell Canyon while sitting in my camp chair sipping hot chocolate.  These are the reasons we backpack - a moment of quiet luxury surrounded by pristine beauty.  I also had a chance to dry our still-wet boots and socks. 

In the morning we continued our level walk along the Lyell Fork of the Tuolumne River.  We followed the canyon's long gradual right turn until glacier-cloaked Mt. Lyell and Mt. Maclure came into view.  Here the gentle valley ends abruptly, and after a brief lunch break, we began to climb in earnest toward Donohue Pass 2,000 feet above.

The day had dawned bright, but as we climbed, the clouds began to dominate.  We stopped to talk to a northbound backcountry ranger.  He said the weather report was the same as yesterday:  30% chance of rain.  "It all depends on where you are," he said.

The climb was a pleasant surprise.  I was no longer 53, I was 30, easily gobbling up the trail.  Am I rounding the corner toward fitness?

The gathering clouds made for cool temperatures and ideal walking conditions, but the sky was continually darkening.  Drops began to fall.  We caught up with two southbound hikers and exchanged the usual trail pleasantries and weather talk.   They chose to wait out the rain there while we said we would push on.  I hadn't walked ten paces when lightning flashed and thunder rumbled close by.  I glanced back to our two new friends.  We wordlessly exchanged, "Uh oh, here we go" smiles.

Drew and I put on our rain gear and pushed on.  The rain was modest and there was plenty of tree cover, so the going was tolerable. 

We emerged from the trees here at Lyell Base Camp, a beautiful but overused site.  Despite having walked only 6 miles or so, we are staying here for the night.  Going any higher is impractical.  We are near timberline, and I don't want to be in high open country when lightning is in the area.  Tree cover and adequate campsites will be rare above here.

It's raining.  Drew is fishing while I take refuge in the tent.  We share this popular site with others stranded by the weather.  It is a beautiful setting:  a roaring cascade feeds a lakelet bounded by a meadow lavishly decorated with paintbrushes, shooting stars, red heather, white heather and elephant's heads.  Above are Mt. Lyell and Mt. Maclure.  Surging power, delicate beauty and mighty strength visible in one frame right before us.

Drew and I planned on being here yesterday.  We are meeting Renee and Vanessa in three days at Red's Meadow for a resupply, so we cannot be late.  We are making up the time by foregoing our plan to take a day and climb Mt. Lyell.  The weather precludes it anyway.  We met two hikers heading down earlier today who had come to climb Mt. Lyell and were turned back by the rain.

Ernest Hemingway is back from his fishing expedition.  I had better assemble the kitchen and "Just Add Water" to our dinner.  Light is fading and there is still housework to do.

Day 5

Sunday, July 20.  Thousand Island Lake.  6 1/2 miles.  9,880 feet.

The time of year a person chooses to walk in the Sierra involves some fundamental trade-offs.  Early or mid-season, visitors like us enjoy the fresh wildflower display - a variety of penstemons, a couple heathers, Leopard lilies, paintbrushes, Monkshoods, delphinium and on and on.  Breathtaking beauty.  The price one pays is mosquitoes, and we are growing damn weary of them.

Drew and I have pitched camp here in a beautiful spot just above Thousand Island Lake.  The view over the lake to Mt. Ritter and Banner Peak - a classic Sierra Vista - is spectacular.  The island-studded lake looks like the creation of a Japanese landscape architect - too perfect to be natural - with gardens of granite and wind-sculpted whitebark pines.  But the cloud of mosquitoes that constantly surrounds each of us almost spoils our enjoyment of this site.  We chose this spot above the lake and away from a running stream to lessen their impact, but to no avail.  Our only defense is to pickle ourselves in DEET that keeps the swarm from landing.  It is tiresome and annoying.  So far, the only relief is at the highest elevations, above the meadows and streams.

After signing off last night, while Drew and I were in our bags writing and sketching, Drew got frustrated and down for the first time on the trip.  Drew takes some regular medications for ADD and depression.  He has noticed that a side effect of the drugs is the loss of his creative energy - a high price for a boy who was born a gifted artist and used to draw constantly.  He has been trying to draw and just can't.  He was frustrated to the point of despondency.  "I feel soulless," he told me, "I have no passion for anything."

We talked about stopping medication and discussed homeopathy.  "What about the 'lows' that the drugs fend off?" I asked him.  He said he would gladly endure the lows in order to relight the fire inside.

Drew rarely opens up and I was pleased at such a substantial talk, but seeing his pain and dealing with the frustration and futility of being a parent wanting to make things right is, and has been, hard for Renee and me.

Last night's dismal weather passed by and this morning dawned bright and clear.  The beautiful setting at Lyell Base Camp is even more impressive lit up by the sun.  Sleepy Drew Van Winkle and photo opportunities delayed our start until a shameful 10:00 once again.

The first mile or two was a steady climb to Donohue Pass at 11,000 feet.  With the help of a little Diamox, we were fresh, strong climbers the whole way.  The climb is above timberline on open granite past cascades and lakelets fed by Lyell Glacier.  Mt. Lyell and Mt. Maclure were an impressive backdrop.

At Donohue Pass, we lunched and looked across the Rush Creek drainage to gentle Island Pass a few mile south.  The short portion of the trail between Donohue Pass and Island Pass is the only place the John Muir Trail crosses the Sierra crest onto the east side.

To my eye, the area just south of Donohue Pass is supremely beautiful.  Though barren and treeless, it has the feel of an expansive friendly countryside rather than indifferent wilderness - cascading creeks, glacial pools, and short grass meadows. 

A brief climb to Island Pass brought is to one of the classic Sierra views.  Here Banner Peak and Mt. Ritter are first revealed in their full splendor to the southbound hiker.  Wow.  In the foreground, prime Sierra lakelets, granite outcroppings and twisted whitebark pines completed the postcard.

Here in camp, the sum effect of heat, mosquitoes and fatigue are sapping our enthusiasm.  The housekeeping chores of backpacking; getting water, cooking, washing dishes, personal hygiene, setting up the tent, properly storing food and equipment for the evening seem tedious and endless.  Where is the communing with nature part?  It seems like we do endless chores, then hide in a nylon casket to avoid mosquitoes or rain.

Tonight we are eighteen miles from Red's Meadow where we will meet Renee and Vanessa for resupply.  Our plan had called for walking most of the way there tomorrow and getting an early start the following day in order to meet them around noon.  Drew and I have decided we will start  very early and hike all the way to Red's Meadow tomorrow.  Restaurant food and showers are available there, and it would be nice to linger there and awaken at our rendezvous point.  I'll need a stick of dynamite to wake Drew before sunrise. 

Five days into this adventure, Drew and I are getting along very well.  At home, the main job of the parent of a teenager seems to be setting unwelcome limits and enforcing rules.  Will the constant and inescapable father/son intimacy of this trip exacerbate the tension that comes with battling over boundaries at home, or will we unite to achieve our simple common goal and deal with our common difficulties?  We are 10,000-feet above and two hundred miles away from the things we battle over at home.  No father and son here.  Just two smelly tired guys dealing with bugs, rain, and discussing whether or not to hike all the way to Red's Meadow tomorrow.  So far, it seems we have left behind the difficult feelings that sometimes attend those home battles.  So far.  So far.

Cumulus clouds all day and thunder in the distance, but no rain on us.  Glad to see it was 30% chance of rain somewhere else.  Hope that the stormy weather has all passed.  The tent is up but only for bug protection.

Drew has trouble falling asleep at night.  Reading aloud to him is effective anesthesia.  Reading aloud to my eighteen-year old son - this is great stuff. 

Day 6

Monday, July 21.  Red's Meadow.  7,950 feet.  18 1/2 miles.

Up at 4:00 AM, I began stuffing dew-wet sleeping bags and tents into their respective sacks while hollering wakefulness into a reluctant Drew.  But there was special compensation watching the birth of this crystalline day over Thousand Island Lake and Ritter and Banner.

By 5:00 we were underway hoping to cover most of today's long walk while the day was cool and our bodies were fresh.  Only a handful of the brightest stars remained as the eastern horizon hinted at daybreak.  We had camped midway down the shore of Thousand Island Lake some distance from the John Muir Trail that touches the lake only at its outlet.  Walking along the lake's edge, we watched the day begin.  Slate gray light in the east began to warm to an orange hue.  We walked, stopped, looked, and photographed Banner and Ritter, their aspect changing moment to moment above the peaceful lake.  Not a breath of wind.  It was like the first morning ever.

We walked a full hour along the lakeshore to reach the trail.  After crossing the lake's outlet, we quickly began climbing the divide that separates Thousand Island Lake from Garnet Lake.  The sun was now up but the day was still new and fresh.  Garnet Lake was breathtaking - a mirror reflecting Banner and Ritter from a new angle.

Climb a ridge, descend to a lake was the repeating pattern until a forest of red firs closed in and we began a steady ten mile descent toward Red's Meadow.

Early on, we both felt strong.  I followed Drew and admired his aggressive strides.  No ballerina, Drew takes a big bite of trail with each step and plants his boot with youthful strength and purpose.

I felt a diluted version of Drew's strength in the morning, but half way through the day, our energy waned.  We were both footsore - our soles getting hotter and more tender with each descending, pounding step.  Aching shoulders and hips, fatigue, and heat poisoned our mood.

We became downright angry as we approached Devil's Postpile near our destination.  The trail was deep loose sand, multiplying the effort of every step.  Why doesn't the trail drop down to firm footing along the South Fork of the San Joaquin River a few hundred feet below us instead of needlessly climbing higher above the river we knew we would ultimately join?

Drew began hobbling from foot pain, and I developed a blister from a bunching patch of moleskin I had put on my heel to prevent a blister.  The sandy footing, the heat, our soreness and fatigue, the purposeless aspect of the trail all created a frustration that crescendoed when we couldn't find the short trail spur to Red's Meadow.  The maze of unsigned trail intersections gave no hint of which way to go.  It's right here somewhere, but where?

Finally, a day hiker pointed the way and we were there.  We dropped our packs and guzzled Gatorade from the general store.  Then over to the restaurant.  We apologized for our appearance, but the waitress was unconcerned.  After a double cheeseburger, tuna melt, and a vanilla shake our spirits rose and our disgruntled mood passed.

Now, we're here at backpacker camp, a $5 a night designated site here at Red's Meadow.  We took a long hot shower in water from a local hot spring.  A good meal and a hot shower have lifted our spirits, eased our pains, and restored our enthusiasm.

This is the kind of evening I had hoped for on this trip - reclining in my camp chair, under the stars.  Good weather and no bugs.  This will be our first night out of the tent and under the stars.

We chatted with other John Muir Trail hikers here at this campground.  Two men from Scotland are doing the trail together, and an English woman is doing the trail solo.  Bravo!  All three of these people are middle aged, not spring chickens.  Folks like this renew one's faith in our species.  The fact that they have come so far to walk this trail reminds those of us who live nearby what a special place this is.

Drew and I are like children on Christmas Eve anticipating the arrival of Renee and Vanessa tomorrow.  Beautiful familiar faces will remind us that we have a loving family and a soft cozy home waiting when we return. 

More than eighteen miles today.  No wonder it hurt.

Day 7

Tuesday, July 22.  Duck Creek Crossing.  10,200 feet.  12 miles.

As if we were planning our rendezvous with military precision, Drew and I arrived at the parking area near the restaurant just as Renee and Vanessa pulled up.  Based on the joy I felt at seeing them and the warmth of our greeting, you'd think we hadn't seen each other in years.  But it was genuine all around.

We had breakfast at the restaurant, then returned to our campsite to sort gear.  Pack the new food, the fresh film, toilet paper, insect repellent and the rest.  Leave the exposed film, the finished book and the like behind.

Family dynamics this morning were a pleasant contrast to life at home lately.  The frequent parent-teenager tensions and sibling battles were replaced with good humor and kindness.  Where was the sarcasm and bickering?  Teasing, you bet, but spoken with a smile and received the same way.  It's nice to know that if we get away from the battlefield with its parent-mandated responsibilities and limits, we can be a loving family.  Renee and I can take heart.  Maybe there will be sunlight at the end of the teenage dark time.

Near noon, we shouldered our heaviest-yet packs (nine days of food), said a difficult good-bye, and turned south toward the remaining eighteen days and 170 miles of walking still ahead.

Drew and I walked in silence for a long while, each of us alone with our thoughts.  The country immediately beyond Red's Meadow is an eerie open forest of black-burned snags, remnants of a devastating 1992 fire that extends down to the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River and beyond.  It was desolate and cheerless - scenery that matched our mood as we left behind smiling, loving faces for a trail, the end of which, seems so far away.

Finally, Drew broke the silence.  "Dad, I'm not sure that meeting Mom and Vanessa was a good idea," he said, acknowledging the melancholy we both felt after leaving them.  I agreed, but I was glad to see our sometimes indifferent and tough-talking 18 year-old express those feelings about his mother and sister.

Our attention turned to the steady, pitiless climb through more soft volcanic ash up and along the Mammoth Crest.  We left the fire's devastation and entered a thriving forest of red firs and lodgepole pines.  The grade eased and we began traversing the crest as much as climbing it.  Seven miles out we reached Deer Creek knowing that it was five miles to the next water at the outlet of Duck Lake where we are now.

I had hoped that the clear weather of the past two days meant an end to the rain, but the sky grew more threatening and thunder constantly rumbled in the distance.  A hard rain hit a mile before camp casting a dreary veil over the views across Fish Creek two thousand feet below toward the peaks of the Silver Divide beyond.

Hurried by the rain, we have set up camp in a marginal spot not far from the trail next to the unnamed outlet creek from Duck Lake.  We met another Scotsman on the trail today who is our neighbor for the evening.  Moments ago, he came by with a friendly offer to share some hot chocolate he had made.  Too warm and comfortable to emerge from the tent, I politely refused.  Drew felt the kind gesture deserved a kind response.  I can hear them getting acquainted in the wet darkness.

Legs are sore, but our strength continues to grow.  I dressed my new heel blister in a Band-aid secured by a cover of duct tape, but it slid off.  It looks ugly, but did not hinder today's walking.  Likewise, the Bridalveil Falls injuries on my left foot still look bad but have not been troublesome.  Other than that, we only have the normal peripheral aches and pains - nothing that hampers us.

9:00.  Good night.  Miss you, Renee and Vanessa - warm and dry in a motel somewhere just over the hill.  Damn rain.

Day 8

Wednesday, July 23.  Tully Hole.  9,200 feet.  6 1/2 miles.

I am sick, downhearted and angry about how this trip is going so far.  It features everything that makes backpacking drudgery.  Mosquitoes in droves pursue us everywhere.  If we weren't pitching the tent daily on account of the weather, we would have to do it to escape the mosquitoes.  Even a quick entry into the tent allows a half dozen of the buzzing bloodsuckers in.

And the weather.  Rain, rain, rain.  For four of the eight days we have spent on the trail so far, we have walked through steady rain.  Today we stood under a tree while it hailed harder than I have ever seen it hail.  The trail turned into a river, mini-landslides slipped all around us - wet boots, wet socks, wet everything.

We left camp at 8:00 this morning under cloudy skies, feeling strong.  The rain held off while we traversed to Purple Lake, then crossed a small divide over to beautiful Lake Virginia.  The great view toward the Silver Divide was gray with threatening in-bound clouds.  We snacked there on hummus, crackers and cheese before pressing on.  We were just underway again when all hell broke loose.  Hard rain, hard hail, topsoil washing away.

After waiting out the heavy downfall under a tree, we descended to Tully Hole.  When the skies opened up again, we decided to call it a day. 

As annoying as the discomfort of this weather is the constant preoccupation it requires.  We must constantly assess options.  Should we wait it out?  Should we walk through it?  Will things improve or deteriorate?  My first thought in the morning is to check the sky.  If it is clear, I feel a frantic urgency to pack and get underway before the rain comes.  I don't want to be crossing a high pass when lightning is cracking all around.

We stopped at Tully Hole because lightning was very close.  One strike, simultaneous thunder and lightning, was so loud and close that Drew leapt over and grabbed my arm, feeling the same alarm I did.  We are in a relatively low spot here and next is the climb to Silver Pass.  I don't want to walk with my son toward an 11,000-foot pass over open granite in this.  It's best that we wait here. 

I had hoped to make Squaw Lake just below Silver Pass.  Here, we are five miles from that goal - additional distance to make up in order to meet Peter on schedule for our next resupply at Bishop Pass a week from now.  We set up our tent in a downpour, climbed in and waited out this latest punch of weather.  We are warm and dry, but brooding.

Drew's resilience under these trying circumstances is impressive.  When the rain stopped, he emerged from the tent and pulled a couple of trout from just-born Fish Creek that twists through this meadow in the gorge between Mammoth Crest and Silver Divide.  I was not motivated to leave the comfort of my sleeping bag to be mosquito food in this cold, saturated and dreary place.

Later, after an hour of persistent effort, Drew coaxed drenched wood to ignite into a mood-lifting fire.  It might even be pretty here if it were lit by the sun.

The word we have twice heard on the trail is that a tropical storm somewhere in Texas is causing this wet weather.  Heard it rained in Los Angeles - something that virtually never happens in the summer.  They say it will end soon.  Oh, please.

Please, Great Spirit, I didn't mean those irreverent comments I made earlier.  Restore us to normal summer Sierra weather.  I feel a sense of responsibility to Drew for this trip.  I want him to remember this as a special experience, not the trial he endured.  So far, his buoyancy exceeds mine. Who's leaning on whom here?

It's 8:00 and mostly clear.  What will tomorrow bring?

Day 9

Thursday, July 24.  South of Silver Pass on the North Fork of Mono Creek.  8,800 feet.  9 miles.

My threshold of satisfaction on this trip has been so pummeled by bad weather that sitting here under total cloud cover, in a brisk wind, thunder and lightning on the surrounding peaks, and occasional timid rain is a grand delight.  I'm outside, dry and warm, and not under siege from mosquitoes.  Glorious.

Last evening, I worried about the prospects for completing this trip.  The persistently bad weather, falling behind schedule, wet boots, socks, sleeping bags, tent, shirts, pants.  Do we have the heart for more of this?

When I emerged from the tent at Tully Hole to answer nature's call at 5:00 this morning, it looked like more of the same - gray skies.  I rolled through the options again:  When will it start?  Should we pack up and go now or wait for things to improve?  I don't know.  Drew was sleeping hard.  I decided to wait awhile.

I want Drew to have a good time on this trip.  That is part of why this weather upsets me so.  I am the experienced backpacker, the father, the person he looks to for security and assurance here.  I am supposed to know what to do.  I can't let him know that I don't.

There is more than that though.  I have not responded well to this unusual stretch of bad weather.  Summer Sierra weather is famous for its dry days interrupted only occasionally by a brief afternoon thundershower.  Full-blown storm fronts are virtually unheard of in summer.  My experience in these mountains has confirmed this, and frankly spoiled me.

The essence of backpacking is to adapt to what nature deals you.  The natural elements are in charge here.  I have not eased into the Zen of this lousy weather.  Instead, I have whined.

True Confessions:  Drew has been more adult that I have.  We might be setting up the tent in a downpour and, my frustration getting the better of me, I spew a long blue line of invective.  Drew is the one with the words of comfort.  For all the confounding curve balls he can throw us at home, he has been a better man than I through all this.   

Rejoice.  A couple of hours after my cloudy-skied pee break, the sky held more blue that gray.  I roused Drew to action.

Packs loaded with wads of wet stuff, feet trying to warm wet socks and boots, we headed for 11,000-foot Silver Pass.  This morning:  strong bodies, good walking, mostly sun.

We walked quietly.  Drew was a little tired and irritated by my persistent prodding to awaken him this morning.  But beautiful scenery eased the climb.  As we neared Silver Pass, Banner and Ritter were visible four days and 40 miles behind us.

We stopped for a snack and a repair of my right heel blister dressing.  I am surprised that moleskin covered with duct tape won't stay secure.  This stuff pulls paint off my deck at home.  Why won't it stay firmly on my foot?

Crossing Silver Pass, we left the drainage of the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River and entered the watershed of the South Fork of the San Joaquin.  High on the south side of the pass were stark glacial lakes and open alpine country.  Then things grew very steep.  We both remarked that we were glad to be descending this side and not climbing it.  But the show was grand:  beautiful meadows, steep powerful cascades, and the freshest and most varied flower show yet:  Leopard lilies, Davidson Penstemon, Cone Flower, Crimson Columbine, Lupine, Mountain Pride Penstemon and more.

We made camp a mile or so above Mono Creek, fearing people and mosquitoes below.  Good choice.  Water, but no bugs.  Expansive view across Mono Creek to Bear Ridge.  Haven't seen a person. 

Such an evening is what I had hoped for on this trip.  Dinner was prepared casually, not hurriedly in the rain.  We played our hack-sack game exchanging the normal teasing and ridiculing that accompanies any male contest of skill.

This is the first time we have not been preoccupied with bugs and the weather, but instead with the pleasure of sitting here, being here and being together.

Shoulders and hips are tender from the pressure of the load, but not unbearably so.  My new pack is a vast improvement is this respect.  Crossing Silver Pass did not raise any altitude problems.  We are acclimatizing.  My feet are feeling the miles and my muscles complain, but only mildly.  However, after a short rest in the camp chair, I stiffen up and appear to be doing an imitation of Walter Brennan as I grope and groan attempting to stand.  I am getting used to black toenails and general filth.

Day 10

Friday, July 25.  Marie Lake.  10,500 feet.  12.6 miles.

The setting here at Marie Lake is certainly our most spectacular campsite so far.  Nestled in a broad granite basin, the lake is situated only one mile and three hundred vertical feet below Selden Pass.  The peaks of the Mono Divide are visible several miles to the north.  We are wrapped on the remaining three sides by nearer peaks dominated by Seven Gables topping 13,000 feet.  Though peaks surround us, we are not hemmed in.  This is an open expansive place.

Polished granite, wind-sculpted whitebark pines, and the lake's islands, coves and peninsulas combine in a stunning setting to sit and enjoy the heights beyond.  Our constant companions, the rain clouds, have separated enough to add a spectacular sunset to this incredible show.

This morning we broke camp, our most enjoyable so far, with ambitious plans to gain back some of the miles we have lost to the weather.  A bright sky lifted our spirits and the chatter flowed between us.  We descended the remaining two miles to Mono Creek (7,800 feet) and climbed Bear Ridge on the other side.  I have made this climb before and was dreading doing it again.  It is a seemingly endless series of switchbacks through forest cover.  When I last walked here, it was near the end of the day and the relentless climb was drudgery.  This time, fresh and more fit, Drew and I easily reeled in the elevation.

It couldn't last and it didn't.  Enshrouded in trees at the top of Bear Ridge, we hadn't noticed the gathering clouds.  But on the long traverse of the ridge, the persistent rain pattern returned.  Thankfully, it never rained hard.  It was just a nuisance.

After descending 1,000 feet on the far side of Bear Ridge, we joined Bear Creek that we followed six more miles to our camp here.   The walk along Bear Creek was truly enjoyable.  Up a gentle gradient, we ascended painlessly through classic Sierra landscape - a beautiful open forest, protruding granite monoliths, all beside a rollicking creek.  The only obstacle on the walk was a hairy crossing of Bear Creek through fast moving thigh-high water.

I cannot recall ever seeing such a spectacular sunset as this.  Under the warm light of the setting sun, powerful clouds with a tremendous vertical reach are dancing on a persistent cold wind for an ever-changing show.

How do you tell people about such places?  Words can't do it.  Pictures only approximate it.  What is finer than a spent body with a full stomach sitting here watching this show?  There is satisfaction in knowing you have earned the right to see such a spectacle - way up here - all alone.

It is 9:00 and Drew is in tears.  This is the first time that being stuck out here with Dad is reaching him.  Earlier, he sat on a rock, fishing in aggravated silence.  "I don't want to be here.  It's nice and all, but it's a long time."  I stupidly mentioned the coming start of the school year, and that sent him into a tailspin of depression.  Drew faced some truly difficult times in school last year.  In his mind, school is directly responsible for the pain in his life.  He is worried that when school starts, he will descend into despair.

Too late.  Too tired.  Goodnight.

Day 11

Saturday, July 26.  Entrance to Evolution Valley.  9,200 feet.  15 1/2 miles.

I am in no mood to write.  What had been a perfect day has come to an end with - I can't believe it - heavy rain.  I'll start at the beginning.

Drew's funk last night carried over to the morning.  My repeated efforts to rouse him from sleep only compounded his sour feelings.  He threw mini-tantrums this morning - angrily jerking and breaking his stuck fishing line to demonstrate his anger.  I packed up feigning indifference.

We awoke to a beautiful cloudless sunrise at Marie Lake.  This spot is as spectacular under clear skies as it was under last night's cloud-filled sunset.  At 8:00 we set out walking in silence until the effort softened Drew's mood.  After a short and lovely climb to Selden Pass (10,870 feet) we began the long descent to the South Fork of the San Joaquin River at 8,000 feet.  We passed Sally Keyes Lakes and then a succession of lodgepole pine forests and brightly flowered meadows.  Surprisingly, the forest ended and we began switching back and forth down a long hot south-facing slope blanketed in manzanita - a landscape characteristic of a much lower elevation.  Drew and I commented again how glad we were to be southbound and not climbing this exposed parched slope.

Descending.  With each step down, the weight of body and pack pounds on my feet, knees and thighs.  Sore hips and shoulders, tender from the first 100 miles of pressure, wince at the thought of 120 more.  About 1,800 paces per mile will total somewhat less than half a million burdened steps when we're done.  Not low elevation, level terrain steps, but always up or down over uneven footing.  Even here in the tent at day's end the soles of my feet are hot.  On the trail today, they were scorching.

In the valley at the bottom of this manzanita-carpeted slope, not far from the river, are some world-class Jeffrey pines and sierra junipers.  For a dry 3 1/2 miles, we followed the south fork but were never near enough to drink from it until we reached Piute Creek coming from the Sierra crest to the east.  The bridge over this creek marked a milestone; our entry into King's Canyon National Park.

From Piute Creek, we followed the gorge of the South Fork of the San Joaquin River four miles upriver to its confluence with Evolution Creek.  Evolution Creek's last gasp is a raucous 800-foot tumble off a hanging valley into the San Joaquin.  For us, it was a steep one-mile climb to level ground and the entrance to Evolution Valley.  The trail crosses Evolution Creek at the top of the climb where the creek is 100 feet wide, up to three feet deep, and gathering speed for its rush down the hill.  Add to that the uneven cobblestone footing, and you have a hairy crossing that required all our attention.  The heat of the day increases the snowmelt and thus the flow in stream beds.  Some hikers we passed chose to make camp and wait until morning to cross when they hope the flow will slacken.  I wonder how the current downpour has affected that choice.

Despite our bad weather luck, hope springs eternal.  The bulk of the day had been so nice that we dismissed gathering clouds and distant thunder as harmless afternoon mountain hubbub.  Slow learners.

I had not set up the tent, hoping for our first night under the stars, when the heavens opened.  For two hours, it rained as hard as it had at any point on the trip.  Hoping it would pass quickly, we tried to wait it out, huddled side by side under a tree, my plastic ground cloth pulled over our heads.  Tantalizingly close, down the valley, we looked at clear blue sky.

When it became clear this was not a passing shower, we used our now highly polished and practiced foul weather camp set-up procedure:  tent up quickly; grab sleeping bag, pad, book, headlamp, etc. and throw them  in the tent; put pack under a tree and cover with a plastic garbage bag; set aside and invert bear canister; climb in tent and wait.  Now a familiar routine.

The rain has stopped.  Drew is determined to cook while I would settle for munchies now that I am tucked away in toasty goose feathers.  Drew's resilience in this relentless weather is impressive.  I struggle to deal with it gracefully, but I can't squelch the anger and resentment.  Where is the usual Sierra summer weather?

The injuries from my Bridalveil Falls tumble are still ugly, but don't slow me down much.  My left little toe is still black and twice its normal size.  It is tender for the first mile in the mornings, but then no problem.  Knees are swollen with fluid and tender to the touch, but don't hurt while walking.  The soles of my feet are screaming hot all the time.  The blister from Red's Meadow is well protected and not a problem on the trail.  I am sore and tender in the evenings, but traveling is fine. 

Dinner is ready.  Atta boy, Drew.

Day 12

Sunday, July 27.  Evolution Lake.  10,900 feet.  7 1/2 miles.

I am ashamed to admit that this continuing foul weather fills me with anger and disappointment.  Daily rain leads to building frustration.  When I last walked this trail, we spent only one night in a tent.  On this trip, we have spent every night in the nylon cocoon, and here I am again.

This morning dawned clear.  Drew and I spread out our gear to dry under the sunshine before packing up and heading out at 10:00.  At McClure Meadow the forest opened to fully reveal Evolution Valley - a stunning idyllic place.  Meadows and lazy Evolution Creek are bordered by massive granite peaks - the spectacular and the sublime, each nicely complementing the other.

We enjoyed walking through the gentle terrain.  Scattered clouds drifted down from the Goddard Divide up ahead, but the morning was clearer than most.  We were hopeful.

At the head of the valley we climbed 1,000 feet up a glacial step and then made a short traverse to Evolution Lake.  This lake is my new "Prettiest Lake Anywhere."  It has all the patented Sierra garden-like features nestled among peaks named for the theory of evolution's early proponents:  Darwin, Mendel and Wallace.

Still under sunlight, we lunched by the lake.  Another hiker told us to follow the lakeshore around a knob to the outlet for a special view.  Indeed!  Here the creek dramatically falls away, descending quickly down the 1,000 feet we had just climbed.  The entire length of Evolution Valley and its meadows were revealed below us.

The sky grew darker above and once again our thoughts were occupied with the weather.  Should we go on?  It is early afternoon and we've only walked seven miles.  It is too early to stop.  We have an appointment to meet Peter for a resupply in three days at Bishop Pass.   At this rate, we'll fall behind schedule.   Will this be a brief shower or a sustained downpour?  Should we walk through it or set up camp this early?  We are at timberline.  Above, the country is bare granite and any campsite would be dangerously exposed.  I don't want to get caught near 12,000-foot Muir Pass in thunder, lightning and rain.  What should we do?  Weighing these alternatives everyday constantly preoccupies us.

Wham, bang - the skies opened up again.  Thunder, lightning, wind and torrential hail started in an instant.  We took refuge under a gnarled whitebark pine, the hailstones madly slapping the plastic groundsheet we had pulled over our heads.  When it became clear that the rain would persist, we walked through the downpour looking for an adequate tent site.  Just as we finished pitching the tent, Drew pointed to a mini-flood heading our way, so we grabbed the four corners of the tent and moved to a higher spot, all while the rain persisted - then came more hail.

Later:  Holy Cow!  I looked out of the tent while writing and saw blue skies, a still lake, and sunshine - the storm had blown past.  So, the evening since has salvaged the day somewhat.  When the rain eased and while I was writing, Drew was fishing.  Along with couscous and Top Ramen, we dined on six golden trout.

We invited Rose over to share Drew's catch.  We have bumped into her several times along the way, and like us she is waiting here to cross Muir Pass in better weather.  She a single woman, maybe 40, who has come over from England to hike the Muir Trail alone.  In an age when it is easy to become a cynic, meeting a bright spirit like Rose, a single woman making this long journey alone, renews your faith in people.

The storm's raging energy has passed leaving a scene utterly placid and peaceful.  Evolution Lake is now a mirror speckled by the countless silver flashes of trout jumping for bug meals.  On a rock by the lake, Drew and I take a rare opportunity to sit and watch the evening light grow warm on the Goddard Divide beyond.

A few clouds linger toward the pass.  What will tomorrow bring?  Damn this screwy weather.

Days 13 and 14

Monday, July 28 and Tuesday, July 29.  Le Conte Canyon.  8,700 feet.  14 miles.

Yesterday was all I hoped this trip would be as well as a continuation of what it has been.

We woke early at Evolution Lake.  We were camped in a community of weather weary backpackers who all seemed to be here more due to weather conditions than choice.  However, the compensation is that this lake is, I think, the most beautiful on the trail.  The curling shoreline, the small just-so islands, the wind-sculpted whitebark pines that manage a living in the cracks of this glacier-raked granite.  All warmed in soft morning light.

We walked through a crystal clear morning to Muir Pass - perfect walking and so far, the most memorable part of this trip.  By 8:00, we were on our way.  We are now both feeling fit and strong, so we enjoyed the manageable gradient past Evolution Lake, Wanda Lake up to the Muir Hut at the summit of Muir Pass.  The morning was glorious, perfect weather.  The surrounding peaks, the crystalline lakes and the perfect cascades connecting them - all combined to make a magical scene for two rain weary walkers.  We stopped at Wanda Lake (named for one of Muir's daughters) for a snack, some photos, and frog watching.  All alone at Muir Hut atop the pass, we made entries in the register and started down the other side.

Several times on this trip I have noticed that on the south side of the passes, the terrain is far tougher than the north from which we have come.  Silver Pass down to Mono Creek, Selden Pass to the South Fork of the San Joaquin River - Drew and I agreed that both would be horrible to climb.  The descent from Muir Pass to here, Le Conte Canyon, at the junction of the John Muir Trail and the Dusy Basin/Bishop Pass Trail was likewise relentless.  I was glad to be descending.

The summit of Muir Pass marked the daily decline in the weather.  Once again, I hoped the gathering clouds were just mountain fluffies blowing innocently by.  Drew and I stopped and cooked a hot lunch just beyond the pass.  As we were packing to leave, one of our constant companions, thunder, gave notice that something serious was brewing.

Having crossed the pass, we vowed to walk through whatever might come.  What came was a repeat of yesterday's torrential hailstorm.  Hailstones were big enough and came hard enough to be uncomfortable on our heads.  But we walked through it - five miles or so - to here.  Eventually, the hail turned to rain, but the intensity did not abate.

So, here we are a day early.  We had set aside a day to climb Mt. Goddard, but as with Mt. Lyell earlier, weather has ruled that out.  This morning, our first in Le Conte Canyon, dawned cloudy robbing us of the hopefulness that came with past clear mornings.  The additional day here will be a nice opportunity to wash clothes, bodies and just rest.

Our physical state is good.  Drew is strong - no foot or boot issues - only soreness where his pack rests on his shoulders and hips.  Even then, those complaints are occasional and faint.  We've noted that each of us appears to be losing weight, but we eat all we can.

The effects of my Bridalveil Falls tumble persist but ease.  My left little toe is still twice the size of my right one.  My left foot is still swollen, as are both of my knees, but remarkably these things don't seem to hamper performance.  Though our strength grows, I do notice that late in the day, my walking gets sloppier and full attention must be given to each step.

My new internal frame pack with its more contoured carrying system has been a joy to carry.  It virtually eliminates the raw, highly tender pressure points I experienced with my old external frame pack.

Tomorrow we meet Peter for a resupply.  He will leave from the trailhead at South Lake and meet us in Dusy Basin just this side of Bishop Pass at noon.  Will he be there?  Will it hail or rain or thunder and lightning when we meet?  Is he prepared for that?

The weather is at the center of all we do and any logistical consideration.  How long can it last?  It is uncanny - almost unbelievable.  So un-Sierra-like.  It can't last.  It can't last.

Day 15

Wednesday,  July 30.  Palisade Creek, a mile above Le Conte Canyon.  8,400 feet.  5 1/2 miles from last camp.  17 mile day including resupply side trip.

I have enjoyed nothing on this trip more than reading to Drew in the evenings.  Up here, after a long day of walking, when dinner is done, and the sun sets, it's bedtime.  Drew has always had trouble falling asleep, and reading to him these evenings has helped him drift off.  He says repeatedly that he enjoys it.  So, last night, as always, we crawled into our bags, and I finished reading Leslie Marmon Silko's Ceremony by the light of my head lamp.  Drew was anxious to hear the ending.  Reading your 18 year-old son to sleep - great stuff.

Meanwhile, I fell asleep worrying about how bad weather predicted for today might affect our rendezvous for resupply.  Dusy Basin, our meeting spot, is just below 12,000 foot Bishop Pass - open and exposed - not a safe place in a mountain storm.  Would we have to climb the five miles and 3,000 feet up in pouring rain, thunder and lightning?  Would Peter, the person bringing our food, be prepared for such weather?  Could he manage the climb over Bishop Pass?  Would he?  What if we don't make the connection?

Ten years ago, I had made similar arrangements with a packer to meet at Dusy Basin for a resupply at noon.  By 3:30, no one had appeared.  We couldn't return to camp - we had no food.  We would have to walk eight miles over a 12,000 foot pass, then drop 2,500 feet to the pack station with no food or sleeping bags hoping that our supplies were there.  That's what we did.  As things turned out, the packer had mistakenly planned to deliver our gear the next day.  Graciously, they fed us, gave us a place to sleep, and most importantly, a horseback ride back to Dusy Basin.

All my worries were for naught.  The morning dawned divinely clear and warm.  Clouds floated innocently by, and all was lighthearted.  The climb to Dusy Basin is long and steep, but Drew carried the only pack and that was lightly laden with some trash and exposed film.  To my relief, we met Peter with military precision.  He greeted us with, "You've lost weight," plus two welcome treats, an apple fritter from Schat's Bakery in Bishop, and even better, a fresh apricot.

We caught up on Lance Armstrong and the Tour de France and a 9 out of 10 hot streak by the Giants - by now, another world.

We parted with Peter, excited to have briefly connected with the outside world, and walked the five miles back to camp.  We had covered the ten-mile round trip in five hours and found ourselves back at camp at 1:00.  Rather than spend another night in Le Conte Canyon, at Drew's suggestion, we quickly broke camp and put four more miles under our belt.  The bad news:  Our packs were newly laden with a nine-day supply of food.  The good news:  The packs will never be this heavy again and will lighten everyday for the remaining nine days of the trip.

It is testimony to our growing strength that we could hike to Dusy Basin and back and still have the strength and desire to break camp and move on.

Conversations with Drew on the trail today and recently have been animated and interesting.  Details I can't recall, but it has been fun to connect like two contemporaries rather than as father and son.  Movies, comedians, comic gags come up as well as life stuff.  Drew has also impressed me with his resolve on this trip.  Complaints have been minor and the kind anyone might raise.  But to my greatest delight, he has plainly said that he is enjoying this trip.

Our walk to this new camp was ideally suited to our new heavy packs - gently downhill following the descending flow of the Middle Fork of the Kings River.  We stopped to admire and photograph Grouse Meadow then turned left up Paradise Creek to begin our climb to Mather Pass.  We are camped here by Paradise Creek a mile above the confluence with the Kings River.

Clouds are always present but this evening there is more blue than gray.  I have hedged my bets and erected the tent, but our sleeping bags are rolled out under the stars.

Always thinking of Renee and Vanessa.

Day 16

Thursday, July 31.  Palisade Lakes.  5 1/2 Miles.  10,650 ft.

I left you last night sitting under the stars optimistic about an evening in the open.  After signing off, Drew and I lay in our bags watching quite a show.  It included everything; countless stars, shooting stars, lightning, thunder - then a few drops.  It rained all night long for God's sake. 

The morning dawned promisingly - half blue, half clouds, so Drew and I packed up our wet tent, wet sleeping bags, wet socks, wet boots, wet or damp everything, and hit the trail hoping to beat any bad weather.  The final climb to Palisade Lakes is up what is called the Golden Staircase.  It was one of the last portions of the trail to be built, and it is easy to see why.  The trail is a seemingly endless series of switchbacks etched and blasted into a long steep granite wall - a project seemingly suited to the Army Corps of Engineers.

Drew really struggled up this steep, long ascent.  At the top, we had some lunch and then...steady rain.  Though we didn't travel far today, with the few additional miles we did at the end of yesterday, we had reached our desired destination.  So, after tromping around lower Palisade Lake for some time looking for a suitable tent site - problematic near timberline - we once again set up the tent in the rain, climbed into our bags and fell asleep.

A couple of hours later, we awoke to bright sunshine.  I took the opportunity to put everything out for a drying session.  What a beautiful spot here between lower and upper Palisade Lakes with Mather Pass looming above.  Hopeful weather - cloudy, but clearing.  Drew got sick, but ate well and is feeling better.

Stove problems (sputter, then out).

Cool evening.  Does this mean storms have passed?

Day 17

Friday, August 1.  Marjorie Lake.  12 miles.  11,200 ft.

In a pathetic sort of way, considering how our expectations have been lowered during this trip, today was a good day.  But really, I'd say, a downer.

I got up at least four times last night to pee and the sky was crystal clear, countless stars.  I was so disappointed when I woke to a sky covered with stratus clouds that looked as though rain was imminent.  In a panic I roused Drew, which doesn't meld well with Drew's morning lethargy.  But I wanted to get over Mather Pass before the rain hit.

On the trail by 7:30, we reached 12,080-foot Mather Pass in two hours.  Looking back north, we were treated to a great view of the Palisades with several 14,000-foot peaks looming above their namesake lakes where we spent last night.  Looking south, the landscape dropped away to broad glacier-carved Upper Basin scattered with shallow high mountain lakes feeding the newly-born South Fork of the Kings River.  Miles beyond, we could see the approach to Pinchot Pass.    

Drew struggled up the pass as he did yesterday up the Golden Staircase.  Impressively, he didn't utter a word of complaint.  His stomach troubled him requiring a couple pit stops on the climb.  His uneasy stomach and probably the continuing poor weather have soured Drew's mood,  but his commitment to finish the trip never waivers.

I have felt very good the past two days - foot issues and soreness in my legs and feet are my only problems.  The ball of my foot is numb, and I wonder if my little toe is broken.

Despite this, I powered up and over Mather Pass.  As we dropped into Upper Basin, the rain began.  After a steady eight mile descent along the South Fork of the Kings River, we crossed it and climbed one mile here to Marjorie Lake.  The gentle rainfall was tolerable, almost pleasant, though it began around 10:00 am and continues now at 8:00 pm with only the briefest respites.  But we walked, cooked and pitched camp through it and are happy to be dry and warm in our small but safe tent.  Walrus Arch Rival XV, you have served us well.  Bless you.

Marjorie Lake is just under Pinchot Pass, and we will cross it first thing tomorrow.  With the crossing of Mather Pass, we will have knocked off seven of the trail's eleven passes.

We chatted with a volunteer who is staffing a backcountry ranger cabin nearby.  He said this weather is supposed to break tomorrow.  He forecasts good weather by tomorrow or Sunday.  Oh, please.

Drew's down mood, his intestinal unease, the weather - all tend to make me think of racing to the end.  But I must keep my eye on the simple task at hand - walk, deal with the rain, comfort Drew until he bounces back.

The rain continues to patter the tent.  Now, I'll read to Drew.

Day 18

Saturday, August 2.  Arrowhead Lake.  12 1/2 miles.  10,500 ft.

The day dawned  clear and hopeful at Marjorie Lake.  We climbed the couple miles to Pinchot Pass and gazed beyond into a broad alpine basin - the source of Woods Creek preparing to descend toward the South Fork of the Kings River.

Drew started slowly, weary physically, or more likely, weary psychologically.  I think he is growing tired of this tedious, endless walk.  Right now, this magnificent country is not compensation enough for him.

The descent from Pinchot Pass at 12,100 feet down to the Woods Creek crossing at 8,500 feet is simply horrible.  There must be a better way.  Dropping nearly 4,000 feet in 3 1/2 miles crushes  bones and spirits alike.  Having hiked it before, I told a mild-mannered couple we meet regularly on the trail that they would be angry by the time they completed the descent.  When we met again at the bottom, they emphatically confirmed my assessment.

From the low point at Woods Creek, we climbed four miles and 2,000 feet to this spot at Arrowhead Lake.  The weather was mostly clear, but clouds kept building.  The inevitable rain came several times on our walk, but lightly and briefly.  Drew led the way with newfound energy that seemed to rise out of utter determination more than any joyful effort.  Each stride seemed to say, "Let's get this over with."

On arrival here at Arrowhead Lake, his spirits picked up.  We found a site and pitched the tent just before (conveniently, for once) the only extended rainfall of the day began.  Tucked in the tent, secure from the rain, we talked about the food we want to eat when we get home and the dwindling number of days left on our trip.  This lifted Drew's spirits for the entire evening and allowed him to reflect with some pride on having carried a heavy pack 170 miles over difficult terrain.

After several hours of rain, the sky is mostly clear.  We continue to hope this strange wet weather pattern has passed and that clear weather will prevail for the remainder of the trip.  I can't stand being in  the tent when I know that the sky outside is filled with stars.

Stove problems at dinner tonight.  It has been balky for several days, but this time I couldn't conjure up a strong blue flame.  A dead stove and we can't finish the trip.  I checked the jet - all clear, but when I opened the valve after priming, I got no powerful hiss of air and fuel racing out.  I took it apart yesterday, but no improvement.  At best, I get interrupted hissing and regular popping.  At worst, a lazy yellow flame, then nothing. 

Hopefully, the now-clear sky means Drew can enjoy this beautiful spot tomorrow in the morning light.  It is spectacular here, but we barely looked up when we arrived as we raced to set up camp ahead of the rain.

Two passes in two days.  And two passes in the next two days.  Strength grows, but so does the exhaustion at the continuous effort. 

Day 19

Sunday, August 3.  Bubb's Creek.  10 miles.  10,000 ft.

Finally, the perfect day.  I looked out of the tent this morning at Arrowhead Lake, and there was not a single cloud in the sky - not one.  Something about this morning signaled that none would come.  We had started earlier days with a clear sky only to walk in a downpour by lunch.  But this morning, every reflection of morning light was a little brighter.  It was in the air, and we felt it.  It would be a glorious day.

I roused Drew for a morning photo session to take advantage of the fresh light on this glorious spot near Rae Lakes.  He shuffled around broadcasting his indifference, but we recorded a lovely morning.

All this added up to a late start - 10:30 - but our high spirits and energy level matched the morning.  We passed Rae Lakes and started the climb up Glen Pass.  We have grown so much stronger on this trip.  Climbing 1,500 feet to a 12,000-foot pass is much more enjoyment and much less drudgery than it was nearly three weeks ago.  Drew's spirits were high, fueled I suspect by his growing strength and visions of the finish line urging him on.  We descended the far side past Charlotte Lake.  Before dropping down to Bubb's Creek, we were treated to a sweeping view up the broad glaciated valley toward its source and 13,200-foot Forester Pass - tomorrow's target.  We've settled for the night here in an idyllic grassy site by the creek, roaring except for a calm eddy that made a perfect dunk site. 

Drew found ingredients to create quesadillas, which excited him to no end.  His enthusiasm has soared.  Now, at 8:10, he's making hot chocolate. 

Which brings up the damn stove.  This morning I noticed that the bolt that is welded to the burner assembly and that, with the attaching nut holds the assembly in place, sheared off - just broke off.  Last night, I had to disassemble the stove because it wouldn't work.  When I took it apart a small bit of burnt debris, I guess, fell out and the stove worked fine.  Same thing again tonight.  How can this brand new $135 stove fail on a 25-day trip with normal usage?  It's nuts.  No stove - gotta go home.  Simple as that.

Last night Drew and I both had our sleep disturbed by pain - Drew in his hips, me in my knees and buttocks.  Tonight, two Motrin as preventative medicine.

Strangely, pain appears when we stop.  While walking, all soreness is masked by the effort.  My knees are always stiff and the bottom of my feet are just numb from the pounding.  The pressure points where I carry the weight of my pack - hips and shoulders - are fine with only minor irritations.

So finally, I get to relax in my Thermarest chair and write and read under the dimming sky and the coming stars.  The Kearsarge Pinnacles on my right that define one side of this valley nudge harmless clouds that fluff along those jagged crags.  Orange sunset light warms them.  A show everywhere.  There is still faint light in the west along with a quarter moon that will set soon.  Can't see this stuff on a rainy night in the tent. 

Three passes in three days - a fourth tomorrow.  The last one is Mt. Whitney in four days or so.

Day 20

Monday, August 4.  Wallace Creek.  18 miles.  10,200 ft.

What a day.  Our world has changed since this morning. 

The day dawned beautifully clear, but our gear was soaked from the evening dew.  The sun did not clear the Kearsarge Pinnacles until 8:00 or so, and it took some time to dry things out. We weren't underway until 9:45.  We must be the latest starters on the trail.

The climb to Forester Pass follows Bubb's Creek which tumbles down a broad glaciated valley with sweeping views that grew more spectacular the higher we went.  The pleasant grade along the creek made for comfortable walking until we reached the steep cirque a couple miles beneath the pass.

Drew is jazzed and excited and strong.  It is a delight to see.  He is rarely chatty and never shares his feelings, but this morning Drew offered that he is enjoying the trip in a new way.  Certainly, part of the change is due to his growing strength.  The climb to 13,200-foot Forester Pass is much more fun and far less drudgery than it would have been three weeks ago.  He shot up the pass as if gravity were an unfounded rumor.

At 1:30, six miles and 3,000 vertical feet above last night's camp, we stood on top of Forester Pass.  It is our highest point on the trip so far and marks our departure from King's Canyon National Park and entry into Sequoia.  Below are the headwaters of the Kern River.

After descending the south side of the pass, we decided to treat ourselves to a hot lunch, but the stove would not start.  All the remedial measures I have taken before were fruitless this time.  Dead stove, period.

For some reason, the fates have decided that Drew and I must deal with one trip-threatening preoccupation or another throughout this walk.  Until yesterday the weather wielded the baton forcing us to constantly anticipate its uncertain whimsy.  Now, the stove won't work.  We can't cook any food.  What do we do?

As we had with the weather, we discussed our options.  The weather had washed out earlier layover days we had planned in order to climb Mt. Lyell and Mt. Goddard.  I had hoped to camp tonight near Mt. Tyndall and take a day to walk to its summit.  That's out now.  We decided that our best option was to push hard for the finish line eating what dry food we have.  We shouldered our packs and set out to cover as much ground as possible before dark.  There is a backcountry ranger cabin at Crabtree Meadow.  Maybe the ranger (if he is there) has a stove we could use.  Who knows?

Bless Drew.  When I get frustrated and angry at confounding situations like this, Drew steps in to say everything will be just fine.  "We'll just to such-and-such, and things will work out.  It'll be OK."

We walked like we were possessed, but as evening approached, we realized Crabtree Meadow was out of reach.  By a stroke of luck, when we arrived at Wallace Creek, we ran into Bill and Irene from Reno who we have seen on the trail several times.  I asked Bill if I could trade him some fuel in exchange for the use of his stove to cook our dinner.  No problem, he said.  After cooking their dinner, he came over and chatted with us while we cooked ours.  Awfully nice.  What a lifesaver.

Suddenly, Mt. Whitney is tomorrow.  We will climb over 4,000 feet and walk 13 miles to its summit, then camp somewhere on the other side.  On Wednesday, we will hike out, arriving in Lone Pine two days before our Friday motel reservation.  I made that reservation because I have exited the wilderness at Lone Pine before only to find a town with no motel vacancies.  Please, not that.

For now, lovely sleep.  Tomorrow, our biggest day and our ultimate goal.

Day 21

Tuesday, August 5.  Trail Camp.  17.4 miles.  12,000 ft.

Today was the culmination of our trip and it could not have been better had I scripted it.  It would be a long day, so Drew and I started early.  We were up, packed, and on the trail at 6:30 walking through a beautiful morning.

The terrain we have crossed since leaving Tyndall Creek yesterday is extraordinary.  The sandy but firm ground supports open stands of foxtail pine.  These rare trees are simply enchanting.  Living here in particularly hostile surroundings - high, windswept, exposed places - their limbs are contorted in the most amazing and artistic ways.  Their massive trunks stand erect giving way very little to the intense winds that rake these bare slopes.  The foxtail's reddish brown bark is often ripped away on the windward side revealing the tree's  gnarled and twisted grain - evidence of the constant struggle against the wind.  Needles are born at the end of branches (resembling a fox's tail) that twist in every different direction.  The overall effect is magical.  My favorite tree, by far.  There is a wonderful open feeling walking through their widely spaced stands, while up above, the occasional dead foxtail snag stands like an eerie lonely monarch.

We walked fresh and strong through the morning.  At Timberline Lake, we left the trees and entered the world of granite.  We ascended easily along the base of Whitney's rounded back side that rose steeply on our left, constantly looking ahead for the spot where the trail would veer left toward the serious switchback climbing to the summit.

After a rest and a snack at Guitar Lake, up we went.  The fitness gained over the past three weeks and 200 miles served us well.  We easily climbed the 2,000 feet to Trail Crest (13,480 ft.), the pass to the other side and the junction to the Whitney summit.  Dropping our packs there, we stuffed a few items in a fanny pack and were off.  We rambled up the 2 1/2 miles to the summit, on our way peering between Whitney's spires down the Sierra's steep eastern escarpment to Lone Pine and the Owens Valley 10,000 feet below.

Up the broad rounded back of Mt. Whitney until it finally gave way to the sweeping summit plateau.  There, beyond the summit hut, the mountain dropped away offering an unsurpassed view.  Finally, a  perfectly clear and windless day.  In every direction, the view was clear and limitless.  Though we could see an immense distance northward, we could not see nearly the entirety of the distance we had walked.

I never experience deep emotional responses in my personal life.  No tears...ever.  Yet, surprisingly and inexplicably, as we neared the crest, I could not suppress the tears.  On my approach to the summit, I had not been sentimentally reflecting on the trip, just mindlessly plodding as I had been for weeks, when uninvited and unexpected, they came.  The fact that Drew, my son, and I had done this special thing, and that this was the pinnacle moment, overcame me without any of those conscious thoughts.  Though I tried, it took awhile to control.  I can't remember a better feeling.

Drew was openly excited and proud for what he had done - walked for three weeks and 210 miles over incredibly difficult terrain, at high altitude, through lousy weather, with a heavy pack on his back.  An now, at 14,494 feet, every point in the contiguous 48 United States was below the soles of his boots.

We lingered perhaps an hour at the summit taking pictures and enjoying the view.  The top of Mt. Whitney can be quite busy, but thankfully we enjoyed relative peace there.  Excited and energized, we bounded down the 5 miles to Trail Camp, reeling in plodding unburdened peak-baggers along the way.

Trail Camp.  Sheeesh.

For three weeks now, we have enjoyed peace one can rarely experience in everyday life.  The wind, rushing water, occasional thunder, and each other's voices are nearly all we have heard.  Granite, pines, lakes, rivers, and a changing sky are nearly all we have seen.  To us, arriving at Trail Camp where we will spend the night is like being dropped in the middle of a three-ring circus.  We have barely spoken since we arrived.  We just sit in amazed silence, turning our heads this way, then that, to catch the next attraction.

We are surrounded by bright and shiny people decked out in crisp logo-laden clothing fussing endlessly with their equipment as though playing "house."  Drew and I are a mess.  We are unshaven and filthy.  Our hair hasn't been combed in three weeks and it shows.  We are wearing dirty sweat-stained generic clothes.  We stand out like serial killers at a party for REI manikins.

Trail Camp is a rocky, windy, dismal place.  Each individual campsite is a small discreet spot that has been cleared of rocks that were then used to build a protective wind barricade.  How many are there?  30?  50?  We have claimed one for ourselves.  It is the only site without a tent - just two sleeping bags rolled out on our ground cloth.

It is nothing to be proud of, but neither of us can disguise our disgust with this scene.  After all, these people deserve credit for choosing to come here rather than the mall.  But we can't help watching the show, occasionally exchanging can-you-believe-it glances.  Earlier, a fully erected freestanding tent blew by, rolling like a wind-driven beach ball.  Giddily triumphant hikers return from Whitney as though from the summit of Everest carrying no load and wielding brand new trekking poles in a useless fashion.

Shame on us.  Such judgment is harsh and unfair.  But sitting here, seeing this, it is hard not to measure the efforts of these weekend peak-baggers against our trip.  In some small way and for a short while, we were more than just visitors.  We began to feel and move to the rhythms of this place.  The weather made sure of that.  For three weeks, many things we control down below were out of our hands here.  We are glad to be nearly through.  We are looking forward to a shower, a porcelain toilet seat, a great meal.  But we both know that because of this experience, a little part of us is transformed. 

We're off to Bill and Irene's tent.  We are sharing some extra food and they are once again sharing their stove.