Vermillion Valley Resort – Bear Creek

My oh my, are we turning into power balls! We walked the 19 km to Bear Creek, 8 of which were steep uphill switchbacks, in less than six hours including breaks. Bear Creek was our sketchiest river crossing so far, but we luckily found a log to ease our passing.

We were already tucked in at 18.00, sleeping bags fluffed up and teeth brushed. Today was all a blur of new mountain views, aspen forests and autopilot hiker mood. Our packs were loaded with stuffed bear cannisters, but it didin’t feel nearly as crippling as on the first day from Rush Creek. On the other hand, I still longed for a bed. My sticky sleeping bag liner smelled, I smelled, the tent smelled, everything smelled. My face was covered in salt from sweating all day, and the brown dirt forming in the cracks of my fingers stubbornly refused to be scrubbed off.

Bear Creek - Piute Pass Trail via Selden Pass

Off to a moist start. Mood was sour as we examined our soaked tent and sleeping bags after a night of full-blown condensation. The curse of the single-walled tent. We had to carry the wet gear outside our packs, and we saw countless other hikers in similar dismay as we crossed dewy meadows in the chilly morning. The only small blessing was that my period, having realised our trail adventure was not over, glumly retreated. Who knew that vigorous activity could impact your cycle…

My morning hate slowly evaporated on the long climb up to Selden Pass. Who can be gloomy at the sight of shining crystal lakes, purple mountain flowers and chipmunks begging for nuts? Selden Pass itself was a sweaty but gorgeous ordeal. I could look at the landscape beneath the passes forever. Both Selden and Silver had been relatively miniscule, and not high enough to be stripped of vegetation. I knew the giant passes still lay ahead, but it felt comforting to know that we’d traversed the “baby passes” without any trouble. When you’re undertaking 340km of hard terrain, you hold on to the little victories!

We gobbled an uninspiring lunch of ramen noodles by beautiful Heart Lake, and meandered down through lush forests and meadows blanketed in wildflowers. As we made our way down endless switchbacks, losing all the altitude we had gained since leaving VVR, I couldn’t help but think that this trail could have been made slightly more intelligently. It was a constant up and down scramble, why didin’t it ever follow the side of a mountain for a while? Tomorrow was the last day before our first big pass – Muir – and I worried constantly about altitude acclimatisation. After the experience at Squaw Lake, every camp now felt momentous.

For the first time since our hike began, the afternoon brought puffy grey clouds. Hikers dread afternoon thunderstorms, but luckily we were nestled amidst sturdy pines at lower altitude. Not five minutes after we reached camp and pitched our tent, the first rain of the trail came pattering down. My Duplex did well in the rain, but it took a good two hours of rumbling thunder before we could crawl out to filter water and make dinner. The campsite at Piute Pass trail wasn’t much of a stunner; but made up for it in cosiness. We could enjoy the distant chatter of other hikers, and the sunset burst through the clouds just in time for me to eat my (unspeakably delicious) chili mac in golden light. No bugs, for once we could linger for as long as we liked to stretch, talk and laugh before crawling into bed.

My hair took almost ten minutes to brush. It’s morphed into one big dread at the nape of my neck. We smelled so bad that no amount of airing out made my tent smell like new. And yet, you slowly get accustomed to this reality. Hardships take their toll, but if you can end the day in tranquility and beauty, you feel as content as can be. Embrace the tunnel vision for all its worth, as you watch stars pop up in the night sky above your head.

Piute Pass Trail - Evolution Lake

Any condensation-free morning is a good morning, right? Despite another dose of tasteless ramen noodles and an ever-growing bruise on your ankle. Right? Right. For once the terrain was flat, and we made good speed through the Evolution Basin. We were treated to a circus of wildlife all morning. Two chipmunks chased each other in a merry-go-round fashion around a tree trunk. Twin fawns peeked curiously out at us from behind a bush. I choked on my breath as I narrowly missed stepping on a long, thin snake before it slithered off the trail.

It felt like a monumental decision to continue up to Evolution Lake for a high camp and a strategic position for Muir Pass. I was freaked out by the altitude - but staying at McClure Meadow meant a hideously long day tomorrow and slushy afternoon snow. Muir Pass, unlike the other high passes, doesn’t have a cone-shaped elevation profile, but is rather like a speed bump. Traversing the south side would take hours.

Billy Goat taught us how to go s-l-o-w on the uphills, and it really worked! We inched our way up the switchbacks, meeting two Texan students on the way. Dan and Andrew shared our amazement as we rounded a bend in the trail and beheld Evolution Lake for the first time. It was one of the most stunning sights I’d ever seen. The green lake and white stones beneath the majestic Evolution Crest which craggy peaks shot up into the sky. Blowing up my Thermarest in the thin air took close to 15 minutes, every breath had to be slow and deep to be even vaguely satisfying.

But the beauty of Evolution Lake was beyond words. It ached just to look at it. The alpenglow on the mountains created a wonderland of pinks, apricot, baby blue and violet. The sun set blood red, low on the horizon as we wandered around drinking it in. Every cell in my body tried to absorb the wild land and store it in memory. For the first time, I didn’t want to go to bed, I hated the thought of even a thin tent mesh between me and this wild, wild place. What a wild life!

 Evolution Lake - Big Pete Meadow via Muir Pass

Does it get boring to receive the morning report? Sleep: meh. Condensation: Some. Mood: reasonable. Power breakfast of tortilla with almond butter and chocolate spread: holy macaroni. Those flimsy oatmeal packets ain’t got nothing! The 1000 calorie tortilla combo turns you into a Duracell rabbit on ecstasy. I was ready to run up Muir Pass, 65L backpack and all.

Traversing the high passes takes pretty much all day, especially one with such gentle slopes as Muir. There was never a point where we had to battle our way upwards, the easy gradient allowed for a smooth stride. Now the large snowfields started to appear, and I got a better idea of why everyone was concerned about slushiness on steep slopes. We carried neither micro spikes, crampons, or ice axes, but none of them would do you any good once the morning sun melts the snow crust away. We meandered along the glass-clear shores of Lake Wanda before the landscape turned to snow and scree.

At noon I heaved myself up the final slope and could embrace Muir Hut. Who needs summits when you have passes on a thru-hike? We were surrounded by barren moonscape in all directions, Himalayan craggy peaks jabbing at the sky. Clouds drifted around teasingly, but still the sun scorched us. I had a tiny square of caramel chocolate to celebrate, I felt like I was unwrapping a Wonka bar – the golden ticket all around me. The Texan students joined us along with a friendly girl, Carly, and her service dog Zia. Zia would give me several heart attacks that day. She delighted in throwing herself down the steepest snow slopes, I was convinced she would fall to her death on the rocks every time. I could have stayed at Muir Hut to bask in our accomplishment, but we decided it would be safer to descend as a group.

Navigating the south side of Muir was… wild. Without Guthooks maps we’d be fried, snow fields covered huge chunks of trail. We spent several minutes scouting the vast slopes for our precious path, sometimes finding it, sometimes not. There was no clear track, and we had to wing it several times over crusty patches – hearing the rush of rivers spookily beneath our feet. Muir’s south side is significantly steeper, and we inched our way around snow bridges, scrambled over rocks and glissaded down trying to not rake our butts on sharp rocks (“Nonono, Zia! Come back! ZIAAA!”).

I felt my pulse ringing in my ears crossing rivers where a slip would send you cascading into the valley below. The crossings could literally be perched on the edge of a drop. The landscape was so stunning and untamed, it was the wildest place I’ve ever hiked. Hours and hours went by in a tense adrenaline-fuelled focus. By the time we reached the bottom of LeConte Canyon, we’d descended a 1000 altitude metres. My legs buckled underneath me, I was as beat as on day 1 and 2.

Big Pete Meadow - Lower Palisade Lake 

I always reckoned my main enemy on the JMT would be altitude. It’s a strange sensation to draw in breath without feeling satisfied. Your muscles don’t have as much fuel to work on, you move slow and think slow. Tasks take longer, and you can’t do massive mileages because the strength just isn’t there. But as of today, our new top toil turned out to be all the more consuming (no pun intended).

Hunger.

I must have been in the middle of one of these drooly daydreams when I almost bumped into Adrian, who had stopped dead on the trail. Looking past him, I could see why. The whole level ground narrative was over. We had to crane our necks to look up at the wall in front of us, the notorious Golden Staircase. A rock massif almost 700 m high, it takes ages to climb and there are no water sources. To be fair, it offered splendid views of the canyon below, but it was two winded Norwegians who crawled over the top. I’d also paid for my pee-break with about 45 new mosquito bites.

Finally we beheld Lower Palisade Lake. It would be our camp for the night. As we traced the edge of the lake, stormy clouds gathered, and I lay down the line for any higher altitude camping. Tomorrow morning we would face one of the most dreaded passes on the JMT: Mather Pass. The north side is steep and slippery, the snow would be icy in the shadows. We will be doing one pass per day until our next resupply. We lay in our tent, starving and scratching our bug bites, as the hours towards an appropriate dinner time ticked by.

It feels strange typing this out from the comfort of my kitchen after all this time, because my memory of the trail is one of absolute splendour. You forget the hard stuff, only the shining lakes and majestic mountains remain. But reading my journal notes from this night, I recall understanding that getting to Mt Whitney would be a fight. Black dirt lined every crease of my hands, I’d never gone this long without a shower. The harsh beauty of the Palisade Lakes was a sight to behold, but I was absolutely smashed. And then there was the race to fall asleep before I grew hungry again…

 Lower Palisade Lake - Taboose Pass Trail via Mather Pass

Nothing beats the sight of the areas around the passes as the day waxes and wanes. We strode off ready to take on whatever Mather threw at us. At Upper Palisade Lake we passed other hikers with squished morning faces, including Billy Goat, who looked like he’d spent the night in Vegas. “I’m not a morning person, I headed out of Yosemite Valley at 10 AM!” We could see the crescent-shaped ridge up ahead, and stomped up towards the final push.

At last we reached the top – a tiny outcrop descending into friendly, snowless switchbacks and an immense plateau on the south side. Phew! Mather was a hairy ordeal indeed. About 30 seconds after this picture was taken, my stomach cramped up so bad I almost jumped down the pass. Two weeks of high caloric, high carb food does unmentionable things to your guts. Don’t skimp on those zero day probiotics!

I felt like I had a stomach ulcer the rest of the day. Thankfully the trail never dipped back down into the canyons, but remained high all day tracing the treeline. Billy Goat caught up with us in time for lunch. He gifted us some more wine gums, that guy had become like Santa Claus to me now. My stomach was killing me, and I whined until we pitched an early camp right after the climb up from the South Fork of the Kings River. Another PCT death site, it was now a breezy crossing. We squeezed our tent into a miniscule and exposed spot of flat ground on a ridge just above treeline. Other hikers continued on to Lake Marjorie, but I was done.

 Taboose Pass Trail - Rae Lakes via Pinchot Pass

Holy guacamole, what a night! A fierce wind storm had descended upon our stupidly exposed camp in the night, and I felt like kissing every inch of my precious, battered Duplex. Great gusts had beat the tent like you would scrunch up a piece of paper, seemingly threatening to pummel us down the mountainside. Sleeping was out of the question, with loud flapping and the whole tent structure appearing near collapse at any minute. …On the bright side, any drops of condensation would have been carried to the Pacific Ocean by now.

Hiking up the sandy tracks towards Pinchot Pass amidst the green grass and tall firs, I breathed in a fuzzy warm appreciation for this hike. Every day was a photo album’s worth of astonishing sights, all our camps could feature on a postcard. Your body takes a beating, but each morning you get to wake up in a new beautiful place. And Pinchot Pass was… easy as a breeze. The highest pass yet, you’d think it would be a tough bugger. But it just wasn’t. Passes aren’t necessarily a thing to dread, you kinda deal with going up and then down – it’s not magic.

I shamelessly sang “Hello World” from The Saddle Club to keep up morale as we re-entered our favourite landscape in the Rae Lakes basin: lush green meadows crowned by silver peaks.

Rae Lakes - Lil Pothole Lake via Glen Pass & Kearsarge Pass 

Forget everything I’ve said about mastering passes. Glen Pass was a beast. I felt ready to perish before we’d even begun the final ascent. There was only a vertical wall of massive rock, at the top I saw that it was actually an overhang. I took 10-20 metres at the time, stopping only to gasp “How awful. How criminally awful.”. Near the top I faced a snowfield at such a horrendous angle that any small slip would send me careening into jagged rocks hundreds of meters below. I would have taken a picture – but wisely remembered that I’d prefer not to be one of those people who die taking selfies. I inched my way across, jabbing my poles into the snow as makeshift ice axes. Every movement was monumental. Please don’t let me be smeared out over Glen. I just want my next resupply box, goddamnit!

The sandy white trail winded upwards, and the Kearsarge basin came into view. One of the most stunning sights I’ve ever seen. Snow-capped mountains, sparce green pine forest and Bullfrog Lake glistening ultramarine in the dazzling sunlight. Had it not been for the bear warning, I would have camped right there. But we felt so good, and the tiny little Kearsarge Pass was right there… So we flipped over that one too. And boom, we could see the brown dry valley and Independence below! The Sierras are a vast remote wilderness, but just one set of mountains to the east you have towns and a road and burgers and goodness!

 Zero in Independence & Lone Pine

Another “weekend” morning lazing in the tent. My hip bones were now poking out and my shorts were too big. But no point waiting here, I shoved down a Pro bar and we hit it down the scorching descent towards Onion Valley. High altitude takes away the burning heat down below, which now hit us with full force. A nice older man offered us a ride into town – didn’t even have to stick out my dirty hitchhiking thumb.