Day 18 - Resume

Onion Valley Trailhead - Center Basin Creek via Kearsarge Pass

Climbing the eastern side of Kearsarge Pass

Being back on the trail is like being back home. Hiking is the new normal now. With only four days remaining, we could finally stuff our bear cannisters to our hearts’ desire. We’re carrying hideous amounts of food. My stomach was aching from all the snacking before we even hit the top of Kearsarge pass! We’d powered up the whole way, hardship is home turf to us.

This morning we overslept and caught an insanely lucky hitch up to the trailhead. Our long forceful strides astonished ourselves most of all. I’d grown so used to feeling underfed and weak, snailing by on thin air. But suddenly I felt as if my old body had returned to me – despite the food weight – powerful, rested, energised, able. I felt an intense love for my strong, dark golden legs which had carried me all this way.

We crossed the Kearsarge basin past greenstone-coloured lakes and re-joined the JMT. Somehow the trail had become significantly more populous in our absence, and we passed several groups of other hikers.

For the evening we are camped at Center Basin Creek, nicely positioned for Forrester tomorrow. Traversing the pass alone will take at least half a day. We have re-joined Jeff and Frida, a lovely couple in their 60s.

They are sharing this picture perfect evening with us; no bugs and a spectacular sunset reflected in the winding river down below where I sit perched to write. Jeff & Frida are passionate liberals, and we were engulfed in conversation of literature and politics for hours. I am placing a bid to be their grandchild.

Despite the unofficial rule to not discuss politics or religion on the trail, every hiker we meet talks hilarious trash about the cheese doodle Voldemort currently occupying the White House. All ye faithful, come join the liberals in the California mountains!

I was battling increasing stomach cramps, but still loved the evening. Finally reunited with my book and in my ripped pants. Right where I belong.

Day 19 - Not "Just Nasty"

Center Basin Creek - Tyndall Frog Ponds via Forrester Pass

Yesterday, in Vidette Meadow, we struck up a conversation with a man leading a pack of mules through the basin. Hearing that we were going up Forrester, he proceeded to give a lecture on how it had always been a hard pass – but this year it would be nasty. Just nasty.

With a sense of foreboding we slowly dismantled camp. I was feeling extra glum. My pack was heavy, I’d acquired three blisters out of nowhere, and my iffy nose climaxed in our tent last night. I’d used a single, precious, sheet of toilet paper to blow – really blow it – while reading in the tent. Blood sputtered everywhere, all over my sleeping pad and hands. Aaaargh!

Forrester Pass, at 4000 m, is practically two passes in one and takes half a day to traverse.

I whined pathetically all morning. Unlike the other passes, Forrester was no morning ordeal. We climbed and climbed, drank electrolyte water, gobbled M&Ms, gasped for oxygen as we passed 3700 m (the height of Pinchot), 3800, 3900… The high altitude moonscape started almost right out of camp, such was the elevation level.

And then, after heaving ourselves up an almost vertical snow field covered in pink algae, we were there. A small rocky outcrop, the highest point on the Pacific Crest Trail. We had made it. I was brimming with pride. I felt like a Patagonia advert. Remembered back to sitting in bed back home in the spring of 2016, deciding to “become a real hiker”. And now look, killing it on one of America’s great trails at 4000 m! I hiked the JMT to test whether I could do big hikes, whether I was the real outdoor deal. And standing with my hand on the elevation marker beside my beloved Osprey, I knew I was made of the tough stuff. That I could achieve this form of greatness.

The view was incredible. Bighorn Plateau spread out in the distance, the mountains to the south growing progressively smaller towards the end of the Sierra.

Going down was easy as can be, and we enjoyed a vast open space with a creek for lunch. Freda, Jeff and a fat marmot joined us for lunch, and we also met a charmingly sarcastic Brit living in San Francisco: Philip.

Me: “So what do you think of the whole Brexit mess? The pound has plummeted lately…”. Philip: “What the f*ck did they expect when they voted like idiots?” My kind of guy.

Philip, Jeff and Freda hiked with us past Tyndall Creek and we set up our next-to-last camp together. A group of other hikers joined us for a sunset lakeside dinner and humorous discussions about food and America. I dug into my lasagne with freeze dried broccoli on the side, this girl ain’t gonna starve no more!

Philip heading down the switchbacks on the south side of Forrester Pass

The overhang that is Forrester from the south. I’d rather do another trail than do the JMT NOBO.

Just before bedtime, I headed off a little way from camp to pee and brush my teeth. I smiled at how terrified I would have been of bears in this situation a couple of weeks ago. Toothbrush in hand, I stopped to look out through the trees towards the sunset and the mountains on the horizon. We are so close to finishing. Two more days, one last camp, and we are through. Standing there in the golden twilight, tangled mess of hair and salt crystals on my face from today’s sweating, I thought of how much I actually love performing these little rituals in the wild. How much I love devouring a freeze-dried dinner while laughing with newfound friends. How much I love this trail, every excruciating inch of it.

I felt profoundly grateful for the opportunity to experience these vast landscapes. There have been 19 sunrises and sunsets in California since we began this hike, and we have seen them all. Talk about putting yourself in the way of beauty. How wonderful it feels to be a part of this extraordinary place, living this extraordinary life. How wild! I think I will be back someday.

Day 20 - Alpenglow

Tyndall Frog Ponds - Guitar Lake

Big skies and big days meet on the Bighorn Plateau.

Packing down the penultimate camp was a slow business. We were on the trail to see the bright morning sunshine seep through the trees and crown the mountains gold. I’d been looking forward to crossing the Bighorn Plateau – FINALLY a piece of level ground after three fucking weeks of roller coaster terrain! It looked massive on the map, but after only 15 minutes we reached the treeline on the southern end. Short-lived pleasures. But we took our times to enjoy views of the southern Sierra, Forrester Pass and Mt Whitney in the distance.

After 300 km, we finally laid eyes on our destination: the highest point in the contiguous US, Mt Whitney.

We hiked with Philip all day, keeping a good pace on the blazed white trails amidst the crooked trees. I couldn’t get enough of his witty yet insightful remarks. He spoke adoringly of his wife and daughter, and joked about the difficulties he encountered as a carpenter in the US. “These idiots require me to measure stuff in the most ridiculous way, 13 sixtyfourths of an inch!” Hitomi and Midori, two sisters from yesterday’s camp, also joined us a few hours in. Time passed like a breeze as we chatted happily about the merits of Los Angeles, Clif Bars, The Lord of the Rings and the American legal system. Head into the wild, and find yourself bonding with people over the most unlikely things.

Philip & his Platypus bladder on a mission in Guitar Lake. We teased him for his decadence, he carried a three person tent and a camp chair the whole way.

The last camp. Zpacks Duplex looking fine in its natural habitat.

As a couple on the JMT we had always been the main unit, and by this point were rather under-stimulated by each other’s company. But as we hiked along the bright white trails in a long line under the sun, I truly appreciated the community these well-trodden trails provide.

Hiking was effortless now, and we reached Crabtree Junction before noon! Adrian, Philip and I stopped one last time to filter water before making the final push onwards to Guitar Lake – the last camp before Whitney.

Jagged mountain ridges crowned us in, and we pitched our tent in a cozy nook of boulders. I heard Philip shriek as he dived into the icy waters of Guitar Lake, and figured I might as well keep my dirt for another day.

As the day waned, the most stunning alpenglow I’d ever seen flashed onto the mountains, turning them into veils of peach and pink. Everyone was gathered around for “cocktail hour” and one last supper, our entire trail family. No one was nervous about climbing Whitney, the atmosphere resembled more that of Christmas Eve.

The trail means something different for each one of us. We all have our reasons for being here, and everyone made considerable investments to complete this adventure. I looked around at the smiling, tan faces of the people around me, and felt so happy to share this moment with them.

What a crazy adventure we’ve had. Camped here at 3500 m with friends. Pushing our bodies over the limit and finding new strength there. Over 300 km through the Sierra we have walked. Millions of steps culminating in this final stretch towards the sky.

Our trail family sharing one last dinner in the wild.

Golden moments in time. I longed for city comforts, but the beauty of trail life never fades.

Day 21 - On Top of the World

Guitar Lake - Whitney Portal via Mount Whitney

You’d think it was a military drill by our efficiency. No sooner had my shrill alarm pierced the silence at 05 in the morning, before we slid out of our sleeping bags and dismantled camp mechanically. Our headlamps were the only source of lights in the utter darkness. Muffled sounds from a distance where Philip, Jeff and Freda were going through similar motions. No time to waste, crawl behind a large rock to poop in the bag that we’d picked up at Crabtree Junction (which ironically was decorated with the American flag, it’s hardly patriotic to crap on the nation…).

I was freezing in my shorts and t-shirt, but felt surprisingly perky as I took to the trail (for the last time!) munching on a Pro bar (the last one!). My only worry was our limited water supply.

The Sierra had been bountiful in this record snow year, but once we began the ascent there were no more water sources until we reached the lakes on the other side.

Philip generously let me scavenge some caffeine-infused gummy blocks and he waved us on as we passed him with steady strides.

The first grey hue of dawn illuminated our paths as we started up the switchbacks to Whitney. We would climb 1000m to reach the summit. High above we could see the headlamps of hikers attempting a sunrise summit, like little fireflies on the mountainside. Walk, turn, walk turn. Breathe, stop, breathe. Every step took us higher than we’d ever been before, and even our steady pace couldn’t save us from dizziness and slightly slurred speech as our brains screamed for oxygen. Our naturally fast pace put us ahead of the pack, but we were moving slower than ever. I tried eating a Larabar in a daze, tasting only ash.

The sun rose over the northern Sierra in the distance, creating spectacular reflections on Guitar Lake. Please lungs, hold on! My heart pumped frantically, my legs felt like logs. We inched up the switchbacks, a tiny outcrop plummeting hundreds of meters to the basin down below. Some ledges were so narrow we had to cling to the rockface and squeeze through chasms. At last we reached Trail Crest, where we dumped our packs and shooed away obese marmots that eyed us hungrily.

Sun filtering through the clouds above Owen’s Valley

Without the pack, I seemed to float upwards. The trail was wide now, and cracks in the mountain opened up to spectacular vistas of Owens Valley to the east. We were speedwalking now, tracing the iconic crags of the Whitney Crest.

At last we burst out of the shadows and into the white light, making our way along the final snowfields beneath the summit.

I can’t remember if I ran the last steps. But once last rush of adrenaline sent me stumbling through the field of white boulders to the very tip of the mountain, where groups of other triumphant hikers were celebrating their victory.

The notes in my journal end here. I ran out of patience and paper, and only have the broad strokes of long-term memory to rely on now. But I do remember the blissful hour we spent on the summit, cheering for our friends as they popped over the summit ridge one by one. I remember the bliss as I finally bit into my honeycomb Crunchie that I’d saved for this last moment of glory. Hundreds of peaks in the High Sierra framed us 360, and the world was ours.

I couldn’t quite take it in. On one hand, I was so ready for it to be over. To sleep in a real bed, to wash my hair with expensive shampoo, to walk the air-conditioned aisles at Whole Foods. But at the same time, I knew that the allure of everyday life is short-lived. The magic of the trail is everlasting. It is these moments we look back on when we think about the highlights of our life. The great adventures. Summits that make up the pinnacles of our existence.

I could tell you at length about our long descent to Whitney Portal. 9,5 miles of winding downhill (and will you believe it, some rain!), ever re-enforcing my belief that the JMT NOBO is a suicide mission. We got our hitch with some amazed tourists, and had a fittingly glamorous recovery in Los Angeles. Vegan meals, Venice beach, mascara all the way. I could tell you of how our relationship disintegrated shortly after we arrived back home, trying to settle into a life that was no longer ours.

But I’m not going to. Because this is the story of hiking the John Muir Trail, and that ends on the summit of Mount Whitney. Arms stretched out wide, embracing the whole world from up above. Head turned up towards the sky, looking out at the endless mountains we’d passed. Feeling the raw strength in my legs that carried me all this way. Knowing that here, in the wild, I am free.