Here is my story from my recent trip to the Sierras. I warn you, it is long, but hopefully worth the read.
The Sierras
6/20/03 - 7/1/03
Day 1
I grew up hiking Colorado and the Appalachian Chain, but after much convincing from Morgan, I decided to stretch my boundaries a little and hike an unfamiliar range . . . the Sierras! King's Canyon in Sequoia National Forest. I am so glad he was successful in getting me out there . . . The place was unbelievable.
Let me rewind a few days . . .
Our goal was to climb a huge cliff with the ominous name the “Obelisk”. 1,000 vertical feet of intimidating rock, thrusting violently upward from King’s Canyon. I was as anxious as I was excited. I had hardly slept for the days leading up to my trip, with dreams of gold-rimmed canyons, haunted by the ghosts of old prospectors.
My injuries had me sidelined for the previous couple of months. My neck and my right arm, particularly my forearm, had been in excruciating pain, for which I had been religiously visiting a physical therapist. Morgan was worried about my condition. He tried to make it sound like he wasn’t, but his weekly calls leading up to the trip inquiring about my neck and general lack of cardio condition told me that he was concerned about my ability to do this, but he also knew from experience that I don’t back down from challenges, and my reassurance that we were going seemed to allay his anxiety.
I had a hellacious week getting things ready for my trip, mostly getting out sales proposals at work and making sure that all my details were covered for builder’s meetings while I was gone. I had to pack everything last minute – as usual. My plane departed Friday morning at 5:50 a.m. Yuck! After a boring but brief flight, and a boring but longer layover in Dallas, I boarded my flight to Oakland Airport. That flight was surprisingly pleasant, mostly due to an outgoing and interesting woman named Roxanne who sat next to me. Our conversation made the flight seem much shorter. Morgan was waiting for me at the baggage claim and our adventure began.
Saturday was chock full of errands and our last supply run, but we found time to go to the climbing gym. I wanted to try something light before hitting the real thing. I was worried about my neck and arm but they held up pretty well. I guess these cortisone shots my doctor, Kevin, gave me were kicking in. I flash-pumped my forearms on some embarrassingly easy routes though. They hadn’t fully recovered two days later, before reaching the base of our climb. I wasn’t worried though . . . it only hurt in all the right places. There was no problem with my “problem” areas.
The climbing gym in Oakland
I called home to talk to Erika and then the kids, who amazed me with their ability to carry on a phone conversation. I was certainly comforted to hear their voices. Of all things that I had trouble leaving, it was not my business, or even Erika (although I did miss her) . . . it was most painful to leave my babies. This was the last such trip I would take without at least bringing Julian. He was about the right age to start. It will be even more fun when all of my kids can come out to the mountains!
Sunday we had planned to get out early but, as expected, we ran a little late. We had to make one more stop by REI for me to buy some walking poles. With my neck in its bad condition, it was worth the expense. As I would later learn, it was one of the best purchases I have ever made! (That and the “REI quick-dry underwear”.) It really made a difference!
Getting our climbing gear organized on Morgan's apartment floor
A few more hours drive south (around Fresno) we drove into the mountains. The first thing that gripped me was the sheer immensity of the trees. . . The largest, tallest pines I have ever seen, and even those were dwarfed by the mighty sequoias. We stopped in a grove of trees on the road that had an outhouse so we could make one last pit stop before there were no bathrooms. The trees in that grove must have been 15-20 feet across. I have never seen anything like it. They have survived forest fires (they have a natural fire retardant in them that makes them able to survive), and have somehow survived the Bush Administration with their “if it is made of wood, chop it down” environmental policy. They are over 1,000 years old!
One BIG tree!
I had mixed feelings... On one hand I felt privileged to be in their presence, overcome by a sense of reverence and awe. I was infused with their energy. It was as if they had barely audible subsonic voices, deeper than we were aware of being able to hear, and it rendered me silent. On the other hand, however, I felt like my presence, or anyone’s presence for that matter, was an affront. I was standing on holy ground that I had no right to stand on, and seeing cars drive by on a road carved through this grove confirmed why I had those feelings. These sacred places should only be traveled to on foot, and only by worthy people who would sooner lop off their own hand than chop one of these beauties down.
We followed a winding, narrow road over the Wishon reservoir to our trailhead and parked. The trip is a two-day hike in and a day to get out (maybe two, but all downhill coming out would make things go much faster), with two days at a base camp as we rock climbed. The trails were steep – as expected – and my pack was impossibly heavy. Both of us carried ridiculous loads! Apparently, Black Bears are a bit of a problem in this park, so we have to carry a special “bear canister” to keep any food. They are bulky and heavy. We also had to carry enough clothes, food and supplies to last us at least five or six days! As if that is not enough, we had a tent, sleeping bags and, worst of all, climbing gear. Each of us carried a 160-foot rope, and we had about 40 pounds of cams, wedges and other pieces of “natural pro”.
After a late start and a long drive there wasn’t much time left to hike by the time we started . . . probably less than five hours of daylight left. Determined to knock off as much as possible on the first day though, we hiked like champs for four hours until we came out on a beautiful ridge with lots of large boulders all around. The spot was bare of any trees. It was perfect. . . Just enough wind to keep mosquitoes to a minimum. The four hours up some steep trails took its toll though. We were both really hungry and tired. I wolfed down three sandwiches and built a fire so I could make some hot cocoa. Morgan assembled the tent and soon we were drinking cocoa with brandy as the sun dwindled and disappeared behind the ridgeline.
Our first campfire, just after sunset/
As the stars started to make their appearance, I crawled into the tent. Morgan had fortunately brought a small chessboard so we played a pretty intense game of chess. I had wanted to write that first night, but fatigue was hitting me in waves, inviting me to release myself into the dream world. I poked my head out one last time so I could see all the stars and the Milky Way, then laid my head down on my mat and was asleep in seconds.
Day 2
We awoke early and I immediately got the fire burning so we could get some water boiling. I felt pretty good. We both wolfed down two packets of instant oatmeal and began to break camp. Supposedly, we were going to make it to an adequate base camp where we could quickly hike up a ridge to the base of the Obelisk.
We both quickly got tired, as the trail seemed to show no indication of going downhill. We hiked pretty strongly though, not stopping too often over the next few hours. I took advantage of my break to stuff my face with Cliff bars, trail mix, beef jerky and lots of water. I had no watch and neither did Morgan, so estimating time was not working too well.
We were moving pretty steadily, but judging by the map, it didn’t look like we were making good time at all. Morgan’s
King’s Canyon Climbing Guide book indicated a “pleasant little day hike through piney meadows” to get to the base. I am quite convinced that this book is an elaborate practical joke! I will come back to this. We reached the end of the trail, which meant it was time to bushwhack down into a valley where we would come across a few lakes.
A quick side-note about bushwhacking; following a trail is (albeit difficult, especially going up a bunch of hills), using a predictable amount of energy with very small steps. When you go off trail though, scrambling over rocks and through heavy underbrush - all while carrying a ridiculously heavy pack; it involves using your whole body with massive amounts of energy required to move very short distances. That massive energy is not for a short duration either. When you have to cover a significant distance off trail you cover distance much more slowly and at greater cost. We had picked up a few animal trails here and there, but for the most part we were winging it. We knew the general direction we had to head, but it was going to be a long haul.
We found a lake. According to the map, it was “Little Spanish Lake”. It was pleasant and serene. We took a break there, and I took a couple of photos. You can’t get much more isolated though. After a short break we continued on. We picked up what may have been a trail, though it fizzled out in the middle of nowhere.
We knew “Spanish Lake” (the parent lake I guess) was close by. These were not terribly easy lakes to find. They were all surrounded by huge trees that loomed above them like menacing guardians. Still no trail. We knew that if we headed due north we would pick up on a real trail that was indicated on the map. More bushwhacking! Really hard this time. Heavy underbrush, thick mud and lots of streams pouring into the lake, old fallen trees laid across the ground. Just then it got steep! Really steep with lots of loose dirt that fell away under our feet - like an image out of a childhood nightmare. At the top I could tell that Morgan was starting to have problems . . . that last escapade had drained him. We stopped to rest and were virtually swarmed by mosquitoes. No amount of OFF seemed to dissuade them . . . it was as if we had rolled in blood or something. They descended on us like miniature vampires. Morgan even tried to put a mosquito net head cover on and they were so heavy that six of them managed to get inside his net! There truly was no rest for the weary at this point . . . we had to move on.
We were looking for the trail that would take us over to Geraldine Lakes. We found what may have been a trail, but it was weak at best. We decided to try to follow it since it was headed in the general direction we wanted to go. It was not marked, nor was it easy to follow. It would just disappear and we would search around for a while till we picked it back up again. Okay, that guidebook LIES, because so far this had
not been an “easy stroll through piney meadows,” and it was no mere “day hike” either. Both Morgan and I have a lot of experience with getting out in the “wild outdoors” and this was quite challenging and exhausting.
I was getting more concerned about Morgan. He slowed down and was having to stop frequently. Unfortunately, we had not yet begun our last steep and long ascent over another ridge. Partway up, Morgan completely bonked. It was getting late and we were clearly not going to make the base of the Obelisk that day. I kept him moving, motivating him, and tempting him with offers of my awesome campfire cooking. The trail up seemed to never end! Even I was getting tired and my feet were starting a rebellion, trying to convince other body parts to rise up and fight the oppressor. I think my shoulders and legs were tempted to join, but I convinced my body to keep moving, that as soon as we got on the other side of this ridge we would start looking for a good place to set up camp.
The trail wound up the ridge, taking us through a tallus field and across numerous streams. Finally, we crested the ridge . . . as I have come to expect on trips like this, the vista was simply amazing. I stopped for a few photos, and we headed down the trail. Not a quarter-mile down the trail was a perfect little flat area with a small stream with a waterfall adjacent. Home! I may have had it in me to go on a little further, but Morgan didn’t and it was getting late, and we could not be assured that we would find such a perfect spot if we pushed on. The mosquitoes were mercifully not too bad in this spot either. Another plus. I built a magnificent roaring campfire and started to set up the tent. Morgan started to feel much better so he helped me get things set up.
Within an hour, we had a hot meal inside us, and a cup of hot cocoa spiked with brandy in our hands. Life was good! I sat on the bear canister close to the fire and wrote in my journal. As I stared at the flame and soaked up the heat it was radiating, nightfall pulled its drape across the sky and the stars began to glimmer. I longed to have Julian with me at that moment. I know he could never get up here on a hike like we had just endured, but this little grove we found is so perfect and contained . . . I would love to let him explore around, ask a ton of questions, and just get generally excited about hanging out in the mountains with Dad. I am going to find some places close to Little Rock that require a short hike to get to and start camping overnight with Julian, and start getting him used to it so one day soon I can take him up into the mountains like this. Sophie is not too far off either. Maybe a year or two more and she can start coming too. I miss all of them . . . Erika, Ethan who is still in utero, Sophie and Julian, but right then at that very moment, I wanted my little Bug there to share it with me. The long day was finally taking its toll on me and I crawled into the tent.
Day 3
Being in the mountains has an amazing effect on our perception of time. The first night we had hiked in seemed like it had been weeks ago. Even the previous day seemed like some distant memory. Morgan had the same observation. Maybe, since we have so many distractions in everyday life, we speed through time and
this is how the passage of time naturally occurs. Our days are so much more full and we are present in every moment of our day, rather than trudging through our established regimens and schedules on autopilot. When you are out in nature there is an almost visceral connection to your surroundings. It is hard to dwell on the past or speculate on the future when
presence is required for survival. Not that being out here is a constant struggle for survival, but we become so secure with our cars, beds, TV’s, offices, neighborhoods, cities, that when we step out of that realm of familiarity it is like someone removed the safety net beneath us while we are on a tightrope and we have to concentrate more on things that we typically take for granted.
We were taking our time getting going. Morgan had decided that we were close enough to consider this our base camp, and we planned to hike to the base of the Obelisk and do a little recon, then actually come back and climb it the following day. I ate some oatmeal, drank a bunch of water and sat and wrote in my journal. As I wrote my mind did wander across several thoughts, which I shared with Morgan. I commented on how much I was enjoying the simple act of “being here”, as opposed to hurriedly rushing to some destination. It did not matter if we did or did not climb the legendary Obelisk . . . it only mattered that I was here, in the mountains with my best friend, separate from all the hustle and bustle of our normal lives. Our packs were loaded down with all of our climbing gear and some food . . . no need to carry our tent and all our clothes. We were coming back to this camp. According to Morgan’s best estimates, based on the map and guidebook, we were an hour and a half of solid hiking from the Obelisk. Another serious miscalculation… Again, if I ever should run across the author of that guidebook, I will want to dangle him from a high cliff by his own climbing rope.
We reached Geraldine Lake within an hour. Along the way I kept point to ominous looking cliffs and asking Morgan, “Is that the Obelisk?” He patiently said, “no,” but eventually he stopped me and said, “Believe me JP, when you see the Obelisk, you will not need to ask if that is the Obelisk. . . You will just know.”
Geraldine Lake
We found a sign pointing toward a well-marked trail turning south, up a huge ridge. As with everything up there, once we got going, the trail was spotty. It didn’t really matter since we knew where to go (up), but as I mentioned earlier, trails present a “path of least resistance”, and climbing up hill through brush is not fun. We did not manage to pick it back up again till close to the top of the ridge. As we crested the ridge, the Obelisk revealed itself. He was right. . . I didn’t need to ask. There was absolutely no doubt. Our first realization was a sinking feeling that it was still a pretty good distance away. The other feeling was anxiety, because photos just can’t capture the sheer intimidation factor of this phenomenon. “How does something like this occur in nature?” I pondered. My next question had something to do with our sanity, or perhaps lack thereof. We descended speechlessly into an endless meadow toward the Obelisk. It was like the special effects in those scary movies . . . as we got closer, it just seemed to stretch out further and further from us.
The obelisk taunts us from afar... "Can you climb me? Or are you just TOURISTS!"
Without watches I cannot say exactly how long it took to reach the Obelisk from the top of that ridge, but it felt like at least two hours. We could not tell from a distance just how thick the brush was that surrounded the cliffs. We learned when we got there that in many places it was over our heads. It was extremely difficult to maneuver around, especially with heavy packs on. I was extremely intimidated by this giant. I tried to imagine climbing some of the routes and my feet tingled. Nothing but vertical slabs of rock, with overhangs so high they made me tremble inside. From everything we had heard so far, the crux of any of the routes on this behemoth was the rapelle down. It was a two stage rapp with a 160 foot free-rapelle on the last stage.
We hiked up to the top of the ridge to check it out. It was worse than Morgan had realized. It required being familiar with a technique that neither of us had ever practiced. The time to learn and practice and perfect advanced rope work is on small climbs or in the climbing gym. Not on a serious piece of rock like this one. I could tell that Morgan was perturbed. I felt terrible . . . I knew that if I had been a more experienced climber on big walls he might have still taken a shot at it. The route itself was on the opposite side of the Obelisk at the bottom of the ridge . . . it was only rated a 5.6, which is well within both of our abilities. Of course, just because a climb is doable technique-wise doesn’t mean that it is easy.
We scrambled down the bottom of the Obelisk at the west end which took over an hour... did I mention that this thing was huge? The tundra was almost impossible to get through. When we finally reached the bottom of the route we were awestruck. Our idea was, at the very least, to do three or four pitches, but it had taken so long to get there, and so much energy and effort, that we just sat there silently, both knowing that we were looking at about a three to four hour hike back to camp. Nothing was turning out the way Morgan had planned, and I could sense he was feeling a little defeated. If we stayed and did a few pitches we would more than likely not have the time to get back before dark and it had taken so much more time and effort to get here than we anticipated. We were convinced that we might not have the energy to make it back. Reluctantly, we started back.
Just getting off the base was dangerous. A class four scramble with heavy packs on is still pretty risky; then, before we knew it, we were completely surrounded by heavy brush over our heads that was so thick we could hardly make our way through it. I tripped and fell into a really dense thicket, which fortunately broke my fall. With much difficulty I got myself up and simply bulldozed my way through the brush, finally breaking out and into a meadow much, much deeper in the valley than we had planned on. It was a steep hike out, and we just pushed to the top of the ridge where we realized we were in the wrong spot. We still had a sense of which direction to take, so we headed off in that direction, hopefully to eventually find the notch we hiked over when we first saw the Obelisk. We knew we would recognize it by the large dead tree right there at the top of the ridge. We were making our way on the backside of the ridge we hiked in on. Although we had an idea of which way to go, we were a bit lost. Not so lost that we felt the need to break out the map and compass and triangulate our exact position, but enough to be annoying and frustrating. We were abruptly dropped into a valley, which turned out to be the very one we were looking for. There, at the bottom of the valley, was Geraldine Lake. A quick glance up the ridge and I saw all the snow we had crossed going up the first time, our footprints still freshly cutting the path that we took, and I felt safely confirmed that we were in the right valley. We scampered down in hunt of the trail, which we didn’t actually find until we were nearly to the bottom. A group of people on horseback just happened to be riding by. If I had had cash in my pocket right then I may have offered it to them for a ride. We still had a long, steep hike back up to camp and didn’t want to get stuck hiking in the dark.
Saw this tree on the way back to camp... I call it, "Flea Man"
Finally, we staggered into our campsite . . . a little camp never looked so welcoming. We took off our packs and recovered briefly. There was still an hour of daylight left, and it literally gets cold on a sunny day if you walk in the shade, so we knew that once the sun dipped below the ridge, it would be too cold for something we both desperately needed to do . . . BATHE! When I say that we stank, that ranks right up there in the top ten of the “Understatement Hall of Fame!” We reeked to such a high degree, Morgan had earlier speculated if it were possible to smell any worse. Kind of a “terminal stench” theory. We grabbed his camp suds, camp towels and a few clean items of clothing and ventured down to the creek. It was miserable but absolutely necessary! First, the water was freezing! I really wanted to wash and clean out my nickel sized blisters on my heels, but I couldn’t keep my feet in for more than two or three seconds. The rest of my skin contracted and my muscles trembled and seized when I splashed my body down with the cold water of the stream. To make matters worse, someone must have alerted every single mosquito in a square mile of our presence, because they became so thick that I had a cloud of them around me. The only places they weren’t biting was the area of skin currently being slapped by my hands. I swiftly dressed and donned full rain gear to keep the mosquitoes off.
I built a huge fire so I could warm up and hopefully drive off the pesky insects with heat and smoke. The tactic worked. We feasted on lasagna, rice and chicken, apple crisp and our last bit of brandy in our hot cocoa. We planned to rest the next day . . . maybe play some chess, climb some cliffs right above our camp if we were up for it. We played chess that night until it was pitch-black, then ambled into the tent and into our sleeping bags.
Day 4
Rest. Never did a word sound so wonderful. We are abiding by the philosophy that we spoke of the previous morning. No need to conquer, no need to break ourselves down and push the limits of human endurance. Just be. And that is what we did. Rehydrate, eat, lie around and play chess, drink some more, play some more chess. And, of course, I wrote. I realized that I had never really done this. I have always hiked with an agenda, a goal. Why not just settle somewhere for a day and rest and actually enjoy my surroundings? I thought we might climb, but Morgan was not doing too well, so we probably wouldn’t at that rate. He was really tired . . . beat down from the previous two days. We would get camp ready so that we could quickly break and start the long hike out tomorrow. He had a few other areas nearby where we could get some multi-pitch climbing in. If we didn’t make it all the way out the next day (which I had full confidence we would) we would at least be out and headed back to Berkeley by Friday.
A day hike like this would have just been PERFECT had Julian been here. There is so much to see for a little boy. I am haunted on this trip with the image of his sweet little face and his inquisitive nature. I don’t think his absence would bother me so much if I didn’t think he was old enough to be on this trip with me. It really is wonderful to share this time with Morgan, though. We have developed quite a tradition with these trips. I imagine we will be doing them for the rest of our lives. He and I travel well together, and we both have good instincts so we trust each other if something were to go wrong.
The best thing about this trip is that I was worried about my neck and forearm making me suffer the entire time, making it hard to enjoy myself, and they had both been mercifully easy to deal with. In fact, I hadn’t felt that good in a long time. It was a great jumpstart to my fitness!
I couldn’t seem to beat Morgan at chess. It was really driving me crazy! I had really strong openings dominating the center right away, managed to keep decent control of the board and put a lot of pressure on his king, and somehow, he always pulled it out in the end and beat me. AARGH!
Some thoughts on camping that don’t get discussed much . . . one is taking a crap. This is inescapable, yet no one really talks about it. In fact, I have known people to hold it for days because of their level of discomfort with crapping outdoors. This kind of cracks me up. I guess after having spent so many months in the mountains as a kid I got over it, or got used to it, so now it doesn’t bother me at all. If I have to go, I grab some toilet paper and wander away from the camp a ways, by a tree or something. Morgan thought it was funny how often I went . . . I didn’t do any more or less than I do in civilization. Now Morgan on the other hand waited until day 3!!! Poor guy! I know that no one talks about this stuff cause it is considered “TMI”, but what is up with that? We all do it. The only things that give me second thoughts about it are when it is really cold or when the mosquitoes are particularly bad. Other than that, show me a tree and get out of my way.
Another thing with which we spend a lot of time is purifying water. This subject is not nearly as taboo as our bodily functions, but it is just one of those tedious tasks that must be done with vigilance because it is bad news to let yourself get dehydrated out here. But what a pain in the ass . . . fill your container, drop in your “potable water” iodine tabs, wait five minutes, shake it with cap loosely screwed on, then close it up and wait for 30 more minutes. Now the water is safe, but it is discolored and tastes like shit. Now you have to throw in your flavor pills that remove the chemical taste. Why do we go through all this? I never used to as a kid . . . hell, I would drink straight from the stream. I guess in my older/wiser years I have developed a sense of caution I never used to have. After you purify the water, it may look pure but you can also see debris from the stream swimming around in there, and you have to drink it anyway. When it is really bad I just close my eyes and chug it. Denial can be a powerful and useful tool.
One other thing . . . about the bears. The rangers in this park make a huge deal about the bears. Apparently they can be quite a nuisance. For this reason, it is imperative that you follow very strict guidelines with regards to anything that can attract bears. Primarily, they like food, they can smell it from a long ways off, and when they do, they follow the siren’s song of the bounty of camper’s food right into the camp. We were required to carry a large, heavy canister that is virtually indestructible, so that when the bear comes to get it, he can’t get inside.
Needless to say, all this hype got me a little nervous about what felt like an inevitable encounter with something I had no desire to see outside of a zoo. Not that I like to see bears or any animal imprisoned, but the idea of seeing them free and not far from me suddenly struck me and filled me with anxiety.
The first night out there I was absolutely positive that the bears were going to come down to our camp looking for a meal, whether in the form of my beef jerky safely stowed in our canister, or a squirmy, juicy camper waiting helplessly in his tent. Every night a good 30 minutes was dedicated to discussing and implementing our bear strategy. Morgan even nobly offered his life in place of mine in the case of an attack since I have three kids. Did I mention he’s my best friend? Of course, after the thrashing I took playing chess with him I began to see how this might not be a bad thing! In the end, we saw no bears. In fact, other than birds, some marmets, and about a billion mosquitoes, I saw no wildlife. Morgan saw one deer (at a most inopportune time). The deer, you might say, got to see Morgan with a “deer-in-the-headlights” expression on
his face. One thing we did see was a very large, perfectly formed and fresher-than-I-would-like-to-see bear track not twenty feet from our campsite. Although it was slightly disconcerting, it was as close as we got to an actual bear so I was actually relieved. I must say though, I wish I could have at least seen one from a great distance.
On our rest day, as Morgan was napping, I got more than a little bored. It must have been dormant since I was a little boy, because not since then have I had the desire to teach a tree a lesson with my handy-dandy buck knife. I approached a large dead pine tree standing nearby, measured off six paces, looked the tree square in the eyes and said “Are
you tawkin’ ta
me?” I deftly wielded my sturdy blade, hurled it with blinding speed and accuracy at the tree. When it hit the tree handle first it ricocheted, nearly skewering one of my TEVA shod feet. Twenty more tries and I finally taught that tree a lesson as my blade connected with a satisfying “thunk!” This insanely childish game went on for the better part of an hour. When I grew tired of it, I piddled around camp some more until I finally decided Morgan had slept enough. I woke him up and made us some more food. It was getting more and more difficult to force down those dehydrated meals. After dinner, I decided to show off my newly rediscovered talent at skewering a target with a knife, complete with dialogue. When the handle whacked the tree and the knife bounced off the tree, Morgan (in his best southern drawl) said “OOOW . . . whuddya do that fer?” We both shrieked with laughter at this and created a whole story based on the scary part of the movie
Deliverance, with characters Festus and Zeke threatening us and claiming that we had “purty mouths.” When then blade bounced off the tree - as it most often did - Morgan and I would say “OOOW!” and laugh again. Ah, boys will be boys.
Nightfall brought on a full-blown assault of mosquitoes so severe that we were driven early to our tent. As Morgan quipped from the movie Aliens, “they mostly come out at night . . . mostly”. This brought on a hilarious series of movie quotes where we compared the mosquitoes to the aliens. They drove us to our tent where we played more games of chess (which, of course, Morgan won) and fell asleep. We would leave early tomorrow morning – mosquitoes willing.
Day 5
The time had finally come to hike out of the mountains. We hoped it would go much faster since we would not have to bushwhack . . . we had found a proper trail on the map to take us back to the main road, although a bit further down from where we parked the car and entered.
The mosquitoes were apparently patiently waiting for us to emerge from the tent. We quickly broke camp and hit the trail. It was fortunately almost all downhill from here to the road. We didn’t stop much because, every time we did, the little bloodsucking aliens were right back on us. We hiked with a purpose. The boots I was wore tried to wear right through the painful, massive blisters on my heals, so each step was agony and Morgan’s knee that he had twisted a couple days before was really giving him problems. I traded my trekking poles for his walking stick to see if that would help, and apparently it did. Our pace picked up. Morgan told me about how horses can push, push, push to the brink of exhaustion, but that if they turned around to their stables you couldn’t stop them from getting back home. That is a good description of how we felt at that very moment. We were weary horses, re-energized by the fact that we would soon be back in our stable, or car as it was. Ah, the sight of that car was going to be sooo sweet.
It was hard to believe how fast we were going . . . the combination of going downhill, not taking rest breaks, and most of all, following a proper trail, made all the difference in the world. Within a few hours we had nearly cleared the actual distance that took us a full day of hiking just days before. In fact, it only took us 4½ hours to reach the car from the approximate time that we took off. We had two river crossings; thankfully close to the end of the hike, so we had to finish the last three miles with completely soaked feet.
Sore, tired, thirsty, hungry and elated, we reached the car. We may as well have walked through the gates to paradise when we reached the car . . . it meant the boots got to come off, no more heavy backpack and REAL food (as quickly as we could drive to civilization).
My gnarly feet after the boots came off!
Our first stop was a Subway in the first town we drove through. Out of sheer courtesy, we kept a safe distance from the employees and the patrons . . . we had no illusions about our odor, even though we had become immune to it ourselves. Upon hearing that we had just spent five days in the mountains, they were extremely gracious, loading our sandwiches up with extra toppings. We inhaled the sandwiches, which may as well have been manna from heaven, capping off our expedition into the Seirra Nevada wilderness. Is there something completely wrong with me for enjoying this? Maybe, but as long as my body draws breath I will make these annual pilgrimages to the mountains with Morgan and, eventually, my son will join us in our outdoor misadventurers.
You have inspired a road trip (but I gotta hide the photos of your feet from my wife so that she'll still wanna go).
which is the most solid piece of rock in the park.
Linear Mode
