A Lander Travel

This is my journal of yet another section of the John Muir Trail (JMT), through the Sierra Mountains of California. Piute Pass trail to the JMT, and then back out on the Bishop Pass trail (55 miles total).

Prelude:
I had planned this trip seven months prior, because JMT permits come out 6 months in advance. Except the route/entry point I want this year is only released two weeks prior. So my enthusiasm atrophies for a few months. Eventually, I notice the alert on my calendar telling me the two week deadline is approaching. I log in and watch how quickly the permits disappear each day. It’s less than a minute. So I log in the two days prior to my desired permit window and give it a try. I manage to get a permit on my second try. It’s a day earlier than I want to go, but a permit in hand …

I made my hotel reservations for the night before I hiked, and the night I finished my hike. I tried to reserve a shuttle, but that service had been discontinued a few years ago. So I called a nearby guest ranch, and sure enough, their workers make extra cash shuttling people between trailheads – mainly between Piute Pass and Bishop Pass.

I pack my gear a week out, just to give myself time to ruminate on any problems and have time to fix them. Everything looks good, but a couple days out my brain wakes me up at 2am. Like all well-intentioned brains, mine uses the nighttime hours to subconsciously find things to worry about that my conscious mind has overlooked. “You did not test any of your gear to make sure it still works.” He was right. I wrote it on my to-do list.

I tested my water filter, tent, and inflatable sleeping pad the very morning I was driving to Bishop CA. It had been five years since my last serious hike, and the time had flown by for me. I did not consider this a long time for gear to sit unused in a box. I was incorrect. At first pump, my water filter failed and squirted everywhere but the proper spout – the seals had dry rotted. I researched the model I wanted – it was in stock at my nearest REI. No worry, the hour side trip is kinda on the way. Next the tent – the fabric reluctantly peeled open like that cool magazine under your uncle’s bathroom sink. It seemed ok. I got out the tent poles and discovered the elastic cord that holds them together had given up. To the google … turns out cord can be replaced. I opened up the ends of the poles and discovered I could trim a bit of cord off, retie it, and everything was fine. (every night I had to trim more “elastic” cord so the poles would fit together). I would also find out too late, that my rain coat was disintegrating. When I put it on day one, powdery white bits of the water proof lining sluffed off onto my clothes, and swirled about me like a wintery version of the Pig Pen character.

So I drove to REI, got my water filter, and then headed to Bishop on my motorcycle. Probably a lovely drive when it’s not 109° on that desert-adjacent highway. I checked into my hotel and walked across the street to have a beer and some brisket as my last meal.

Day 1:
The morning of my hike, I drive 20 minutes or so out of town and park at my planned exit point, the Bishop Pass trailhead.

I ready my pack, stow everything else on my motorcycle, and cover it with a tarp. I recline on the pavement and wait for my ride. I observe a man of about 70 and his teenage granddaughter laden with back-country packs. His right leg is either prosthetic or severely damaged. They pause for a brief prayer and then hit the trail. My ride shows up right at 7:00 and takes me to the Piute Pass trailhead. I’m on the trail at 7:35. It’s uphill of course, but not tedious. At 8:35 I take my first break and drink half my water bottle. uh oh. I meet a few groups of people and we talk and leapfrog our way up the pass. We talk, we sit, we pass each other for 30 minutes at a time and then meet again. I meet Tom, a Cal Poly professor with a student in tow, and a mom and son team.

Exiting the forest and into the rocky portion of the climb, I establish a great pace and get momentarily excited. This lasts three minutes. There are many many stairs – my nemesis. And they are big stairs, not designed by a short man. It is a Friday, so there are lots of day-hikers. These cheerful nitwits bound joyously past me up the mountain, with their tiny backpacks half filled with water and granola, and probably something on which to write poetry. Tom and I talk and trade woes. He hikes faster, but stops more often. We pause for breaks frequently and I learn all about him. He knows nothing about me. He can’t stand to wait for my responses so he talks again. I’ve known so many Toms like this. We both gradually slow to a snail’s pace – maybe .25 mph. But somehow we both arrive at the top of the pass at 12:10 (11,423 feet). Barely late, a true feat of determination.

Tom and I bid each other farewell. He is taking obscure trails to little known lakes and may die. Probably not, he is 65 but still hardy. I descend the far side of Piute Pass. I pause to look around. I see people heading off to the south on a trail I never noticed. I panic, open my map. Nope I’m on the right trail. The sky darkens, light rain, distant thunder. But it’s welcome because I’m burning hot. I see people hiking the valley below to my left. Another panic, map check, still good. I congratulate myself on my map reading abilities. I stride through the soft rain confident in my miniscule back-country experience. It will rain softly and blow over. I find the perfect stream and smartly fill my water bottles. I am a stud, I am Grizzly Adams.

I examine the map and see there will be a trail soon that breaks off to the right – not for me. I see the less worn trail swing to the right and I avoid it. Soon I am beside a lake. There is no lake on my map. I try to ascertain if any lake on my map matches this shape, but I can’t see enough of it to be sure. I see someone on the other side of the lake in a grey poncho. Excellent, I will shout across the lake and ask where we are. But it starts hailing. Small hail, but plentiful. I whip out a trash bag to cover my pack and throw on my decaying raincoat. I stuff my pack beneath a short fluffy pine to minimize moisture. I stand in the precipitation looking up, like a turkey bent on drowning himself. The hail does not stop. It goes on and on, eventually turning into rain. I want to sit and wait it out, but sitting makes my pants too wet. I break a lower branch off another nearby pine and back myself into the trunk. This saves my pants. Eventually the rain diminishes to a sprinkle. I can still see the person on the other side of the lake, so I march through a spongy bog to get within earshot. I shout, I wave my hands – no response. I wave again. It is a boulder. Walking back to my pack, I spot two actual hikers. They inform me I have taken an unmarked trail – they can see it on their GPS app, but it’s not on my paper map. I was supposed to take that right earlier.

They say the trail we are now on eventually intersects with my original trail (Piute Pass trail) and it’s all downhill to that junction. If I backtrack, it’s a mile uphill. I decide to continue this downhill trail and try to reach my original mileage goal for the day. But the trail is a mess, it is hard to follow. Marked with cairns that vaguely hint at the path as it crosses wide granite expanses. It is deserted and seldom traveled. I tenuously hold the trail. I lose it, I find it, I doubt myself and tense up, I regain it. I hate all of this. But there is nothing to be done. I simply cannot march three hours back uphill now. I never find the trail junction. I pass a perfect campsite after seeing none all day. So I stop and hurriedly set up my tent in a light sprinkle. It works – everything is dry and the rain stops. All is well, but I am pretty close to lost. But I am safe and warm and hydrated. So I pray and then I sleep.

Sort of. My mind cannot rest until I have a plan. I wake up constantly with my heart pounding at the realization I may have trouble getting out of the woods. I decide the following:
– I will be up early watching the trail for any hikers who know the way.
– If not, I will hike 1 hour further and wait to see humans, if not I will backtrack 4 hours back uphill to the pass and resume the trail. (but that is iffy – it’s terribly hard following this trail, maybe even worse going back the other way)
– When I wake, I will get out my map and compass and triangulate my location based on the nearby mountain peaks.

I sleep again. kinda. At 2am I am once again startled awake by a thought; that red bandana tied to a tree a mile back. That could have been the trail junction. I distract myself throughout the night with thoughts of hanging artwork in my living room, and mundane tasks I need to do in the yard. This tactic finally works.

Day 2:
I wake up at 5 am. I triangulate my position. I turn on my phone for a moment. Google maps shows my location as a blue dot, and shows two peaks near me.

I am right where I suspected, but I can’t tell for sure where Piute Pass trail is in relation to me. There is still a chance I overshot it. I have a cup of coffee and break camp in leisurely fashion, letting my tent and clothes dry out in the morning sunshine. Halfway through coffee, I see a most welcome site. The GPS-capable couple is coming through the woods along the trail I took last night. “Ahoy, are we near the trail junction?” “Half a mile” he says, and apologizes for recommending this difficult route.

I leave my campsite 45 minutes behind them, and I slowly pick my way along the trail. Much stopping, circling, finding the trail again. At one point I stop and am puzzled by a large granite floor. There is no trail visible. I worriedly lean on my walking sticks and contemplate the situation. Almost immediately, a couple emerges from the woods at an odd uphill angle and strides towards me. After a confusing exchange, they confirm they are on the Piute Pass trail. Just 15 feet from me. Contrary to all my (justified) fears, I am back on track and jubilant. The GPS couple catch up with me after an hour, not sure where they met the trail. We leap frog all day.

I meet many retirees around age 70. Old people love to hike, I guess. They have time for it. It is hot, way too hot. Around 10am, I stop and catch a few small trout at a beautiful little pool along the river.

Despite this half hour break I am still exhausted. Passing hikers confirm the mileage to the JMT juncture (my planned camp site), but I go slower and slower, and think I may have to stop short. On inclines, I do not move the heal of one foot beyond the toe of the other. I shuffle. I make another long stop 1/4 mile short of the juncture. I eventually summon enough energy to reach the intersection with the JMT and find a nice campsite. I pitch my tent in the sun and set to doing laundry and soaking my feet in the chilly river. I lay my clothes on boulders to dry. I am not the least bit hungry, but I prepare one of my dehydrated meals – curry rice. The bees love it. As I’m waiting for the water to boil, the bees zoom into the bag of dried food like tiny Chinook helicopters and hoist overly ambitious chunks of my meal. None of them make it – the pieces are too heavy for them to carry more than a few feet. I eat my meal methodically, just going through the motions. I have no appetite, but fortunately my body doesn’t resist being force fed. It’s still hot out, so I go fish some more and soak my feet again.

Because the sun is burning a hole in my face, I hide behind the trunk of a large tree while the daylight slowly fades, and some passing forestry workers stop to take a swim in a nearby pool. Around 6:30 I’m finally able to get into my tent. I sleep well.

Day 3:
I’m on the JMT at 7am to beat the heat. It’s weird to experience something you want to stop, but cant. I have put myself here. I am stuck in the middle of nowhere with no choice other than more suffering to rescue me. My legs are shot – any degree of incline causes my calves and thighs to burn. Tying my shoes leaves me out of breath. I am not having fun. I vow never to come back.

The first portion of the hike is along a lovely river that tumbles through a granite-walled canyon. It’s a nice distraction from thinking about what hurts.

I want to get to Evolution pass before it gets miserably hot again. 10:00 is my goal, and I get there at 9:30. I slow my pace to a crawl and reached the top without much ado. Easier than I thought – I was fearing another Piute experience, but this was simple stairs and switchbacks straight up. No multiple sets of climbs – tough but quick. Reaching the climb early was a good idea.

On the way up I meet a nice couple from Toledo. We see a lot of each other the next two days. They are a joy to be around – full of smiles and gratitude for the mountain views. There are lovely, boisterous falls at the top of the pass and they cool the air pleasantly. Most of the day’s hike is through forest without much to look at.

Everyone I pass says it’s level ground all the way to McClure Meadow (my goal for the day). Lies. Maybe for someone with pep in their step, but still my legs have not recovered from day one. Now the slightest rise slows me to tortoise speed and has me taking frequent breaks. Nevertheless I reach McClure on time – around 3pm.

I set up my tent in the shade and then take some time to fish in the river dividing the meadow. It is a stunning view, but the river is shallow and difficult to fish. I manage to find some small pools, but only pull out a tiny golden trout. I finish setting up camp and cook dinner. Two days in a row I’m eating dinner. Still no appetite, but my body doesn’t object to it. Then I sadly notice the arc of the setting sun has brought the big yellow fellow from behind my protective trees. But the light is filtered through branches, so it is warm but bearable in my tent. I sit and study my map and plan the next day. It is only a 9.5 mile hike, but with 2,000 feet of elevation gain. If I get up early, I think I can complete the steepest section before noon.

Day 4:
I awake to “bird song”. Whatever shrieks every morning at sunrise is almost like clockwork – roughly 6am. I’m on the trail at 7:15 and make it to the day’s major climb at 9:00. This is a 45 minute series of switchbacks and stairs, but I handle it ok. My legs feel stronger today. I find myself descending a little quicker, and later in the day I am quicker uphill too.

Evolution lake is spectacular. I stop and catch a trout just to say I did it. Another small guy.

On the north end of the lake I pass the old man with the bum leg and his granddaughter. They are a day behind schedule due to weather, but they are cheerful and doing fine. They are doing my same hike in reverse.

Then it’s gently uphill to Wanda lake for camp. This section of the JMT is above tree line and has beautiful views of the river, lakes, and mountain peaks. I feel like I’m stopped every 100 feet to take a picture, it’s truly beautiful.

Wanda lake is surrounded by mountain peaks and is desolate. There is some tundra-like smushy plants in places, but it’s mostly rock. It is hard to find a campsite and I only see one other tent along the mile of shoreline. I set up camp at 2:00, since the sky is darkening. At 3:00 the thunder starts, but no rain.

It is the most quiet place I’ve ever been. There are scarcely any animals. I can’t even find trout in the lake. There are no trees to swish in the wind. No one camps here because it is so exposed. When I sit still, I can hear the blood pumping through my ears.

The temperature is lovely, and I am confident in my plan for tomorrow. There is such an open expanse of ground around me with crunchy sand, I am sure no bear can sneak up on me. I am extremely relaxed. I cook dinner again and rest on the ground, enjoying the intense feeling of quiet solitude. Eventually the thunder convinces me to get in my tent. I lay comfortably as a light hail patters against the tent. I wonder if the elderly tent fabric can stand up to mountain top winds. My tent is exposed and vulnerable, and I’m at 11,426 feet. I expect it will be a very cold night.

Day 5:
There are no screeching birds to wake me up. I accidently sleep until 7:00. The night was not cold at all. In my haste to break camp, I tear my tent pole cord completely – right in the middle. Every night I have been cutting off excess cord at one end and repairing the poles – tonight I will have a more complicated fix. I see the Toledo couple as I’m breaking camp. We wind up hiking up to Muir Pass together. It turns out to be a pretty easy climb if you’re traveling Southward, as we are. I spot a huge marmot at the base of the climb – probably the biggest one I’ve ever seen.

I can see the Muir Hut outlined against the sky at the top of the pass. The excitement of the location eases the last few hundred feet of the climb.

The hut is busy with activity. Everyone stops here to investigate the interior and take pictures (11,955 feet). The hut is cleverly built and fascinating to look at. It’s also quite large inside. Room for plenty of people trapped by storms. There’s also a small marmot sunning itself on a boulder outside.

I give my phone to PJ of the Toledo couple and try to imitate the position of the girl who just posed in front of the hut.
The girl lambastes my effort, “Put more hip into it!”
I snap back, “I don’t have hips. In fact, I think I just tore something.”

The hike down is spectacular. Blue lakes, green alpine meadows, waterfalls, and towering peaks. I careen down the mountain around 3mph, but also stop every few hundred yards to take pics and video.

I see four marmots today – the only four of my trip. Sadly, I soon descend into forest again. The downhill impact to my legs eventually tires me out. I get a little stumbly but choose not to slow down. Eventually I slip in a pile of gravel and drop into a neat hurdlers stretch. I am unable to move. I am weak and my pack is heavy. I am frozen in place with my head twisting to and fro, trying to figure a way out of this. Finally, I tip myself over enough to pull my legs together so they can jointly hoist my carcass back to my feet. I move all my parts to test them – I am luckily uninjured. In another hour, I stop and chat to a suffering man trying to catch his breath and shielding himself from the rain under a large pine. No big deal, we all are suffering to some degree. I wish him well, and soon pass his two companions who are patiently waiting for him at monster rock.

I round a corner and enter a gloriously fern-lined tunnel of forest. About 20 feet in, I see a large, beautiful doe stroll through the deep carpet of ferns, lit by beams of light slipping in through the trees. I fail to get a picture, but the sight is breathtaking.

I arrive at the Bishop Pass junction around 2pm. I debate going a couple miles in just to make tomorrow easier. But looking at my map, I will gain around 2,000 feet of elevation in the first three miles – that sounds like a task for fresh legs. I find a nice camp spot and devise a way to repair my tent poles. It takes some figuring; a stolen string from another bag and a cool knot I learned 30 years ago in Air Force survival school. After a bit, the GPS couple saunters into the camp site next to me. They’re heading up Bishop Pass tomorrow too. They say the weather will be clear all day, so they will stop short of the pass and spend a day frolicking in Dusy Basin along the way. Clear skies means another hot climb over a pass for me.

Once camp is set up and dinner is finished, I putter around with laundry and filling my water bottles. I see a couple of cowboys descending from the Bishop trail with teams of pack horses and mules. Another nice spectacle – a surprisingly pretty event, to see them quietly plodding through the darkening forest.

Sitting in my tent, I already hear the shriekers in the trees. I’m sure they’ll have me up on time tomorrow.

Day 6:
It’s been squirrels not birds. Little grey squirrels are the screeching alarm clocks I’ve been hearing. One perches on a tree near me and unleashes disproportionate decibals in my face. I’m on the trail 30 minutes ahead of schedule at 6:30, and immediately into the switchbacks and stairs. It’s tough going, and I hope to make it to level ground by 11:00. Around 7:30 I hear a helicopter, and I stop to see if I can spot it. The guy gaining on me stops nearby too. I see it high above the canyon I’m climbing out of, but suddenly it doubles back and descends quickly towards the canyon floor. The guy near me walks over and explains someone is getting a medevac. After some discussion, I learn it’s the guy I talked to yesterday near monster rock. The helicopter disappears into the forest below and lands. I continue on, and hear it leave after another 20 minutes.

I reach level ground and the lake around 10:00 – an hour ahead of schedule.

According to my expert calculations, I’ll now walk another easy mile, then have a leisurely climb of about 500 feet, and finally a 6 mile downhill sprint to my motorcyle and certain bliss. naw. I still had 1,000 feet to go and there was quite a bit of stairs. No worries, I’m still ahead of schedule and feeling ok. But … what’s that noise? By golly, that’s thunder. I look over my shoulder and see a darkening sky. GPS boy is badly mistaken about the weather. May he frolic joyfully in the rain and/or hail. I am a bit over 10,000 feet, and I estimate I’m very near the top of the pass. I continue and quicken my pace.

Today’s leapfrog partner is a lady who out-hikes me uphill, then I out-hike her on the flats. We discuss our dreams – what we’ll do when we get off the trail. Mine is a shower, cheeseburger, and an old fashioned. Hers is no shower, just straight into a “BBM” – beer, burger, milkshake. The air grows cold, we trudge past a German lady gazing at the sky, “It’s coming” she says. She is part mountain goat. She throws on her pack and whisks past us, not even using her walking sticks. I loathe her. The pass continues to somehow get farther away. Each time I crest a ridge, there is another hidden behind it. The path is now sandy and smooth but still uphill. The continuingly falling temperature and louder, more frequent thunder have my disgruntled legs going uphill at a frantic pace. I look around for a place to hunker down, should the violent weather catch me. There is nowhere to hide up here – no overhangs, no trees, no gullies. BBM stops to put on a coat. Bye bitch, I wish you well!

I can see the German goat out ahead of me showing the way. Depressingly, she continues to wind up and up the slope, revealing how much more work I have. But I put my head down and eventually the ground flattens and I’m at the top (11,972 feet). I snap a few quick pictures and hurry down the other side into Mordor.

I say Mordor because this particular area is made of dark, sinister looking granite. The mountain peak overshadowing my descent is distinct from any others I’ve seen over the past 6 days. Darker, more jagged, and dare I say older looking. The steps descending through this area are wild – strewn with rubble and hazards. The borders of the trail look like a demented saw blade, with strange angular rocks piled by the trail builders to keep us all from toppling into a fearsome chasm full of giant British teeth. I pick my way slowly through this other-wordly landscape. The German glides effortlessly down the slope after stopping to take pictures – the only “person” who’s ever passed me going downhill. As the trail transitions into a more normal path, I look back up and marvel to see that I’ve just descended through a giant pile of rubble. I can’t even make out the trail.

I reach the valley floor and put on my rain coat just as the first drops of rain hit me. It’s in the bag. I’m 5.5 miles from my motorcycle. I’m warm and dry. I’m energetic. I’m full of smiles. The storm catches me. I don’t care. I love every minute of it. The lightning-to-thunder timing goes from 5 seconds down to 3. I jog to a low area and nestle myself into a short tree. I take a few minutes to appreciate the small pebbles of ice bouncing around me, the gorgeous lake below me, the towering distant peaks framing the whole scene.

The hail continues but the thunder moves on, so I walk. I take too many pictures and a couple overtakes me. It’s the GPS couple. Their frolicking ruined, they too made a dash for the pass and crossed about 30 minutes behind me. We hike out together for the next three hours and have wonderful conversations about all our travels. I rename them “Houston couple”. Near the end of the trail we take one last look back at the beautiful scene behind us. BBM overtakes us and we all celebrate the view and the end of our journeys.

A few hundred yards later, we unceremoniously disperse into the parking lot and back into reality.

I find my motorcycle and drop my backpack into a large dog turd. I glance at the guy and his dog next to me unloading fishing poles from his truck. “Not my dog” he says. He proceeds to tell me three awful stories in a row. His boat rental fell through, he just got gall stones, someone stole his best fishing pole. “Dude, please tell me a good one,” I say. He pauses, “I found this sweet dog on the side of the road one day.” He kneels and nuzzles her affectionately and I laugh.

My legs and feet ache and I worry I won’t be able to hold up my motorcycle. But it’s fine. I make it to my hotel and drink 3 large cups of lemony lobby water as they check me in. Then I shower, and marvel at the filth streaming off of me. The hotel is decent, but they must have borrowed the tub from somewhere else. No way it’s dirtier than I am – so I sit and soak contendly for a while. When I get out, I’m slightly nauseous. I walk across the street and chug a gatorade and some pepto. Then I meander down to a nice restaurant and sit at the bar. After my long-awaited old fashioned, my apetite comes back and I eat a small appetizer from the menu.

Outro:
The drive home was amazing. The weather was cool the entire six hours, and I relistened to old Stone Temple Pilots albums I’ve been neglecting. Then I stopped and got a most wonderful cheeseburger. Next time I will plan better. and probably get in shape before going.