The Sierra is a magnificently beautiful mountain range in its own right, but the sharp contrast between the mountains and the surrounding desert valleys result in a sense of magnitude and scale that is difficult to describe. Lone Pine sits at 3,727 feet above sea level, on the floor of the Owens Valley. Down there, it is true desert. Summers are hot, and the arid plains and hills provide little in the way of shelter from the brutal sun. Independence and Bishop are a couple hundred feet higher, but even an elevation of around 4,000 feet doesn’t change much. Heading up into the mountains, Onion Valley trailhead sits at 9,600 feet. As far as driving, that’s the highest you can get without leaving your vehicle and continuing on foot. From the trailhead, looking down into the valley, it feels like you’re on top of the world. After all, the elevation change from the valley floor to the trailhead is only a few hundred feet shorter than the total elevation of the highest point in Tennessee. And then, from the trailhead, you have over 2,000 more feet of climbing to get up and over Kearsarge Pass, a relatively low pass for these mountains. Kearsarge Pass sits nearly 3,000 feet below Whitney, and over 2,000 feet below many of the surrounding peaks. Basically, my point is this: they’re called the High Sierra for good reason; the typical elevation that we found ourselves hiking at through the Sierra was nearly 8,000 feet above the nearest towns.
After returning to the trail from a couple days in town, we (understandably) felt like we had lost some of our acclimation. We were huffing and puffing more than we had been before. The climbs seemed to go just a little bit slower. We found ourselves stopping to rest on climbs that we thought shouldn’t be an issue. Suddenly, we found ourselves struggling. Being the last one out of camp, I tried to push to catch up with the others. The first half of the day would consist of the climb up and over Glen Pass, just shy of 12,000 feet. After Whitney and Forester, that should have been easy. What I experienced, however, was anything but easy. Even the last 1.8 miles from camp to the PCT seemed to have much more uphill than I remembered from a few days before. Back on the PCT, I only had a couple miles of climbing left. It might as well have been a hundred.
As the trail began to wind its way into the narrow canyons and chutes of the ridge, it turned from steep to steeper, and then finally to a whole new kind of climb: steepest. Several times, I could have reached straight out in front of me and touched the trail. Unlike the wide-open approach to Forester Pass, the trail finally settled in a narrow canyon and angled straight up, sometimes switching back and forth among massive boulders and other times carved directly into the boulders themselves. I could see the pass, but it felt like I’d never get there. I could also see Sausage and Anchorman up ahead. As much as I was struggling, it brought some consolation to see that they were moving slow as well. One foot in front of the other. Sometimes. Other times, I would just stop and stand there, leaning against a rock and trying to catch my breath – an exercise in futility. The walls of the canyon seemed to shoot straight up toward the clear, blue sky. How would the trail ever manage to reach the top with walls that steep? At one point, I got dizzy and threw myself toward the wall, away from the ledge and the abyss below. It would be bad to fall here, probably not fatal, but it would make for a bad day.
Finally, I caught up to Sausage. He was sitting on a rock, facing away from the trail toward a small pond. Hollering to him several times, he finally turned around with a bewildered expression. “How much further?” I asked. He just stared at me for a moment before finally opening his mouth to speak, “Do you feel as bad as I do?” I nodded yes. At least we were on the same page. Turning away, I continued to struggle up the incline. I could still see Anchorman in the distance, high above. He had nearly reached the top. Checking my phone, I saw that it was only half a mile to the pass. Half a mile and over five hundred feet. That’s a lot of elevation gain for a mile. Stopping to rest for several minutes, I made a pact with myself. I would complete the rest of the climb without stopping again. At least that would get it over with sooner. As I discovered, however, it still took me forty minutes to cover that last half mile. By the time I reached the top, I felt dead. Anchorman was sitting on a rock, but I barely acknowledged him. For the next half hour, I leaned against a rock and tried to recover.
Around the time I was starting to feel human again, Sausage reached the top. He was in roughly the same condition that I had been in. With breaks, it had taken him over an hour to cover the last half mile. As we sat on the crest of the pass, we began to contemplate why we were struggling so much. Compared to this, Whitney and Forester had been easy. Finally, it occurred to us that we could be experiencing the effects of our second COVID shots from three days ago. We finally rationalized that the vaccine and the 72 hours spent at such a low elevation would suffice as an explanation as to why we felt the way we did. Eventually, some hikers arrived from the north side of the pass and confirmed our suspicions. According to them, it was a steep but not necessarily brutal climb. They had climbed up through the snowfields and were barely out of breath.
From the crest of the pass, we turned our attention to the snow-covered descent. Glen Pass, because it is slightly steeper than some other passes, is known for holding a substantial amount of snow on the initial northern slope. Watching several other parties ahead of us, we planned our path of descent and geared up. There was one portion of the descent that was obscured behind the spine of a ridge, but we hoped that the path would be obvious once we got there. Slowly and steadily, we finally began the slow journey down, aiming for bare rock when possible and attempting to track along the path of least resistance. Although the slope itself was steeper than Forester Pass had been, the footpath followed a slightly more moderate path as it skirted around the ridge, resulting in a relatively easy descent. Eventually emerging back onto bare ground, we picked up the pace and made our way further down into the valley.
As we made our way toward the green expanse below, we first had to pass by Upper, Middle, and Lower Rae Lakes. Fully melted (although cold) and glistening in shades of bluish green, these lakes sit roughly at the boundary of the rocky, snowy alpine zone, and the lush, green meadows below. Stopping for lunch at the outlet of the upper lake and the inlet of the middle lake (all three lakes flow directly into one another), we met some JMT hikers who had stopped to fish. I’ve always been skeptical of the concept of fishing on a backpacking trip, but they seemed to be doing fine, catching and preparing several sizable fish over the course of an hour. Continuing on, the trail skirted around the eastern shores of the middle and lower lakes, before aiming straight down a long valley, through patchy woodlands and around several rocky meadows, toward the forested valley below.
Crossing the large creek at the bottom of the valley, I found myself bouncing across an impressive suspension bridge. As I made my way across, I wondered how they got the materials and equipment out here to construct such a structure. I guess they could have sourced the beams from the surrounding forest, but the metal platform, cabling, and all the hardware would have been brought in from the nearest road. As an engineer, these are the kinds of things that I’ve always thought I should have a better grasp of. I have no idea how they go about building such a large structure in the backcountry. Leaving the bridge, the trail soon headed up the next valley, this time toward the northeast.
Climbing higher and higher, I passed the 800-mile mark. Two separate signs had been made, one constructed of small rocks and the other with pinecones. I got a picture of both as I wasn’t sure which one was more accurate since they were about a quarter mile apart. I guess after 800 miles, a quarter mile really doesn’t matter. Soon, I passed a famous landmark along the trail known as the Woods Creek Waterslide. Here, the creek cascades down a series of smooth granite slaps. It looks like it would be fun to slide down if there was less water, but the danger of the slick rocks and the fact that the slide ends with a violent waterfall into a relatively shallow pool is enough to keep most people a safe distance away. Up through grassy slopes and dark, dense forests I climbed, until finally reaching our campsite for the night. As I set up my tent, the buzz of mosquitoes filled the air, but I was too tired to care. It felt like it had been a long day, but we had barely covered fifteen miles. Tomorrow, however, would be a long day.
Because Pinchot Pass and Mather Pass are only about ten miles apart, it makes sense to do them both on the same day. Never mind that the three of us had struggled immensely to complete a single pass yesterday, we were determined to make it to Palisade Creek, just north of Mather Pass. Mosquitoes hovered as I fulfilled my morning obligations at camp, but gradually faded as I climbed up toward Pinchot Pass and eventually emerged from the tree line. The unique thing about Pinchot Pass, is that the southern approach loops around the northern slope of a bowl-shaped depression, resulting in more snow on the southern side than the northern side. Post-holing my way through several snowfields, about a quarter mile long each, I questioned my decision to complete two passes in a day. Progress was slow as my feet sank with every step, but hopefully Mather would be clearer.
After making my way out of the snowfields and back to the southern-facing slope, I passed through some areas where the trail was covered in a shallow layer of water, just recently melted in the last couple days. My feet were wet, but I’ll splash through water any day before I struggle and slide and trip through slushy snow. Reaching the top of the pass, I watched several marmots searching for food as I waited for the others. We rested briefly, but the climb had been relatively easy. Maybe we were finally recovering from our vaccines. Heading down into the next valley, it was mostly bare rock with very little snow. Lake Margorie was still partially frozen along its western shores, and several other small lakes had formed from the snowmelt, but the biggest challenge was walking through several miles of standing water and puddles along the trail. As we splashed along, someone mentioned that it was amazing how much water could accumulate on the surface of such a rocky trail.
After stopping for lunch below the tree line and swatting mosquitoes, we pressed on, eventually reaching the roaring South Fork Kings River. For one of the first times, we reached the riverbank, looked around, and weren’t sure how to get across. There was no bridge, the water was too high to rock-hop, and there was no obvious log either upstream or downstream. Fording the river didn’t seem like a real good option either, as we examined the swollen torrent before us. Bushwhacking our way downstream, however, we found a place where the river split. The first segment now consisted of a manageable rock-hop, leaving us with a slightly smaller river to cross on the other side. Now that we were all on what was essentially a long island, we searched for a method to keep our feet dry for about twenty more feet. Finally, I spotted a log, broken in the middle with each half sloped sharply toward the water. It looked sturdy enough, though, so I slowly and carefully made my way across. The trickiest part was the transition from the downward slope to the upward slope where it was broken and the water splashed up, reducing traction substantially. Safely on the other side, Anchorman was next. Typically, he has the best balance of anyone, but reaching the slick portion, he slipped and found himself thigh-deep in the rushing river. I tried not to laugh; usually, I’m the one that slips or falls. Reaching the shore, he stated bluntly that his shoes had almost dried out. Not anymore. Sausage, after watching Anchorman’s failed endeavor, decided to chart his own course and managed to make his way across a frighteningly narrow branch a little further downstream. He made it across mostly dry.
We were now on the direct approach to Mather Pass. Climbing up out of the forest, we eventually emerged onto an open plain, angled gradually toward the steep final slope of the ridge. A few twisted pines were scattered around, but mostly it was just rock and short grasses. Thunderclouds gathered to the southeast and northwest, but I hoped that we would be able to pass between them unscathed. Several times, thunder rolled in the distance, but we kept pushing. We were out in the open now, we might as well go ahead and get over the pass even if the storm was to come in our direction. The wind had an icy bite, sweeping across the open landscape and funneling between the ridges. Before entering the Sierra, I had no idea that afternoon storms were such a regular occurrence, but if the last few days were any indication, I’d better get accustomed to it. The final climb up to the pass consisted of well-groomed, long, sweeping switchbacks. I felt slightly more energetic than yesterday, so I had no issue pushing up the last five-hundred or so feet over the final mile.
From the top of the pass, I enjoyed an incredible view of Pinchot Pass and the open plains that we had traversed to the south. To the north, the Palisades towered high over the deep valley, down toward Palisade Lake, near our camp for the night. After a short rest, we were ready to make our way down to camp. There were several sections of snow on the initial descent, but there always seemed to be a rocky shelf along the trail that would act as a safety net in the event of a fall. Rushing to get to camp, we were reluctant to put on our micro-spikes or pull out our ice-axe. We had traversed much worse than this. Sliding our way down the switchbacks, we finally hit clear trail and I kicked it into high gear. I looked back and Anchorman was running down the trail trying to keep up. Sausage wasn’t running but was moving faster than I’d ever seen him move. Eventually, however, they disappeared, and I continued toward camp.
Less than a quarter mile from camp, I reached the deep, narrow banks of Palisade Creek and spotted a pile of logs that was clearly the preferred crossing. Moving at the pace of a slow jog, I set my first foot on the pile and felt it shift. By the time my second foot planted, the entire pile seemed to roll over. Arms flailing, I landed, pack first, in the middle of the creek. Because of the size of my pack, the impact was soft, but it still took me a second to figure out what had happened. The weight of my pack had pulled my body down into the creek on the upstream side of the log bridge, but my feet were still up, out of the water, on the logs. Actually, they were in the logs. Somehow, in the course of my fall, the pile of logs had opened up, and my feet had gotten trapped in the pile. So, there I lay, in the middle of the creek on my back. I was still strapped into the harness of my pack, and given its weight and the fact that my feet were trapped up on the bridge, I couldn’t exactly figure out how to get up. The water was just deep enough to submerge the middle portion of my body, but my head was resting on the upper portion of my pack, just above the water line. Surprisingly, I was quite comfortable as I laid there, contemplating my predicament.
Suddenly, it occurred to me: my phone was in my shoulder pouch and my shoulder pouch was open and upside down. Reaching up, one of my worst fears was realized. My phone was gone. My new iPhone 11 Pro that I had bought just for this hike so I could take better pictures: it was gone, into the rapids. Crap. Additionally, I no longer heard the impressive harmonies of Rascal Flatts in my ears. Reaching up, my earbuds were gone too. Crap. Immediately, I scrambled to yank my feet free from the logs. The situation was no longer humorous. Finally breaking loose of my pack, I slung it up on the riverbank along with my hat, my trekking poles (that I had somehow managed to hold onto despite never using the wrist loops), and my shoes (one of which had been ripped off as I dislodged my foot from the log pile). I then jumped back into creek, splashing frantically through the water for my phone. I wasn’t worried about my earbuds; I could replace them. What I couldn’t replace, however, were the thousands of pictures that I had taken so far on my phone. Pictures and notes and conversations with friends and family that would be gone if I couldn’t somehow retrieve it.
After a minute or two, a hiker who had been camped just ahead and had seen me fall came running up the trail to help. Together, we splashed through the water, digging blindly among the smooth rocks below the surface of the frigid current. Several times, I thought I saw something, only to grab a particularly shiny and rectangular rock. Slowly and simultaneously, panic and dread set in. The odds of finding it now were slim to none. Anchorman and Sausage finally arrived and, after figuring out what had happened, joined in the search from the shoreline, pointing out objects in the creek from their higher vantage point. It was no use; I was sure that it had gotten swept downstream already but wasn’t ready to give up hope yet. At one point, I looked up at Anchorman and half-stated/half-questioned, “It’s gone, isn’t it?” He nodded slightly but continued searching. Finally, in a last-ditch effort, I stripped off my shirt and began to pull log after log up out of the creek. Maybe it was stuck under the pile. I had hoisted the third-to-last log up to the guys when I could finally see clearly to the bottom of the creek. Dropping to my hands and knees, neck deep into the freezing water, I groped around the rocks below and felt something, something thin and rectangular.
It was my phone! And it still worked!
Immediately, my vocabulary shifted from curses to shouts of joy that were echoed by Anchorman, Sausage, and the other hiker who later introduced himself as Eagle. I almost couldn’t believe it. Hoisting my phone into the air in triumph, I snapped a selfie of myself, in the middle of the creek with no shirt and no shoes, soaking wet, but the most relieved I have ever felt. After piling the logs back up in the creek, my focus shifted to making it to camp and checking to see how wet everything in my pack had gotten. Surprisingly, most things were still pretty dry, even after the entire pack was submerged underwater for a short time. Kelty for the win! It was now nearly dark, and the temperature was dropping, so I quickly changed into some dry clothes and set up camp. At some point, I noticed that I had gashed my leg, but a loop of duct tape over some toilet paper took care of that. Otherwise, I had come out unscathed, my earbuds being the only casualty. I was sure that they were probably down on the bottom of Palisade Lake by now. That was ok, at least I had rescued my phone. After cooking a celebratory feast of mac and cheese with summer sausage and pepperoni, I crawled into my sleeping bag and slept better than I had in a long time.
