Waking up in the morning, I felt invincible. It was going to be a good day. Laying my clothes out in the sun to finish drying, I went about my morning routine, and was returning from digging a cathole when I spotted a marmot gnawing on my shirt. Now, it’s not like there wasn’t anything else for him to eat. In fact, there were two Clif Bars right next to the shirt, but he had made his choice. I hollered at him, but he didn’t even look up, so I lobbed my bag of toilet paper (it’s denser than you think) and my trowel at him, hitting him right on the head. I was surprised that I actually hit him. Closing in to examine the damage to my shirt, the large rodent finally disappeared around a rock, and I found a large hole on the back of the shoulder and around the base of the collar. Apparently, he was after the salt. I can’t imagine that the polyester would taste any good. At least it was still wearable, and I had a replacement shirt waiting at home that I could have shipped to Mammoth Lakes. For the next half-hour, as I packed up, I occasionally enjoyed chucking rocks at any of the dozen or so marmots that got too close as they examined Anchorman and Sausage’s campsites for anything edible.
Finally ready to leave camp, I had a random thought pop into my head and decided to act on it. Backtracking to Palisade Creek, I examined the creek bed just downstream of the logs and immediately spotted what I had been thinking about. There, on the bottom of the creek, were my earbuds. Fishing them out with my trekking poles, I pressed the power button and was amazed that it lit up! I ultimately decided, however, that it was probably best to let them dry out before seeing if they still worked. I was just amazed that they did anything (and that they were that easy to find) after being submerged for over twelve hours. As I finally headed out of camp, down into the valley, I was feeling good. And then I reached the Golden Staircase.
As its name implies, the Golden Staircase is an incredibly steep section of trail that descends roughly 1,200 feet over the course of a mile and a half. Made up of a series of very short switchbacks, often with steps that are carved into the granite cliff-face, it traverses a portion of the valley where the upper plateau drops off sharply toward the valley floor below. Without the trail, it would be impossible to travel up or down without mountaineering or climbing experience. To make things even more fun, much of the trail is scattered softball-sized rocks, whose constant goal is to detach your ankle from the rest of your leg. My left foot hurt as I descended, slowing me to barely one mile per hour. The constant force of pounding my feet into the granite steps felt like it was crushing the metatarsals of my inner foot, and each time I thought I was almost to the bottom, I would turn the corner to yet another series of vertical switchbacks. I wish I had been able to focus on the view of the lower valley and the engineering that was required to construct that section of trail, but I just wanted to be on flat ground as soon as possible.
After finally reaching the bottom of the valley, the rest of the day consisted of a nicely graded dirt path through what would have been one of my favorite stretches of trail so far if it weren’t for the mosquitoes that pursued me relentlessly. Walking along the creek, I wanted to just stop and take it all in, but the mosquitoes chased me on down the trail. Passing through a series of green meadows, I wanted to stop and watch several deer, grazing and completely content even with my presence, but the mosquitoes had other plans. Climbing back up, once again, I wanted to turn around and admire the beauty of the green valley framed by granite cliffs, but after stopping for ten seconds, I had at least twice as many of the blood-sucking insects swarming me. Nearing camp, the pain in my foot transitioned from a dull ache at every step to a sharp pain that felt like the internal structure of my foot was being ripped apart. I was walking uphill again and finally developed a method of walking in which I held my left foot stiff throughout my gait. It wasn’t optimal, but it helped the pain. Reaching camp, I finally caught up with the others. Because of my foot, I had been behind them all day, unable to catch up. As we lounged around, the sky proceeded to spit about twenty rain drops in our direction, just enough for Sausage to reach for his rain jacket. All of us were acutely aware of the fact that there were no mosquitoes, but no one wanted to say a word about it.
I was awakened early by the sun beating through the walls of my tent and decided to get started. My foot throbbed as I left camp, but I quickly settled into my adjusted gait and was able to maintain a decent pace. The difference between Muir Pass and other passes, is that it’s not a single, steep climb and then descent. Rather, the southern approach stretches for nearly ten miles and the northern side is nearly twenty miles of gradual, rolling descent. Because of its gradual nature, it also tends to hold miles of snowfields on both sides. As we slowly ascended into each progressively higher bowl, we transitioned from relatively small patches of snow that could be circumnavigated by detouring a bit off trail, to longer portions of trail that were completely buried beneath several feet of slushy snow. By the time we were within a mile and a half of the pass, we were trudging almost exclusively through wet, melting snow. Passing Helen Lake, I noticed that the surface was completely frozen. That was supposed to be one of my campsites on my JMT thru hike last year, before I had to get off trail due to the fires. With the snow, I couldn’t even tell where the campsite was.
Nearing the pass, the final approach was completely buried. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even an established foot path. It appeared that most people had been finding their own path up the final slope to the top, so we decided to do the same. Slipping and sliding, we slowly made our way up. Several times, I post-holed down into a small creek. Other times, the snow beneath me simply gave way up to my waist. The good thing was that the slope was gradual enough that falling carried little consequence. Finally, Muir Hut came into view, and I saw Sausage waving at me. I had made it. Muir Hut, constructed entirely of stone from the top of the pass, is a historical emergency hut that was built to shelter hikers on this long, exposed section of trail. These days, however, camping is banned (they have bricked up the fireplace) and they warn about staying in the hut during storms because of the lightning danger. It would be better than a tent though, so if I was up here in a bad storm, I’d take my chances. The best-case scenario, however, is simply to not get caught in a storm up here. It wasn’t until we emerged from a lengthy break in the hut that we noticed the dark clouds rolling in from the east. Time to go.
We ran down the north side of the pass, through snowfields and across miles of sharp boulders as thunder rolled above us. Occasionally, lightning flashed high up on the neighboring ridges. We were still several miles above the tree line. As we passed by several frozen lakes, the path transitioned from rock hopping among boulders to sloshing our way through several inches of muddy water. At around two and a half miles from the pass, the trail finally emerged from the snow and water, and we were able to pick up the pace even more. Now, we were skirting our way under the edge of the storm. Lightning still flashed but was now striking the valley too. Thunder shook the ground. We kept running. Finally, after nearly six miles of descent, we spotted a few trees on the north end of Evolution Lake and spent the next hour or so huddled under a leaning pine, eating and waiting for the weather to clear.
And the weather did clear. By the time we had finished lunch, the dark clouds had faded away, the thunder and lightning had ceased, and the rain had transitioned to stagnant humidity. We were now entering Evolution Valley. Touted by many as one of the most beautiful places along the JMT, I had heard descriptions of it last year before the trail was evacuated. To say I was looking forward to it would be an understatement. The stories that I had heard of the broad, green meadows along the side of the broad, winding Evolution Creek, nestled deep between bare, granite peaks sounded like a scene from the writings of Tolkien. What we witnessed the rest of the day, lived up to every expectation that had been built up. Disappointingly, however, the mosquitoes were so brutal that we didn’t have the opportunity to pause to enjoy any of it. By the time we reached the wide crossing of Evolution Creek, I found myself sweeping the back of my legs with my trekking poles every thirty seconds to dislodge the dozen mosquitoes that had landed there. We couldn’t stop walking for even a minute to examine the creek crossing and ended up stumbling through the thigh-deep water and pushing on, as fast as we could manage, blood being sucked from every exposed piece of skin as we walked. Descending sharply out of Evolution Valley into Goddard Canyon, we reached our campsite and scrambled to set up camp and eat dinner before taking refuge in our tents.
I had no idea that I was that tolerant toward mosquitoes. As I walked along the South Fork San Joaquin River, a constant cloud of the infuriating insects hovered around my head. I didn’t have any bug spray. Throughout the desert, I hadn’t needed any. There hadn’t been many bugs. At times, there hadn’t been any bugs. This was different, though. I couldn’t breathe without inhaling at least two. Eventually, I stopped worrying about it and just hoped that they would come back out on the next exhale. I passed the side trail to Muir Trail Ranch. I had planned to resupply there last year and had debated hiking over this year just to see it, but I kept walking. At one point, I found a dusty, exposed patch of ground, in direct sunlight on the side of the ridge. Normally, I would avoid such spots in favor of shade and shelter from the wind, but on this day, I sat down on the hot, dusty ground and enjoyed ten glorious minutes with only half a dozen mosquitoes that just happened to coast by.
Continuing up toward Selden Pass, the mosquitoes got thicker and thicker, so much so that by the time I reached Sallie Keyes Lake, and Heart Lake, I was pulling on my head net for the first time. I hate hiking in a mosquito net. It’s difficult to breath, difficult to see, you can’t wipe the sweat out of your eyes, and it adds at least ten degrees to the perceived ambient temperature. At a certain point, however, you have to do whatever you can to preserve your sense of sanity and I was already past that point. Cresting the pass, I snapped a few pictures of the view out over Marie Lake, swollen from the springtime melt, and continued walking. Even at 11,000 feet, I was still getting the blood sucked out of my body at an alarming rate. The rest of the afternoon was honestly miserable. I was exhausted, but couldn’t stop without getting eaten alive. Instead of using my trekking poles to hike, I used them to kill whatever dared to land on my legs. I was ahead of Anchorman and Sausage, but I knew they were just as miserable. Anchorman always talked a big talk, and being from southern Alabama, tried to convince us that mosquitoes really didn’t bother him that much. I think he was mostly just trying to convince himself. On the other hand, Sausage was from southern California and had never experienced anything like this. He was the only one of us with bug spray, and he bathed in it several times a day. Even then, the bugs were slowly driving him insane. Mostly, we all took a little bit of comfort in knowing that we were all absolutely miserable.
Arriving at camp, deep in the forested valley, on the banks of the Bear Creek, we discovered the true definition of haste. Tents were pitched in a matter of minutes. Anchorman attempted to begin cooking dinner outside but was moving inside before his water had even started to boil. Sausage and I didn’t even try. We simply dumped everything we had inside our tents and dove in. Even entering our tents, however, proved to be a tricky endeavor. The most effective method, we discovered, involved taking our shoes off, backing approximately ten yards away from our tents, shaking as many mosquitoes as we could from our clothes, and sprinting toward the tent, attempting to open and close the door as quickly as possible. Usually, this resulted in less than half a dozen mosquitoes infiltrating our mesh sanctuaries. The next task was always exterminating those that managed to still get in. We didn’t dare venture outside without the full getup consisting of rain pants (tucked into our socks), rain jacket (cinched tight around the waist and zipped all the way up), head net (over a hat so they can’t bite through it), and gloves. Even then, I still got bit around my ankles (through my socks) and through my thin sun-gloves on my hands. As I laid in my tent, I realized that the buzzing of the mosquitoes outside my tent drowned out the sounds of Bear Creek, rushing just ten yards away.
I woke up to see at least three dozen mosquitoes resting on the door of my tent, so I decided to cook breakfast inside. The sun was shining, but it was still dark and damp down in our valley. The trail, however, quickly climbed up Bear Ridge and flattened out into a dry, open, pine forest. Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, there were no mosquitoes. Reminiscent of the pleasant, high elevation woodlands of the southern Sierra, it reminded me of the scene in The Hunger Games where each distinct region had a different challenge. We had clearly passed out of the mosquito sector (for now), and I was just waiting for what threat would be next, but there was nothing, just pleasant walking through the forest.
Descending abruptly from the plateau-like Bear Ridge, I braced for impact, knowing that I was likely headed back toward mosquito territory. Along the many gradual switchbacks, I made a pact with myself: From the valley below, the trail would climb roughly 3,000 feet toward Silver Pass. After resting briefly at the bridge over Mono Creek, I would complete the entire climb in one go. No breaks. Full speed ahead. Ultimately, I completed the six-mile, 3,000-foot climb in just under two and a half hours. Several times, I passed people resting. Usually, they were swatting mosquitoes. I, however, managed to either escape or ignore the majority of the swarm on my ascent. As I climbed, the land transitioned from dense forests to a steep climb along a cliff face, to open, rocky forests, to alpine lakes, and finally to open, rocky expanses with views in every direction. Finally reaching the pass, I paused and collected water from a trickling stream of snowmelt. A mosquito landed on my hand as I filtered water. Great. I rested at the top of the pass for nearly two hours, swatting mosquitoes most of the time. Anchorman and Sausage eventually caught up and were disappointed to find that 12,000 feet in elevation and winds blowing fifteen to twenty miles per hour was no substantial deterrent for these winged menaces.
Leaving the pass, we entered back into lush, forested valleys and continued battling mosquitoes. Tomorrow, we would reach Mammoth Lakes. Tomorrow, I would buy bug spray. It was a top priority. After consulting with one another, we decided to try to outsmart the mosquitoes. We typically preferred to camp by water for convenience, but maybe camping as high and as far from water as possible would make camp more enjoyable. We selected a site on the map: up another twelve-hundred-foot climb and on a flat, relatively dry plateau. The pain in my foot didn’t appreciate the climb, but we were hoping for an area similar to Bear Ridge from earlier in the day. Our quest for sanity definitely outweighed any physical discomfort that we were feeling. When we arrived, however, we found that the little creatures were still swarming. I began to wonder if we would ever be able to enjoy camp and hang around outside our tents again. At least we would have a hotel room for the next two nights.
“Good-morning, hiker trash!” Those were the words that I heard yelled loudly into our camp right at sunrise, as another group of hikers passed by. Generally, hikers try to be considerate of one another’s rest, but apparently that concept had flown straight out the window on this particular morning. Sausage cursed loudly. I heard Anchorman groan: “Well, we might as well get up.” I was still groggy as I left camp nearly two hours earlier than normal, but I also discovered that the mosquitoes were too cold to fly yet. Maybe our loud, early-rising friends were onto something. As I walked, the trail skirted several lakes and passed through the surrounding floodplains, still submerged from the spring melt. There was no option for dry feet. A little while further, the trail settled onto the west-facing slope of the San Joaquin River Valley. To the southwest, jagged, towering, snowy peaks lined the ridges. To the northwest, however, the peaks and ridges were more rolling, smoother, a little bit lower. There was still some snow, but smooth, granite formations scattered the primarily forested landscape. Yosemite. The northern Sierra. The terrain would still be rugged, but it would be hard for it to compare to what we had already passed through. The south and south-central Sierra is home to some of the most rugged terrain in the country.
Soon, I passed the 900-mile mark and turned onto the Mammoth Pass trail, toward civilization. I had been expecting an actual pass, but instead found a rolling trail up and over the mountain toward Mammoth. The trail was well used by locals, and I found myself passing a steady stream of people as they headed out for the day toward the PCT. I guess it was still technically morning, even after almost fifteen miles. Anchorman had been the first to leave camp and texted that he had caught the bus from the trailhead into town. News of a free bus into town is one of the greatest things a thru-hiker can hear. According to him, it ran every hour. I asked Sausage for the time. It was fifteen minutes before the hour. We had a little over a mile left. Immediately, we both broke out into a moderate jog. The trail was wide and smooth and mostly downhill. Hopefully we would make it. I didn’t want to have to wait another hour. As we ran, my foot hurt. This definitely wasn’t good for it. Food, however, is a powerful motivator, especially after eight days in the wilderness. Emerging from the tree line above the trailhead, we could see the bus below, roughly three hundred yards away. Sausage checked the time: three minutes. We broke out into a sprint. As we ran, day hikers and tourists looked on with slight confusion in their eyes. If they had eaten ramen noodles and mashed potatoes for the last week, they would understand. We reached the bus right as the door was closing. The bus driver was messing with us. He had seen us running down the hill and just wanted to scare us. Several minutes later, we pulled out and headed into town to meet up with Anchorman.
Meeting at a restaurant in town, we proceeded to feast. It ended up costing over forty bucks for a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, and lemonade, but it was worth every penny. Mammoth Lakes isn’t designed for people with strict budgets. A high-class ski town, it seems like every restaurant and hotel costs at least twice what it should, and I only spotted one gas station that was under five dollars per gallon. How does anybody live here? Eventually, we made our way down to the Motel 6 and paid way too much for a room that didn’t even have a fridge or microwave. The rest of the afternoon and the following day consisted of a long-term feast. As a larger town, Mammoth Lakes has many options that are simply unavailable in smaller locales. Mexican for dinner, Carl’s Jr. for breakfast, Chinese for lunch, Dominos for dinner, I probably gained ten pounds in just over twenty-four hours. During that time, we also resupplied and tracked down bug spray. It was surprisingly difficult to locate 100% deet, but one of the local gear shops knew exactly what I was looking for. “Most people don’t want the strong stuff – Except all you thru-hikers.” I described the last few days and he seemed to understand. He’d probably seen it a thousand times.
On our second and final morning in town, Sausage and I decided to send our cold-weather and snow gear home. Donohue Pass was the only major pass remaining, and we had heard reports that there was very little snow left. I couldn’t help but worry, however, as I boxed up my axe, micro-spikes, thermals, hat, and gloves, that I was headed back out into the wilderness, the Sierra no less, with a limited selection of gear. Hopefully, we weren’t making a mistake. After one last overpriced meal, we caught the bus back to the trailhead. It was time to get back on the trail, where it doesn’t cost thirty bucks to eat breakfast.
