The hike north from Tuolumne Meadows brought a subtle but noticeable change in scenery. Gone were the magnificent, sharply pointed peaks and ridges of the southern and central Sierra, as well as the towering granite domes and cliffs of Yosemite Valley. Instead, the landscape undulated softly across shallow, wooded valleys and hills, interspersed with gentle slopes of bright granite, blinding in the midday sun. The occasional grassy meadow appeared along the broad, flat valley floors, surrounded by peaks that didn’t seem very high at all. Of course, perspective is relative. I describe this area as having shallow valleys and low hills and peaks despite the fact that the average elevation was still well over 8,000 feet and the peaks around us were several thousand feet higher still. Yes, the landscape was less grand and impressive in an obvious way, when compared to what we had already hiked through, but it was more diverse, more wild, and arguably more natural. Instead of bare rock, we were walking through forests and grasslands, and following alongside rivers and streams, all while distancing ourselves from the overused foot-highways and metropolis-style camping areas of the south-central Sierra. For the first time in a while, it felt like we were walking into true wilderness.
For a short time, the trail wound its way through deep, coniferous forests along the banks of the wide Tuolumne River, before turning up and away from the river at Glen Aulin. Glen Aulin, which means “Beautiful Glen” in Gaelic, is just that. The tumbling, emerald waters of the Tuolumne River passed along the lower boundary of the verdant valley, which climbed gently toward the ridge above. I really can’t describe the beauty of that area, but as I walked, I couldn’t remember passing through any other area quite like it. After a while, however, the trail left the valley behind and led me up and over a series of ridges and across several long meadows. Throughout the day, the mosquitoes weren’t terrible, which led me to believe that I would be able to finally take a swim, but reaching Miller Lake, I decided against it and pulled out my head net – they were back.
Climbing up and over the last ridge for the day, the bugs faded into the wind, and I could look down into the dense, green valley below. I knew that we would get swarmed down there, but there wasn’t any water up here and I was out. So, back down I walked, sweeping the back of my legs with my trekking poles as I went. I caught up to Sausage on the valley floor, not far from the creek. The forest was open, but the western ridge provided evening shade. Pulling on my rain gear, I rushed to set up camp and collect water before too many of the bloodsuckers decided to bite me through my socks. Once in my tent, I was finally able to enjoy dinner and watched as no less than a half-dozen deer meandered through our campsite, undisturbed.
At any other time in my life, I would have hoped for a bug-free day, but at this point, I knew better. It just wasn’t going to happen. Even before the morning sun reached the valley floor, I could hear the buzzing of several infantry divisions, just waiting for me to unzip my tent. As I rushed out of camp, the sun finally glared down, the stagnant, damp air of the valley rose in steaming waves, and not a single brief gust of wind passed by to provide even the slightest relief. I resorted to donning my head net for most of the morning, but finally ripped it off just so I could attempt to keep the sweat out of my eyes. Climbing up Benson Pass, I was miserable. The trail seemed to be a never-ending pathway of sharp, ankle-rolling rocks, interspersed with muddy bogs and standing water – everything necessary to make sure that my foot was throbbing with every step and that there would be absolutely no relief from the pursuing swarm. Even at the crest of the pass, where there was finally some semblance of air movement, the bugs still swarmed relentlessly, using my body as their shelter from the wind.
This would be a two-pass day, and so after Benson, we descended sharply into the valley and then began the climb up Seavy Pass. The descent, while not extremely long or steep, proved particularly painful. I caught up to a friend about halfway down, and we commiserated in our pain. Her knees were giving her problems. The difference was that she was at least forty years older than me. How was I, in my healthy early twenties, in so much pain from simply walking? Having hiked the trail before, she encouraged me to go to the doctor in South Lake Tahoe. According to her, that would be my last chance to visit a convenient doctor’s office for several hundred miles. I really didn’t want to. I didn’t want to know what was going on with my foot. I didn’t want to have to potentially make the decision to get off trail. I had always read that injuries were a big reason that many people don’t finish, but it had never occurred to me that an injury could take me off trail. I always knew that it was a possibility, but at the same time, I had been living in a state of blissful ignorance. Other people got hurt. I never got hurt. It was probably nothing. I tried to encourage myself as I limped my way down the trail.
After making my way past several false summits on the lengthy climb up Seavy Pass, I came to a lake and decided to take a break. Surprisingly, I wasn’t immediately swarmed and knew that I needed to take advantage of this rare occasion. It was time for a swim. As it would turn out, there was in fact a small platoon of mosquitoes that made their presence known as soon as I took my shirt off, but not enough to drive me completely insane. After swimming and a little laundry, I climbed out and enjoyed lunch on a sunny rock, just up the hill. My morale was improving since earlier, but it would soon plummet to a new low. Leaving the lake, I pushed up the final climb to the pass, and quickly descended. Now, the only thing between me and our campsite for the night was one more steep climb up and then back down again. Although it technically wasn’t a pass, it might as well have been. The climb was nearly straight up, but I can typically crank pretty good on the uphills. Where I struggled, however, was that final descent into camp. Rolling my ankle with every step down the vertical, rocky trail, I wove a tapestry of obscenities that would rival that of Ralphie’s old man in A Christmas Story. My foot felt like it was being slowly crushed in a vice. Needless to say, I wasn’t enjoying myself. At dinner that night, Sausage spilled his mac & cheese in the dirt, tragic, but I was almost relieved that he was having as bad of a day as I was.
By the following morning, my outlook had improved. Yes, I knew my foot was going to hurt. Yes, I knew the mosquitoes were going to be horrible, but I didn’t care anymore. My frustration had transitioned overnight to grim acceptance. This hike was hard. It was supposed to be hard. I had decided to do it partly because it was hard. I decided, therefore, that I no longer had any right to hike in anger and frustration. I had asked for this. The first ten miles of the day were all gradually uphill toward Dorothy Lake Pass, the northern border of Yosemite National Park. I wore my head net for most of the climb, but was, for the first time in several days, able to enjoy the beauty of the landscape. Stopping for lunch along a creek in a large meadow, the mosquitoes hovered relentlessly, but I enjoyed a lengthy break. Reaching Dorothy Lake, just south of the pass, the view opened back up to more rugged, snowy peaks, a northern spur of the high ridges. Circling around the lake, we left Yosemite with nearly the same view that we had entered Yosemite: green hills and valleys on one side and jagged, snow-capped peaks on the other. The view of these high peaks didn’t last long, however, as we quickly dipped back down into the densely forested valley. Approaching camp, we crossed the thousand-mile mark, and fittingly, were chased off by mosquitoes after a few celebratory pictures. A thousand miles is a long way, but it only meant that we still had over sixteen hundred to go.
I awoke early the next morning, eager to push on toward Sonora Pass and Kennedy Meadows North. After we had left the thousand-mile mark the night before, Sausage had hiked ahead and must have camped a few miles further down the trail than I had. That was probably smart. He wouldn’t have to rush as much to make it to town for lunch. As I walked, the trail began to climb and eventually turned up Kennedy Canyon. From there, the landscape changed drastically. Instead of smooth granite cliffs, the surrounding ridges were now reddish volcanic rock. Climbing higher into the canyon, I eventually emerged from the tree line into the barren highlands of the volcanic alpine ridges. There were no mosquitoes anymore. Actually, there were no bugs at all anymore, as the rocky slopes provided nowhere for water to accumulate, and the wind gusted relentlessly over the northern ridge. Soon, I found myself ridge-walking around Leavitt Peak and the surrounding high ridges of the Emigrant Wilderness. To the north, the volcanic range continued for a short distance on the other side of Sonora Pass. To the east, midday storm clouds cast shadows on the lush, green valleys of the eastern Sierra. To the south, the stuffy, buggy valleys through which I had hiked for the last few days spread out below, while the high peaks of the Yosemite backcountry and the central Sierra towered in the distance. To the west, lay the mountainous country of Stanislaus National Forest, with Kennedy Meadows North in the valley below.
Before I continue, yes, I already passed through Kennedy Meadows. Kennedy Meadows is the name of the community that serves as the gateway to the southern Sierra. That was where Grumpy Bear’s and Triple Crown Outfitters had been. That was nearly 350 miles ago. This place that I was now approaching, however, is also called Kennedy Meadows. It is a rural vacation resort in the middle of a national forest, not an actual town, but still, as I would soon learn, exceeded Kennedy Meadows South in almost every regard. This Kennedy Meadows serves as the end of the Sierra section of the trail, the most noteworthy advantage being that we would get to drop off our bear canisters (they would ship them back to Kennedy Meadows South). It is indeed confusing, two places with the same name that bookend the same region of trail, but most of us had learned to avoid confusion by simply specifying “north” or “south.”
Quickly descending the switchbacks of the rocky slope, I finally arrived at Sonora Pass on Highway 108 right at lunchtime. Soon, I was riding down the mountain in a surprisingly fresh-smelling van, with a dozen other hikers, all eagerly anticipating real food. Reaching the resort, our driver gave us a quick rundown on how things were run and then turned us loose at the “hiker area.” While very accommodating toward hikers, the resort was unique in that it was primarily oriented toward patrons who had driven in and paid top-dollar for one of their cabins. I heard that reservations were booked many months in advance. That being said, the resort attempted to maintain a sense of class that is lacking from most thru-hiker oriented establishments. A sign near the rocking chairs on the front porch stated plainly that hikers were not welcome to congregate there; There were picnic tables around back for us. Camping wasn’t allowed; we could either rent a bunk in the bunkhouse or walk down the road to the national forest campground. The restaurant was classy, almost to the point of feeling really out of place, knowing that I hadn’t had a proper shower in nearly two weeks. They welcomed us openly, but a slight sense of the (rightful) judgment cast down by the high-paying tourists was palpable. We stunk, we occupied tables for hours on end, and we clogged up the check-out line in the store with our $200 resupply baskets.
Despite feeling slightly out of place. The resort proved to be a wonderful (albeit expensive) place for a break if you took full advantage of all the amenities. The restrooms and showers were clean, and the laundry room was better than what you would find in a real town. They provided wifi (for a small fee) exclusively to hikers, but cell tower boosters made it unnecessary for both Verizon and AT&T. The store, while small (and expensive) may not have had everything you wanted, but it had everything you needed. The restaurant, on the other hand, had everything a hungry hiker could ever want, and had some of the lowest prices that we had seen on the entire trail. Sausage and I enjoyed $10 burgers for a late lunch and a magnificent dinner of steak, potatoes, squash, bread, salad, soup, and desert for $20. That was the first meal in some time that had actually filled me up. We had originally planned to head back to trail first thing in the morning, but after camping at the campground just down the road, we couldn’t help ourselves and had to return for a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and biscuits for $12. I should have just resupplied from the restaurant; it would have been better and cheaper!
Finishing breakfast, we had two options. We could wait a couple of hours for the shuttle to take us back up to Sonora Pass, or we could try and hitch a ride. The shuttle to the resort had been free, but the shuttle back to the trail would cost ten dollars (they know what they’re doing), so we decided to try out our thumbs. Making our way back down the dirt road toward the highway, not even trying to hitch yet, a truck pulled over and asked where we were going. As it turned out, he needed to go west, but had enough time to drive us back east first. Along the way, we stopped to pick up another hiker who had supposedly started in Campo on the eighth of May. That was the day we had taken a zero in Tehachapi, six hundred miles into the trail. While he was an interesting guy, we knew we probably wouldn’t see him again. We were right.
Back on the trail, the miles seemed to fly by beneath my feet. My foot hurt, particularly on the descents, but I was still able to enjoy myself. Climbing up and over the jagged, volcanic ridge that towered over Sonora Pass, and then back down into the valley on the other side, I finally stopped for lunch next to a small waterfall on the side of the trail. Despite starting our morning with breakfast at the resort and then our trip back to the trail, we had still started earlier and covered more ground than most days. Continuing along semi-arid ridges and gentle slopes, I waited for Sausage to catch up at our planned camp and we decided to hike three more miles: a long day for our first day out of town. It didn’t necessarily feel like a long day, however, as my pack was lighter than it had been in some time. Four days of food felt like nothing after the long carries of the central Sierra. Additionally, there was no longer a bear canister wedged into my pack, poking me in the back. Finally stopping to camp in a narrow valley near a creek, we enjoyed an evening of almost no bugs.
As I stretched out in my tent that night, I began to doubt my decision to get my foot checked out in South Lake Tahoe. It still hurt while I walked, but maybe I could push through it. I was having the time of my life and didn’t want that to come to an unexpected end. The terrain was becoming gradually milder. Maybe I would be able to recover without needing to stop hiking. Mostly, I just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving this beautiful trail. Today had been, in my opinion, one of the most incredible days on the trail. With the jagged, rocky ridges, sharp as knives, and the green, rolling mountains in the distance, the scenery reminded me of southern Utah. The broad valleys that stretched out before us with green carpets of soft grasses interspersed with meandering pine, spruce, and fir groves reminded me of the green plateaus and mountains of south-central Utah. The cliffs above us towered up in volcanic formations that resembled Bryce Canyon, just without the hoodoos. If the rest of northern California was this extraordinary, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving.
At some point in the Sierra, around Evolution Valley, I had adopted the expectation that the majority of the trail would be covered in mosquitoes, but that was wrong. Climbing up and over a high saddle the next morning, it occurred to me that the environment had become much more arid. Not so dry that grasses and trees were dying, but dry enough that I churned a constant cloud of dust along the trail as I walked, and dry enough that I could hike for miles and never hear the buzz of any sort of winged insect. Even as I descended into a series of volcanic valleys that still sheltered pockets of late-season snow among their rocky crags, the melt was not substantial enough to harbor a large insect population. I was still surprised, however, that, after a week of record heat, there was still snow at all. Around midday, I crossed Highway 4 at Ebbetts Pass and continued on, across rocky, dusty slopes, and through green meadows scattered with colorful volcanic boulders. The trail eventually led back down, toward dense, lowland forests, and I realized that our habit of camping low, near water and under the shelter of trees, likely contributed to our propensity to pitch our tents in areas with large populations of biting insects. As soon as I neared our planned camp, the ground suddenly became marshy, and the dreadful buzzing of a million wings filled the air. Sausage was nowhere to be found, so I ran. Yes, I ran, as fast as I could manage, through the forest, swatting the back of my legs with my trekking poles and clawing for my head net. Finally, about a half-mile further, the trail emerged onto a rocky outcropping, and I spotted Sausage. He had pitched his tent as close to the ledge as possible to catch the light breeze that gusted from the valley below. The site was sandy and dry, and the wind thinned out the mosquitoes to a more manageable density. Even so, as we began to cook dinner, the bugs began to swarm, eventually forcing us into our tents.
By the following morning, the mosquitoes had returned in full force, but after several miles of walking in the forest, the trail emerged grassy highlands and rocky slopes. The wind was also blowing again, which helped, but my attention was once again on my foot. With every step that I took, climbing ridge after ridge of loose, sandy scree, my foot became more and more painful. I also began to notice that my ankle was hurting as well, I’m sure I sprained it at some point as I shuffled up the slope. Throughout the morning, the trail passed above several large lakes, and while they were beautiful from a distance, I could see the man-made infrastructure around them. Electrical substations and access roads filled the valleys. I couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that two out of the three lakes were likely manmade. We were now nearing civilization. After hundreds of miles of wilderness, signs of human impact were becoming more prominent. Along a ridge, I crossed a gravel access road and met some infrastructure workers. A little further, and I crossed under some high-voltage power lines. Cresting Carson Pass (an easy climb), I was buzzed by a military trainer jet, just a couple hundred feet overhead. I stopped for lunch at Frog Lake and hunted down a piece of shoreline that was as far as possible from several large parties of day-hikers. Descending toward the road, I found myself in a constant battle to fight my way through sprawling congregations of day-hikers, obliviously strolling down the trail, three and four abreast, in flip flops, talking loudly over even louder music bumping from portable speakers strapped to their packs. I missed the wilderness.
I crossed Highway 88 at Carson Pass, the third major highway that I had crossed in the same number of days and hoofed it as quick as I could toward the last stretch of wilderness before Tahoe. There weren’t as many day-hikers on the north side of the highway, and I slowly realized that this could be my last stretch of trail. If my foot was going to force me off trail, this could be my last night, my last full day, and my last few miles along this trail. Sausage was ahead of me, so I decided to try and catch up. It had been weeks since I had been able to keep pace with him throughout the day. If my foot was already screwed up, though, I might as well not worry about it for the last twenty miles, so I increased my pace to a slow jog. Reaching the top of a ridge, I looked out and could see Lake Tahoe in the distance, glistening in the afternoon sun. Soon, I entered the green meadows of Meise Canyon, very reminiscent of Lyell Canyon, and could see Sausage in the distance. I kept pushing, past the junction with the Tahoe Rim Trail (a 165-mile National Scenic Trail that circles Lake Tahoe), and finally caught up with him as the trail began to climb out of the valley. As I sped by, he shot me a questioning look. I smiled and kept running. Everything except my left foot felt great. I just wanted to enjoy as much as I could while I was still able to hike.
Reaching Showers Lake, on a shelf above Meise Canyon, I found at least three dozen other backpackers and decided to keep going. There was supposedly one more exceptional campsite up on the ridge overlooking the valley. That would be our camp for the night. There was also supposed to be a creek nearby, but it was dry – the first dry creek that we had found since the desert. The land was transitioning. While there was still ample water to be found, the trail would soon enter the long, hot, dry sections of northern California that many hikers regard as just as brutal as the desert section. As we cooked dinner, overlooking the lengthening shadows in the valley far below, the sun began to cast a golden glow on the far ridge. I had always heard about the alpenglow of the Sierra and had experienced some of that during our sunrise summit of Mt. Whitney, but the coloring of the light that was cast on this particular ridge on this particular evening surpassed anything that I had ever witnessed. We weren’t in the high ridges of the central Sierra anymore, but the shimmering gold of that ridge, out across the green valley was one of the most incredible sights I had ever seen.
We were awakened the next morning by other hikers imitating the familiar morning calls of barnyard roosters as they made their way past us along the trail. I heard Sausage curse and mumble something about taking a swing at the next person who made a loud noise. Some things never change. He still wasn’t a morning person. Other things, however, had changed drastically. As Sausage left camp before me, it occurred to me how our roles had almost reversed. When I first met Sausage, less than seventy miles from the Mexican border, he was one of the most inexperienced backpackers I had met. He had come out here with almost no experience, not knowing whether he would even enjoy backpacking, and just decided to go for it. We had hiked together ever since, over a thousand miles, six hundred of those miles as a group of four with Jackpot and Anchorman, and almost three hundred more as a group of three after Jackpot pushed ahead.
All of us had always looked out for Sausage. We looked out for one another as well, but we felt an obligation toward him specifically. He was the youngest of our group, the most inexperienced. As far as the hierarchy of our group was organized, he was essentially our little brother. We were responsible for him. Over those thousand miles, however, he had grown up. As far as general backpacking experience goes, he was now as experienced as any of us. He had learned the hard way, trial by fire, and had emerged victorious. Down south, near the Mexican border, we had met a twenty-year-old college junior with a pack full of gear he didn’t know how to use and the desire to hike the length of the United States along a trail that he knew nothing about. That same guy was now someone that I would trust with my life, in any situation. I was honestly surprised when he made it past the first hundred miles, but as I write this, in the middle of August, he is well into Washington, over 2,200 miles from Mexico, and with less than 500 miles to Canada. Sometimes people surprise you, and I am happy to say that I was very wrong about him.
As I made my way down the ridge, toward Highway 50 and South Lake Tahoe, those thoughts brought me some consolation. Sausage would be fine without me. I, on the other hand, would miss his company, the same as I missed the company of Jackpot and Anchorman. Anchorman, we heard, had flown out of Reno the day before, back to Alabama. Jackpot was many miles ahead. On any long-distance trail, people naturally gravitate into groups, and whether you call those people your crew, your gang, or your tramily, they will undoubtedly define your journey. I’ve heard people say that the trail is less about the scenery and more about the people, that the people around you make the journey what it is, and I firmly believe that to be true. At the end of the day, it’s often not the scenery that I remember the most, but rather the great times that I had the opportunity to experience alongside incredible people – times of laughter and disappointment, peace and challenge, pure joy and raw pain. It doesn’t matter that I barely knew some of those people – they still feel like family because of the simple fact that, together, we accomplished something that few people ever will. Together, we saw magnificent sights that few people will ever witness, and together, we persevered through some of the most difficult and demanding experiences of our lives.
About two miles from the highway, I did something that I hadn’t done in over a thousand miles: I lost the trail. Suddenly, instead of a nicely graded dirt path, I was scrambling through dense pine thickets and deep blowdowns. My progress slowed to less than one mile per hour as I tried to keep pushing. Becoming lost wasn’t an issue. I was close enough to the road and the surrounding developments that I knew exactly where I was. To my right, about a quarter mile down the hill, was a winter recreation area. Straight ahead, Highway 50 looped south in the shape of a horseshoe. To my left, somewhere, was the trail, and a ridge. There was a large ski resort not too far over the ridge. I could roughly determine that I was following generally parallel to the trail, maybe just about an eighth of a mile to the east, but the problem was that the forest was too dense to make my way back toward it. I finally decided to just keep straight, maybe the trail would eventually turn in my direction and I would be able to intersect it. Eventually, the recreation area, Highway 50, and the trail all came into sight at the same time. Scrambling about a hundred yards up the hill to the west, toward the trail, I finally realized what had happened. The trail had been rerouted several years ago and I had followed the old, unmaintained spur. It had been a simple mistake, but one that could have been much more concerning farther from civilization.
Descending to the highway, I found Sausage waiting on me. He had found a list of local trail angels who were willing to shuttle hikers to and from town, so we proceeded to call each number before striking out. Only two people out of the dozen or so published numbers had answered, and they were both busy, so we decided to just hitch a ride. After nearly an hour, a kind, older lady pulled up and introduced herself as the “Crazy Uke-Lady.” She didn’t explain further, and she didn’t need to: we had heard the name. Apparently, she and her husband moved to South Lake Tahoe several years ago and now fill their spare time with hauling hikers. Soon, we were being dropped off just down the street from the South Lake Tahoe Budget Inn, and made our way to Big Daddy’s Burgers, just next door. Our plan for Tahoe was to enjoy a double-zero in celebration of completing the entirety of the Sierra section and to recharge for the long, hot stretch of trail through northern California. Since I had decided to get my foot checked out, however, the two days would also serve me well to figure out what I needed to do moving forward.
Early the next morning, I walked several miles down the street to Stateline, Nevada, to visit the well-regarded clinic there. I had heard that they saw their fair share of hikers and would know exactly what to do. It was there, on the morning of June 23rd, that I realized my journey was going to come to an unexpected end. The stress fracture in my left foot would need at least six weeks to recover – off-trail. I tried, selfishly, to argue with the doctor, but he was used to the often-self-detrimental stubbornness of thru-hikers and stood firm, I had to leave the trail. To say I was disappointed would be a gross under-estimation of what I felt. I was angry, I was confused, I was despondent. Gradually, however, my anger turned to appreciation for what I had been privileged to experience, my confusion turned to clarity of my objective, and my despondence transitioned to sheer determination to come back and finish what I had started.
The next couple days were at the same time, frantic and surprisingly boring. Plans for bus rides and flights slowly came together, but at the same time, having two whole days of rest in a hotel room felt weird. We were used to walking every day. At some point, Sausage admitted that sitting around in a hotel room felt like wasted time. Canada wasn’t getting any closer. I agreed, but the difference for me was that I would be in that position for a couple months. Slowly, I began to devise a plan. I was going to finish the trail this year. That was a given. I just had to figure out how to finish before winter snowstorms set in. Eventually, I decided that it would probably work best to start back, around the beginning of September, at the Canadian border and walk south, arriving back at South Lake Tahoe around early December. It wasn’t what I had originally planned, but it would be my best chance to avoid the fierce winter weather of the northern Cascades of Washington.
Eventually, I found myself on a bus to the Reno airport. It was done. I had said goodbye to the mountains, to the trail, and to Sausage. I was leaving, unfinished, the thing that I had set my mind on for over five years. In one sense, I had failed, I wasn’t even halfway done yet. But in another sense, the door was still open for success. I would be back. Yes, I had already walked nearly eleven-hundred miles, but I still had 1,562.9 miles of unfinished business to take care of. As the plane lifted off and headed east, it also occurred to me that my success was not defined by whether or not I was able to walk from Mexico to Canada, but by the experiences of each and every one of those 2,653.6 miles in between. In that moment, I realized why I had walked all this way and still had such a strong desire to keep walking. Why I walk is not so that I can make it to that Canadian border, but so I can live and experience to the fullest every step along that long, rocky, dusty path in-between.
