Leaving the summit of Mt. Whitney and arriving back at our camp at Crabtree Meadows, I decided to eat, rest a while, and then press on. We would be climbing Forester Pass tomorrow, and I wanted to get as close as possible so that we could get there first thing in the morning. When Anchorman and Sausage got back, they had both decided to sleep for several hours, but I knew that if I went to sleep, I probably wouldn’t be able to motivate myself to wake back up. By midday, I was packed up and leaving camp. I had already logged over fifteen miles for the day, but I wanted to get to Tyndall Creek, about nine more miles, to put myself in a good position for tomorrow. After a brief climb, the trail drifted down into a wide, treeless plain. I had seen this plateau from the summit, but it was even more amazing to walk across it. It was below the tree line, but there were no trees or shrubs, and only short grasses for several miles. I could have sat down for several hours, just to admire this vast land, surrounded by snowy ridges, but looking back toward Mt. Whitney, afternoon storm clouds were beginning to appear. And I knew that it was in my best interest to keep moving.
No sooner had the trail dipped back under the cover of trees, than it began to snow. Thunder began to roll as the ominous clouds took over the sky. One by one, the high peaks disappeared. I could see the occasional bolt of lightning strike the ridge. Reaching camp, I found a large crowd of hikers and struggled to get my tent set up in a less-than-optimal spot. By the time I had everything set up, I was thoroughly damp. By now, the snow had transitioned to sleet, and it was pouring down in frozen sheets. Climbing into my tent, I proceeded to eat dinner and hoped that I wouldn’t get struck by lightning being camped this close to the tree line. I was exhausted. I had covered over 24 miles for the day and had climbed nearly 7,000 feet in elevation. At some point in the evening, Sausage arrived and set up his tent next to mine. I think by sunset the storm had cleared out, but I was too tired to care. It had been a long day.
By the time I woke up the next morning, Sausage was packed up and nearly ready to head out, and Anchorman was sitting on a log nearby, just watching the creek. He had apparently camped about four miles back and got an early start this morning. Before long, they headed out, but I knew I would catch them. We had a little over 3,000 feet to climb up Forester Pass, and I can catch up to just about anyone on an uphill grade. About an hour later, I finally left camp and immediately broke the tree line. From here, I could see the trail winding its way up the incline toward a continuous ridgeline that eventually circled around from the west, around to the north, and up to its highest point along the eastern flank. There was nowhere to go but over the top. Slowly, I entered the alpine zone and passed several partially frozen lakes and ponds. Climbing a little further, I passed several larger lakes that were fully frozen. Before long, I passed Sausage and continued across scattered snow fields and icy meltwater creeks.
Finally, I reached the base of the final climb and looked up. Forester Pass, at 13,200 feet, is the highest point on the PCT (Mt. Whitney is the southern terminus of the JMT but is not on the PCT), and is typically one of the most anticipated challenges for thru hikers along the trail. Looking up at the granite switchbacks leading to the tiny crevasse in the ridge, I understood that anticipation. There were only a few patches of snow on this side (with a substantial cornice at the top), but I knew that the north side was infamous for holding sketchy snow fields late into the year. I also knew that at this point, there was nothing to do but go for it. I could see Anchorman about halfway up the switchbacks, and I decided to push as hard as I could and not allow myself to rest until I was at the top. What resulted was a climb that, in my opinion, was tougher than Mt. Whitney. Yes, it was 1,300 feet lower. Yes, it would have been much easier if I had taken my time and paced myself more conservatively. I am, however, prone to frequently making things more difficult than they need to be, and this was undoubtedly one of those times. Approaching the top, I spotted the cornice and was filled with sudden dread until I discovered that climbing it would not be necessary. The trail simply switched from the eastern flank to the western flank and skirted around the edge of the jagged mass of ice. I was glad it was a low snow year, if we had been much earlier in the season, the trail would have been covered and the final hundred feet would be downright dangerous.
Cresting the ridge above the cornice, I descended into the pass itself, just below. There, I found Anchorman and several others, all admiring the magnificent view to the north. Massive snowfields covered the northward facing slopes for at least the first 2,000 feet. Far below, were several frozen lakes. We could faintly make out the path of the trail as it made its way down the valley, partly from the well-worn path of footprints in the snow, but mostly from the widely spaced path of hikers making their way down, and a few making their way up. We had all been carrying ice-axes since Kennedy Meadows, and it looked like they would finally be of use. It would also be nice to finally use our microspikes again, instead of them just being weights in our packs. After resting briefly and planning our path of descent, we donned our spikes and gripped our axes and began down the northern slope, down into Kings Canyon National Park.
The descent was slow, as we made our way down the snowy slope. Even with traction on our shoes and ice-axes in hand, we tried to always keep three points of firm contact with the ground and were careful to move slowly and deliberately, testing each step that we took. A fall here could be catastrophic if you weren’t able to self-arrest with your axe. Several times, we made our way to a patch of boulders protruding above the snow and scrambled across. The footing on the boulders, however, was almost worse than snow, as they almost always move and shift whenever you step on them. We eventually reached a glissade, a place in which the only reasonable option was to take a seat and slide down several hundred feet of icy snow with only our axe to steer and to use as a brake. Luckily, the path was well-worn from everyone ahead of us and was almost shaped like a playground slide. Sliding down proved to be more fun than anticipated, as we were able to cover substantial ground without having to worry about having good balance or steady footing. Once at the bottom, we continued on, a little faster now, making our way toward the bare, granite scree fields ahead.
Finally reaching the base of the snow, we now had to find the trail. The paths worn into the snow serve as the most efficient way down, but they don’t always correspond to the path that the actual trail follows, hidden underneath. We were able to find the trail with no issue, however, and continued on toward the green valley below. Being in Kings Canyon National Park, we all wondered if the valley we were descending into was indeed Kings Canyon. Toward both the east and the west, towering ridges, covered in snow stood guard over the deep pine forests of the valley floor, surrounding Bubbs Creek. Even after descending below the tree line, the feeling of being surrounded by walls of granite several thousand feet vertical was palpable. Peering up at the glaciers and springtime snow fields, I wondered if anyone had ever set foot up there. From down here, it appeared nearly inaccessible, but then again so did Forester Pass, looking back toward the south. At one point in the forest, I saw movement off to the side and heard something crashing around. It could have been a bear. It could have also just been a deer. The three of us stopped and watched for several minutes but saw nothing and continued on.
Soon, it was time to divert off onto Kearsarge Pass Trail. From the junction, it was seven miles up and over Kearsarge Pass to Onion Valley Trailhead. Our plan was hike several miles toward the pass, camp for the night, and then reach the trailhead by tomorrow morning. The issue with that plan, was that I wasn’t carrying any water. We had left Bubbs Creek, and I had expected there to be ample water all along the trail toward the pass. There wasn’t. I guess we were going to hike until we found water. Worst case scenario, we could just get to the trailhead tonight and camp at the campground down there. That would be a long day, though, and I was still exhausted from our long day on Mt. Whitney yesterday and our already fairly substantial day today, crossing Forester Pass. Circling above Bullfrog Lake, I wondered if we should have taken the alternate trail that passed right alongside the lake. No camping is allowed at Bullfrog Lake, but we could have at least collected water from its glistening, reflective pools. We had chosen the upper trail, however, so we kept walking. Finally, we crossed a small creek and Anchorman and Sausage stopped to filter water. Looking around, there was nowhere in the immediate vicinity to camp, so I decided to keep pushing. Why I didn’t just go ahead and get water so that I could camp at the next suitable site I came to, I’ll never know.
Up and over Kearsarge Pass I struggled, as the sun began to sink below the mountains and casted a golden alpenglow on the granite cliff faces to the south. A lower pass at less than 12,000 feet, it wasn’t a substantial climb, but the final approach was one of the steepest sections of trail that I had hiked. I had been hoping to camp near Big Pothole Lake on the east side of the pass, but as it came into view, I noticed it was frozen solid. Additionally, that really didn’t even matter, as the lake was several hundred feet lower than the trail anyway, separated by a wide field of scree. With nothing to do but to keep moving, I began the descent toward the trailhead, down switchbacks and past Heart Lake, which was melted but too far off trail and too difficult to access. There were still no creeks. Finally, I spotted a small pond ahead, in a shallow valley that looked good for camping. By the time I arrived, it was nearly dark, and the temperature was plummeting, but there was plenty of liquid water and wide-open spaces to camp. After pitching my tent and chugging several liters of cold water, I feasted in a manner that is only advisable on the night before a resupply. With the exception of one bar for breakfast and a bag of dried mixed berries that I’d been carrying since Wrightwood, I ate everything. It had been another big day. Twenty miles anywhere is a lot, but twenty miles with two passes the day after summiting Mt. Whitney makes for pure exhaustion.
As the sun rose, I was ready to get to town. I hoofed it the last three miles down to the trailhead, dodging weekend backpackers and day-hikers the whole way. It was Memorial Day weekend after all, and it seemed like the entire population of Owens Valley had driven up here to hike. I knew that wasn’t true, however, because it was also the weekend of Mule Days in Bishop. We had realized that when we tried to book a hotel room from the summit of Mt. Whitney; every single hotel in Bishop was either fully booked or was charging an exorbitant amount for mediocre accommodations. Because of this, we had ended up reserving a room at the Timberline Motel in Lone Pine. That meant that we would need to get a ride from the trailhead down to Independence (there’s not much more than a post office and a gas station there), north from Independence to Bishop to resupply, and then back south past Independence to Lone Pine for the night. Because each leg of the journey was between thirty minutes and an hour, we fully expected it to be an all-day affair. Once we had all reached the trailhead, however, we were offered a ride down to Independence before even sticking our thumbs out. Maybe this would be easier than we thought.
After grabbing some subs for lunch from the gas station in Independence, we made our way to the north side of town and attempted to hitch a ride. Hundreds of cars and trucks passed by along the busy 395 corridor, but no one stopped. Just as we were becoming discouraged, an Eastern Sierra Transit bus pulled over and motioned us over. We would need to pay the fare, but we could ride the bus all the way to the grocery store in Bishop. Done. The bus probably ended up being cheaper than a hitchhike anyway – and a lot more comfortable. As we disembarked, the driver informed us that there were two more busses for the evening that we could ride all the way to Lone Pine. Perfect. The following hours were filled with buying way too many groceries, getting our second COVID shots, visiting several gear stores and swinging by the post office for Anchorman to pick up some new shoes. Finally, we returned to the grocery store and waited for the last bus to Lone Pine for the day. Unlike our ride north where we were the only people on board, this leg of our journey was cram-packed. Every seat on the bus was taken, leaving us no option but to set our packs (full of at least twenty pounds of food) on our laps. After an uncomfortable hour and a half, and an entire two-liter of lemonade, we arrived in Lone Pine. Making our way to the motel, we checked in and set our minds on dinner. There was a Pizza Factory across the street, so we couldn’t resist. Upon examining the menu, we discovered that we could get two 16” pizzas and two two-liters for the same price that we could buy one pizza if we asked for the birthday special. The waitress allowed it, despite the fact that we admitted it was no one’s birthday.
We had planned to only spend a single night in town, but after sleeping late and still having laundry and other chores to complete, we decided to take a zero day and stay another night. That was the right decision, because we also felt less than 100%, courtesy of our second COVID shots. Checking with the office, we discovered that our hotel was fully booked for the night, so after breakfast and laundry, we set out to find another hotel. Walking down the main road, we stopped at every hotel we passed until finally finding a vacancy at the Portal Motel. They even had a room with three queen beds! Plus, it was cheaper than last night. That evening, we finally ventured out to simply walk around town and explore. If it just had a larger grocery store, Lone Pine would be the perfect trail town. Everything is within a short walking distance along the main road, there are plenty of hotels and gear shops, and they have a wide selection of good restaurants. My single and most substantial gripe about the town is that the cashier at the Mobil Mart was doing something shady with everyone’s credit cards and ended up double charging me for some overpriced snacks.
The next morning, we returned for the second day to the Alabama Hills Café for a breakfast that was converted to lunch after waiting nearly two hours for a table. The food was good, however, and we enjoyed the company of Downhill, a French-American girl who had been living in Portugal but was one of the few hikers able to enter the country from overseas due to her dual American citizenship. After talking, we discovered that she had been hiking with several people we knew from earlier on the trail but hadn’t seen in several hundred miles. It’s always interesting to learn that you can walk for weeks within just a few miles of someone but never see them. She had also talked to several of her friends who were further ahead on the trail and shared information about the conditions of the upcoming stretch.
After preparing for the trail by gorging ourselves with a magnificent quantity of food, we finally decided it was time to head back to the trail. We had been standing on the side of the road for nearly two hours when a Mexican man in an old Chevy van slammed on the brakes and motioned us over. For the next half-hour, from Lone Pine to Independence, we got to know all about Arturo. Every once in a while, you get the opportunity to meet someone who just makes you smile, someone who is just so high on life that it’s contagious. That was our experience with Arturo. Originally from Sinaloa, he had moved to LA in the late 70’s to escape the gangs, and then Lone Pine around 1980 for work. In broken English, he eagerly explained all about his job and every other aspect of his life, all while turned around to face us in the back seat and swerving back and forth across road. At times, we all wanted to holler at him to pay more attention to where he was going, but we didn’t want to insult him. Even after dropping us off at the Chevron in Independence, we still talked for thirty more minutes. He had never been up in the mountains, but after showing him some pictures, he was eager to learn about any good fishing holes that we had seen – the back of his van was full of fishing poles and tackle boxes. I tried to offer some cash for the ride, but he refused. He was headed north to the casino just up the road to pick someone up and would be driving back down in a little while. Excitedly, he explained that if he saw us again, he would stop and pick us up and drive us up the mountain. Before we saw him again, however, we were headed up toward the trailhead in the enclosed bed of a Ford Ranger, sitting on a highly questionable mattress.
Upon reaching the trailhead, and looking up toward Kearsarge Pass, it sank in how high the trail really was. The road from Independence up to Onion Valley gained over 4,000 feet. Now, we needed to gain over 3,000 more to get up and over the pass. As we hiked up, the miles passed slowly. Up past the pond, past the frozen Pothole Lake, finally cresting the pass, we decided to camp at the same place that Anchorman and Sausage had camped at on our way into town. It was only about a hundred yards from the creek. I have no idea why I didn’t stop there instead of pushing on alone over the pass three nights ago. It was the perfect campsite, overlooking Bullfrog Lake and back toward the snowy peaks of the Sierra, the small creek gurgling nearby. We were glad to be back on the trail. It felt like coming home.
