And in Reflection . . .

The ending of the trip came a bit too suddenly for me, as I had woken up that morning in the intense alpine solitude of Guitar Lake. My first thought was that it was entirely unnatural to be ending the trip, and that my first desire was to go down into Bishop, reprovision, get some Tevas and hit the trail again. This was truly a milestone, in that the allure of clean clothes, cold beer, a warm bed and Mexican food did not have their usual effect on me. I could have easily turned around and walked back to Yosemite.

This had been a special time. We lived for three weeks in constant, stunning natural beauty. We met wonderful people, and enjoyed the company of hundreds of like-minded souls we met on the trail. There were no bears, and though I'm happy to have avoided the encounters, I wish we had a few good bear stories to tell: "I wrenched my Clif Bar out of the savage's teeth and swallowed it whole - ha-ha-ha-haaaa!"

One of my favorite moments of the whole experience was when, at about 9:00 the night we came out, we walked into the long-awaited Mexican restaurant in Bishop. I was wearing more or less the same thing I'd worn the whole trip (a dirty shirt, dirty boots and dirty shorts), but suddenly, under the bright lights of the restaurant, in full view of several dozen couples out on their Friday night date, I felt like complete scum. And I loved it.

Eternal thanks to the Egg Lady, Canteen Man, Ranger Rick, Rich and Matt for the hash browns and hacky sack, Mother Nature for the good show, Kate for the great chow, Limmer Boots (200 miles and no blisters), the couple with the llamas, Russ and Kate at the MTR, fate - for making all the transportation go just perfectly on the way out, EWA for meeting me in Reno, the Bay Area Rapid Transit District for its good name, Dr. Pete for the free medical advice and last but not least, Bart - for your wonderful companionship and for putting up with the feet and the knees, and Ginie, Conor, Galen and Barlo for understanding how badly Daddy needed this trip.

The last three weeks were dedicated to John Muir. You rock.

Day 19: Guitar Lake to Whitney Portal

I hate to throw a damper over the culmination of such a great trip, but for me, the glory of our journey was going to end just three miles up the trail - at the 13,560 junction with the trail coming up the other side. That would be the point where we would run headlong into a mass of people coming up the trail from the other side via la routa tourista - the tourist route. Mt. Whitney is the highest peak in the lower forty-eight, and it is far too popular for its own good. Hundreds and hundreds of people climb it each summer day - though their numbers are limited by quota - requiring those making the round trip to climb 6,000 vertical feet over the ten mile hike from the Whitney Portal trailhead. The sounds difficult, and it is - particularly for those who spent the night somewhere down in the Owens Valley, many thousands of feet below the parking lot. An alternative is to stay in one of two horribly misused camps en route, the pleasant Outpost Camp at 10,367 or the awful, dusty wasteland of Trail Camp (12,000).

As you can tell, I was not wild about having the good feelings of the past three weeks affected by legions of people. But, the north end of the trip ends in the Yosemite Valley, which is visited by four million people a year, and the south terminus was here. Pick your poison, I guess.

The hike up the west side en route to the trail junction was beautiful, and though it rose more than 2,500 vertical feet, it took us just a few hours and gave us no trouble. From Guitar Lake, the trail climbs diagonally along a steep southwest shoulder of Whitney, eventually leading to some spectacular, winding switchbacks near the junction. At the 15,560' junction, the trail cuts north toward the summit.

At this point, the remainder of the climb covers just 1,000 vertical feet and under two miles, but we were now well above the highest point we'd been, and altitude was beginning to take its toll.

When we reached the junction, the packs of Team Bean were there, as they had gone ahead to the summit with just their water bottles. We also saw the dreaded horde of touristas, stretching out over the trail in both directions. After being in the company of only savvy, fit backpackers for so long, it was hard to take. Many of the people hiking to the summit had come only for the day, and were seriously feeling the altitude. There were as many people sitting on the edge of the trail gasping for breath as there were hiking!

The early part of the trail to the summit goes up and down through a series of spectacular rock formations, and there are three wonderful "keyhole" views of the Owens Valley to the east through gaps in the rock. From that point on, the trail quality progressively degrades, as it gets closer to the summit, finally dissolving into a mass of use trails on the final approach ridge. At the bottom of this ridge, the altitude hit me too, and I simply ran out of gas. The air was too thin, and was not getting enough oxygen in each breath to keep up a pace of more than a few steps at a time. Julian plunged ahead for the summit, while I sat down on a rock to compose myself.

Both of us had been having trouble sleeping at the higher elevations, as a persistent altitude buzz made us feel like we'd had a couple of double lattes before going to bed. I usually got through this problem by taking two or three aspirin, which for some reason makes that problem go away. I thought it might work again here, and took two tablets from our first aid kit. Bingo. Within five minutes, I felt like a teenager, and sprinted up the ridge to meet Julian at the summit overlook. He was quite surprised to see me, having left me for dead below a short time before.

When we reached the summit, there were easily fifty people there, all cluttered around the rock slabs that define the highest point on the ridge. Each party, among reaching the top, predictably produced still or video cameras and methodically took pictures of each person in the group, alone, and in various combinations with the other members of their party (we did the same thing). I was reminded of the busloads of Japanese tourists I used to often see do this in front of the Golden Gate bridge.

We still had a bit of instant chili and a lot of dried chilis, so in the shadow of a rock, we made a massive lunch - too massive, I think - then headed down. To complete Julian's documentary, we had also recorded some tributes to loves ones, orthopedists, etc.

Save for a few hundred feet of ups and downs on the trail below, we now had no more uphills to be climbed. It was Miller Time, and we headed for the parking lot . . . albeit 6,000 painful vertical feet and ten miles below us.

After the junction with the trail down to Guitar Lake, the trail climbs up and over the 13,620' Trail Crest and then begins a descent down the steep, rocky switchbacks on the east side of the ridge. There had been warnings along the trail about an extensive blasting project on this section of the trail, and we were given a firsthand look at the hard work involved in creating this part of the trail. A knee-wrenching 1,600 feet later, we arrived at the dusty, crowded Trail Camp, which is provided by the Park Service as a place to camp for many dozens of summit-bound travelers each night during the summer. It was the antithesis of where we'd been so we shuddered once or twice and kept on moving.

After two more hours of hiking down the stunning valley below Trail Camp, I arrived at the parking lot, having dashed ahead to try to meet Kate by the agreed upon time of 5:00. I arrived about 5:15, and she wasn't there yet, so I wandered up the road to the small store there to pony up $3.00 for my first Corona in over two weeks. Team Bean was still there, and we visited for a few minutes before their shuttle arrived to take them down to Lone Pine. Julian arrived several minutes later, in surprisingly good shape for the knee pain he'd been feeling on the descent. And then, within minutes, Kate, Diana and Rick drive up the road in a shiny new rental SUV, and we knew the trip had come to an end.

Photos: Kent and Julian on Top of the World, View North from Whitney and Trail Down Whitney

Day 18: Tyndall Frog Ponds to Guitar Lake

With just two days left, we were beginning to sense that our extraordinary trip was almost over. Our fantasies about cold beer, Mexican food and showers became more vivid, as did those about warm sleeping conditions, clean clothes and different footwear. We were, though, very much looking forward to this day of hiking, as it would allow us to return to two of our most favorite spots on the trail, Bighorn Plateau and Guitar Lake.

Team Bean, true to their regime, was up and out of camp by 7:00. They too were camping that night at Guitar Lake - a popular staging ground for those climbing Whitney from the west - and they promised to save us a campsite, as the lake can get quite crowded. We headed out a short while later, because we wanted to reach Bighorn Plateau while there was still morning light.

After a short, gradual climb over the shoulder of Tawny Point, we reached the plateau. Bighorn Plateau is a spectacular, barren expanse of sand and gravel, punctuated with age-old foxtail pines and lupine. To the east, the dominating hulk of the Whitney massif towers into the skyline, and far off to the west, across the Kern Canyon, stretch the many peaks of the Great Western Divide. Near the top of the plateau is a small, reflective lake, which was totally still when we arrived.

The features of this plateau - the views, the lake, the solitude, the sand and the sky combine to form a picture of perfection unlike any other we had seen, and this was far and away our most favorite place on the trail. We sat for a time high up on the sandy plain, and then meandered slowly through the impressive grove of foxtail pines leading down the trail.

This grove is like a natural museum. Foxtails, and their remarkable cousins, the bristlecones, are beautiful by their nature, and each tree is quite different from any other. As the trees grow, their bark splits to reveal a beautiful, yellowed wood underneath, which twists and bends as the tree ages, giving a sense of a tortured life in the rugged mountain environment. The tree retains this beauty as it dies, as it finally falls over onto the forest floor, and literally until the moment it is reclaimed as dust by the earth below. There are hundreds of such trees in the grove below Bighorn Plateau, and because each tree is so remarkable in its own right, it takes a long time to hike through this place - particularly if you have a camera.

For the next five miles, the trail hugs the west flank of Mt. Young, as it travels up and down through mature forest cover. It was dusty and fairly warm, but the trees helped, and we had an easy time of it. Somewhere in the middle of all this, we stopped for a rest, and met a variety of people passing us on the trail. The first of these was a couple - he from Willets (California) and she, from L.A. - who were making the popular, week-long trek between Keersarge Pass and Whitney. As a happy ending to an earlier story on the trip, she told us that the day before, she had graciously given her space blanket to a fellow in need on the trail. Space Blanket Man had gotten his wish, and was on his way to Mammoth.

The Egg Lady Cometh. We were still chuckling over how dreams can really come true in the Sierras when along came a well-dressed young woman carrying a dozen eggs. She looked like she had just come from the corner store, but the closest corner store required a twenty-five mile hike via Whitney's 13,620' Trail Crest. She politely endured our male -oriented snide remarks about whether this particular store had any cold beer left, and declined our various offers of Smartwool socks, breakfast mix and the like in exchange for enough eggs to make a nice omelet. It turned out that she was the backcountry ranger at Crabtree (at the base of the western side of Whitney), and had just picked up her food supply - delivered by helicopter - for the next few months. This was now September 2, and those twelve eggs had to last her until mid-October. Since we would be drinking cold beer and devouring large combo plates of Mexican food within forty-eight hours, we backed off.

Crabtree was just a few miles further on, and we then turned east and headed up the long valley leading to Guitar Lake.

The last time we were at Guitar Lake, we had arrived approximately fifteen minutes before a major rainstorm broke, and had erected our tent and boiled soup water just in time to jump inside before the deluge. We were delirious at having cheated the weather, and later had a fabulous walk along the water's edge after the storm passed. That was a magical day, with low, wispy clouds obscuring the mountain tops and the anticipation of bagging Whitney the next day. We had great memories of this place.

The Crabtree ranger had told us that the week before, there had been seventy-five people crammed into the sparse campsites at the lake, and we approached that day wondering how bad the crowds would be on this visit. To our surprise, as we crossed the last saddle before the lake, it wasn't that bad. Team Bean had saved us a nice camp on the north shore of the lake, and, a short while later, Birthday Girl and her mate arrived. We were happy we would be around the following day for her celebration.

Because the valley we were in was oriented east-west, rather than north-south, the sun stayed around much longer that day, and we all stayed outside talking for a long time. We were all energized by the anticipation of the next days climb, and paid little heed to the other thirty or so people who trickled into the basin as the evening wore on. Birthday Girl, on the last day of her fifty-ninth year spent over an hour doing yoga in the waning sunlight on the far side of the lake. She was a great lady, and if I am half that fit when I'm fifty-nine, I'll be thrilled.

Photos: Bighorn Plateau and Mt. Whitney from Bighorn Plateau

Day 17: Center Basin Creek to Tyndall Frog Ponds

Since we remembered Forester Pass as being quite difficult, we made a concerted effort to get out of bed and underway early. We drank a silent toast in the morning to the fact that, after today, we had just two more breakfasts of "that shit" to go.

As we packed, we noticed a disturbing change in the weather. It had been a perfectly clear day when we awoke, but as we looked to the west, a large, fast-moving band of dark clouds came into view, and by the time we were ready to go, they had nearly filled the sky. Remembering that Sierra thunderstorms don't usually get going until midday, we decided to bolt for the pass - which was 4.5 miles away - and hope to get over it before the storm broke. Before leaving, we woke up Ken and Mike, who had been sleeping, and suggested that they too might want to get going.

When Julian and I had crossed Forester Pass before, it was on the second day of a 50 mile trip between Keersarge Pass (near the Onion Valley trailhead) and Mt. Whitney. Before going over the pass, we had had only one night at altitude, and that was at Vidette Meadow (9,550). We had not really had sufficient time to acclimatize, were on the trail much later in the day, and certainly were not in the kind of shape we were in by that point on the JMT trip. Because of this combination of factors, it had been a real struggle to get to the top of the pass, and we were exhausted and gasping for breath by the time we got there.

What a difference it was this time around! In the cool morning air, with our now very light packs, we breezed up the trail that morning, and were surprised to see that, in our current perception of things, the trail to the summit was one of the best we'd seen on the trip. We also felt guilty having woken up Ken and Mike, as the front we'd seen approaching had now moved off to the north.

Space Blanket Man. About a quarter mile from the pass, we stopped to talk to a man who was on day two of a nine day blitzkrieg to Mammoth. To save weight, he was not carrying a sleeping bag or a tent, but had planned to wear his long underwear and raingear to bed, then wrap himself in a space blanket. Unfortunately, the space blanket had self destructed the day before, and he was now without a source of warmth. He optimistically predicted that someone would have a spare somewhere down the trail. Yeah, right . . .

We were at the pass by 11:00, and were barely breathing hard. Fitness is a wonderful thing, and I was now beginning to feel like Superman.

Forester Pass proper is a very narrow notch formed by the downslopes of 13,973' Mt. Stanford and 13,888' Junction Peak. From the north, the trail had risen quite gradually, through a basin of small, alpine lakes and talus slopes, but to the south, the trail drops away down a near-sheer precipice to a large, expansive plain with impressive views of the Great Western Divide away in the distance. The trail down the south side is an astounding feat of engineering, as the cliff face is so nearly vertical at that point. The switchbacks are stacked upon each other so close together that one can literally touch the head of someone below them on the trail, and at one point, I found myself reaching out to hold on to the rock wall, guardrail style, because the trail was so narrow and the drop below me, so severe.

At the bottom of the switchbacks, the trail levels out and begins a long, enjoyable stretch through the grassy plains below. It must have been market day for the local marmot population, as they were everywhere. It was also very windy out, making it colder than we would have preferred, but the remainder of our hike that day was an easy one, and we could relax and enjoy the scenery.

A few miles past the pass, we stopped for lunch in the wind shadow of a large rock, and enjoyed talking with the many people who came by us on the trail. We were starting to notice that many groups who had been on the trail at the same time as us were now starting to bunch up as we got closer to Whitney, and it was nice to swap stories with so many others who had done the same trip. It wasn't long before Ken and Mike came down the trail and stopped. They had heeded our warning about the storm to such an extent that they had not even had breakfast - they just packed and sprinted for the pass. They gave me the surprising news that a group of four from Maine were headed down the trail behind them.

After a few minutes, my fellow Mainers showed up. The group, all employees of L.L. Bean (of course), had traveled the trail in just two weeks, making an aggressive sixteen miles a day, getting up early, and carrying extremely light packs, per the dictum of their weightmeister Chris. They looked none the worse for wear, and we enjoyed a nice talk with them before they headed off down the trail in search of a warmer place for lunch. Julian immediately dubbed the group "Team Bean."

As with all travelers who make use of guidebooks (the weight-conscious Team Bean were only using pages of their guidebook), we often followed the suggestions of the guidebook author in deciding where to camp, how to travel etc. On this day, we had read in the book that the Tyndall Frog Ponds offered "warmish swimming," and made plans to spend the night there. The ponds were just over five miles from the pass, and we easily made it there by 4:00 - a short and painless day.

Now Thomas Winnett, who wrote an otherwise excellent guidebook, must have spent too much time in the mountains, because his standard of warmth and ours were entirely different. I was so in need of a warm swim that I had my boot off to test the water before we'd even found a campsite. I had great expectations, of course, and imagined something on the order of your average bathwater. Nope. It was cold to the touch, and being no great fan of frigid mountain water, I passed on the swim. Julian, who loves cold water, and who had swam every day on the trip, proclaimed it the coldest water he had experienced on the trail. Buy the book, but cross out the passage about "warmish" on page 44.

The Team Bean gang arrived a short while later and were similarly disappointed at the swimming conditions. After dinner, we stopped by their camp to chat, and enjoyed checking out their tent - a homemade tarp with mosquito net flaps that weighed two pounds and slept four. A large piece of Tyvek building wrap served as the floor. They had ridden out the three serious storms in it, and it had served them well over almost 200 miles of trail. Check out your Bean's catalog - maybe they'll sell 'em some day.

Photo: Forester Pass from the South

Day 16: Rae Lakes to Center Basin Creek

In the four previous days, we had, in quick succession, crossed Muir, Mather and Pinchot Passes, and had a reprieve only during our short hike to Rae Lakes. Now we were back at it, with Glen Pass confronting us today, and the formidable Forester Pass the day after.

Glen Pass (11,978') was a relatively easy affair, being just 3.5 miles and a climb of 1,300 feet away. After a cold night, we got on the trail at 8:15 and were at the pass by 10:00. Being early in the day, it was still very calm, and we enjoyed a long rest at the dramatic knife-edged ridge that forms the pass. The back side of the pass is sheer torture - as we recalled from our last hike in the area, and we were happy to be going down the dusty switchbacks instead of up. We spent the next two hours walking downhill - finally bottoming out some 2,500 vertical feet and five miles later at Vidette Meadow, where we stopped for lunch. It was hot in the valley there, and we spent out rest stop soaking in a cold spring that ran through the meadow.

Our goal for the night was a low-grade campsite (so said the book) at the crossing of Upper Basin Creek, and we were going there only for the purpose of positioning ourselves to get a head start toward the 13,200' Forester Pass. The last time through, we had come over the pass from Vidette Meadow, and remembered having a difficult time of it. By getting to the creek crossing, we would knock 1,000 vertical feet and three miles off of our climb, leaving an ascent for the morning of just 2,700 feet.

To our surprise, when we got to the crossing, there was a very nice camp available, with a broad, living room window-type view down the valley. In addition, our friends Ken and Mike were there camping, and it was nice to catch up, as we had not seen them since Julian passed them on the way down the trail from Pinchot Pass.

It was cold again that night, and we were once again in bed (in our raingear and every other stitch of warm anything) by 7:30.

Photos: Painted Lady over Upper Rae Lake; View South from Glen Pass

Day 15: Woods Creek Crossing to Rae Lakes

Thankfully, our efforts of the past few days had now placed us in a position where we could enjoy a short hike of just six miles up to Rae Lakes. Though it too was overcrowded at some times of the year, it is that way for good reason, being one of the most beautiful spots in the Sierras. As we were now in the weekend before Labor Day, most summer tourists had cleared out of the backcountry, and we had seen just one other party at Woods Creek. We properly suspected that there would not be too many people at the lakes.

We got a good nights sleep the night before in the relative warmth (about 35') at the lower elevation of the crossing (8,547'). Amazing as it may be, with all the hyperbole going around, we still had not seen or heard a bear anywhere in the backcountry on the trip. From this point forward there would be bear boxes at all of our camps.

The hike to Rae Lakes, though short, still involved a climb of 1,200 vertical feet up an exposed, dusty trail, and we were pretty tired by the time we reached camp at 11:30. True to our predictions, there were not many people at the lakes, but it was obvious that the place could be a real horrorshow in the middle of the summer - there were campsites everywhere! On the trail that day, we met a woman who had hiked the trail and would be celebrating her 60th birthday on top of Mt. Whitney (a.k.a. Birthday Girl). An inspiration to us all.

It was a sunny day, albeit quite windy, and we took advantage of our free afternoon to do some laundry - everything but one pair each of Smartwool socks, having learned our lesson at Evolution Valley.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, the very precise, perfectly coifed Rae Lakes backcountry ranger walked into our camp: "Hello, I'm Rick, and I'm your Rae Lakes Backcountry Ranger," he said. I've never met a backcountry ranger quite like him, and I was almost expecting him to hand me a wine list and tell me about the nightly specials. "Hi there, I'm Kent, and I'm your Rae Lakes camper," I replied. We used the occasion to tell him about our experience with Canteen Man up on Mather Pass. "Oh, that's John," he said rather matter of factly. It seemed that the rangers were monitoring John's progress through the range. He actually had a valid wilderness permit, and was intending to go from Keersarge Pass to Mammoth Mountain - about 110 miles. The latest update was that he was going out of the mountains at Bishop Pass to resupply - he was living on a steady diet of nothing more than white flour!

As the sun went down at Rae Lakes, the evening light put on a wonderful show as it reflected off the distinctive Painted Lady peak and Fin Dome, both of which tower over the lakes. Julian and I darted back and forth along our side of the lake to view the alpenglow from different vantage points and to try to capture the moment on both film and video. I also had some enjoyable moments playing my harmonica, as I used to play often but now only seem to ever break it out when I'm in the mountains.

Photos: Foxtail Pine on Trail to Rae Lakes; Fine Dome over Middle Rae Lake

Day 14: Upper Basin to Woods Creek Crossing

When we awoke at our ersatz campsite, I was pleasantly surprised to see that we were in truly one of the most beautiful places on the entire trip. The wide, wide basin was surrounded by jagged peaks of every imaginable color, and the rising morning sun illuminated the mountains to the west with a soft, warm glow. Our camp was at the junction of two small creeks, which flowed through a meadow covered with mosses and wildflowers. As I turned circles on top of a rock to take it all in, I reflected how these emergency campsites - like the ones at Palisades Creek and Evolution Basin - had turned out to be among the best on the trip. Dare to be different - camp off piste.

It had been very cold last night, and the tent was covered with ice. It was 20' when we awoke, and our morning ritual of waiting for the sun to hit us took longer than usual. We were on the trail at 8:15, and Julian's pack weighed at least three pounds more due to the weight of the soaked tent.

It was a testament to the value of our pre-trip conditioning that we were able to get up and go that day without any pain. The 13 miles of the day before (and 16 the day before that) would typically have caused me to wake up feeling extremely stiff and sore. As it was, we both hit the trail with nary a tingle. Julian's feet were also beginning to adapt to those boots (or the other way around), and he was feeling much better. My back pain had completely subsided.

The night before, we had not made it quite as far down the valley as we would have liked, so our first task was to descend to the bottom of the basin, then cross the growing Middle Fork of the Kings and head up the canyon leading to Pinchot Pass (12,130'). It was an easy morning hike, with the gold grasses and smallish trees of the Basin being nicely illuminated by the morning light.

We crossed the river, had a quick climb of about 600' though the woods, and emerged into a beautiful hanging meadow, which was surrounded by pretty alpine lakes. En route we met the father and son team (we had seen a lot of parent-child combos hiking the trail) of Ken and Mike, who were on a pace very similar to ours. We would leapfrog each other on the trail often during the final days of the trip..

The hike from our camp to the pass was only six miles, and, after an enjoyable hike up some gentle switchbacks, we were on top by noon. It was a great spot for lunch, which we enjoyed with Ken and Mike under very still, sunny conditions. It was rare to not have wind at a pass like this, and we were grateful for the opportunity to be able to spend a long time enjoying the scenery.

I hate to use this word again, but the seven-mile hike down the other side was interminable. I generally enjoy downhills, but the many thousands of feet we had descended over the past few days was taking its toll. My feet were sore, and feeling almost bruised, and my knees were complaining again. To make matters worse, the trail down along Woods Creek really wasn't that pretty, and there was a lot of flood and avalanche debris along the lower part of the valley.

Because of our "bankers lunch" on top of the pass, we didn't arrive at our goal, the crossing of Woods Creek, until almost dinnertime. This camp is best known for the nearby bridge that crosses the creek, which is commonly referred to as the "Golden Gate of the Sierras." The bridge itself is an incredibly long suspension bridge, similar in ways to that in the classic "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom." It is at least forty feet long, and was built in 1988 after an exasperated Park Service grew tired of replacing its predecessors. After seeing the mangled creekbed in the valley above (see photo), I could appreciate just how serious the flooding in this area could be.

This bridge brings out the kid in everyone, and we both enjoyed a few swings on it on the way across.

The camp at the Woods Creek Crossing is a regular stop on the near-famous Rae's Lake Loop, one of the more popular week-long backpack circuits on the west side of the range. Because of this, the campsite is quite overused, and the local backcountry ranger has found it necessary to post instructional signs about bears, sensitive plants and camping restrictions to keep the natives at bay. We were back in a tourist zone after a long time away, and I was saddened to be back so near to civilization. Both of us also felt a tinge of regret, as we had previously hiked the trail from this point on, meaning that the surprises were over.

Photos: Upper Basin - Morning Light; Upper Woods Creek