July 12, 2000—Day 66—Lake Tahoe, California—Duffy's Diary: We saw good old Meadow Ed in Kennedy Meadows and then again in Independence. The guy seems to turn up everywhere—we've now had three encounters with Ed, dating back to week two of our trail life. Ed doesn't actually hike much (he's quite robust around the middle), but he is skilled at getting to PCT way-stations and very good at dispensing advice. He was in fine pontification form at Kennedy Meadows, cautioning us about the High (Southern) Sierra: "It's where you find out who the [real] hikers are." This wasn't the first time we had been warned about foot travel through the lofty regions of THE Mountains.
If you average 20 miles a day before the High Sierra, you should expect to do 15, many said. Karen Berger urged against the folly of entering THE Mountains sans ice axe, and frightened us with tales of raging creek fords and nightly Bruin food patrol raids.
It turns out that the doomsayers were right...the mountain hiking was quite challenging. Even in an extremely low snow year (less than 15% of normal), with creeks and rivers well receded from their early snow melt levels, miles are just harder to cover in the High Sierra.
What makes progress so plodding?
Up to fifteen creek fords a day, each one presenting a choice. Do you:
- Trek through the water in your boots.
- Search the shore for a boulder or log crossing, almost all of which hold the potential for slippage.
- Stop, sit down, and exchange your boots for sandals.
- Plop down, grab something to eat, and take a break.
- Stare at the creek for a moment, say "to heck with it" and head back towards Mexico?
No matter what option you choose for any particular ford, you will inevitably end up with wet boots (I actually dropped mine in one creek before I even put my sandals on).
While creek fordings cause frequent dilemmas and delays, the elevation gains and high mountain passes wield their own set of slow-down weapons. Each hiking day through the Southern Sierra would treat us to a three- to four-thousand-foot ascent over a half-dozen miles, and then after a short rest at a panoramic apex, an extended descent down a snowy mountainside with little or no evidence of trail.
The first time we saw a significant patch of snow in the Sierra, on the North side of Forester Pass, I was relieved. I had become concerned that we might hike through THE Mountains without any snow travel, and that wouldn't be much of a tale to tell. But after another four 12,000-foot-plus passes (Glen, Pinochet, Mather, and Muir), my initial thirst for snow trudging had been more than quenched. Even on flat surfaces, the melting slush keeps your body in a perpetual state of lurch - to the side, forward, backward. If it weren't for the desperate stabs of my trekking poles, I would have been on my ass just about every few steps.
Other things make the High Sierra slow as well—the acclimatization to high altitude, the afternoon hail and rain storms, the morning freeze that keeps you curled beneath the covers, and the frequent stops to re-apply bug juice. There are over 130 species of mosquito in California, and many of them do seem to love these mountains (as well as my rich little capillaries).
It was all worth it, though. In a previous entry, Angela described the High Sierra and did so in such a way that requires no further verbiage on my part. "You haven't lived until you have been in the High Sierra," says our trail friend Ryan, and I won't dispute him. Let's all just thank our John Muirs that someone had the forethought to fight for the preservation of these mountains.
[MORE. . .]
Read the Pines' PCT numbers that matter.
Pacific Crest Trail
|
