Grandeur and Grit on the JMT (Pt.2)

“We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.”    
        —John Muir


The first stage of the trek had progressed rather well. We put in thirteen miles the very first day, and though it had us falling bone-weary into our sleeping bags that night—and wondering what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into—we were hiking strong on the climb to Forester Pass three days later. The supply rendezvous with our trail angels at Kearsarge Pass was accomplished without a hitch, so we now had food for the six-day march to Muir Trail Ranch. And it was essential that we reach MTR in six days because we had reservations to stay there on the night of July 27th, which included a bona fide bed in a rustic cabin, a hot shower and three square meals. Clearly we were motivated. But there were 72 miles and four high passes between us and those luxuries. We had our work cut out for us.

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Day 6: Dawn greets me when I crawl out of the tent. We have a set routine now. The alarm
rings at 5:30; we eat breakfast; break camp; hit the trail by 7:30. This morning’s objective is
to cross Glen Pass, which is only a mile away and 600 feet above us.  

Terry beams atop the knife-edge summit of Glen Pass (11,900 ft). Bolton and Lucy Brown, two of the most prolific Sierra mountaineers of the day, discovered it in 1899 and called it Blue Flower Pass after the fragrant sky pilots that blossom among the rocks here. The passage would be a valuable key for turning Theodore Solomons’ dream of a High Sierra trail into reality. For some unexplained reason, the pass was renamed Glen in 1905, named after Glen Crow, a forest ranger assisting a USGS survey team in the area. It just seems wrong to arbitrarily change the name of the pass, but moving on… Off in the far distance are the beautiful Rae Lakes, which is our direction of travel. 

The Rae Lakes gleam like topaz jewels in the afternoon sun. We took lunch along here,
relaxing in the shade of tall pines. These lakes are an angler’s paradise. 

This is the Woods Creek suspension bridge, another engineering marvel on this wilderness
journey. From Glen Pass it was 9½ miles down to here with a 3,500-foot elevation drop. 
We were tuckered out. But there was mileage yet to make up from the Kearsarge Pass 
resupply, so after taking a break to eat supper, we started up Woods Creek and hiked until 
nightfall.  

JULY 22nd—
We covered 12 miles today, not stopping until almost dark. The long descent from Glen Pass was more work than we anticipated. Maybe it’s because our packs are heavy again from the resupply? Plus my feet are giving me problems—it’s like playing Whack-a-Mole: Every time I patch a blister, another one pops up somewhere else. Furthermore I have way over-estimated how quickly we’d be able to hike the big downhill stretches, which is where I thought we’d make up those four miles we’re behind. Even after marching till frickin’ nightfall, we’re still around three miles short. Ugh. 

It’s official. My wife now has a trail name, bequeathed to her by yours truly. I have named her Trail Boss. It makes sense. From the very start, she’s the one who has asserted an aura of proficiency and kept us organized to perfection. She usually picks out the best angle to pitch the tent; has the best technique to fit all the food into the bear canisters; is always the first in the morning to be packed and ready to start hiking. I frequently find myself debating her on an opposing view for a task that needs attention, and in the end, her way is usually right. (As I’m writing this, Trail Boss is looking over my shoulder and interjects that she’s always right.) I don’t have a trail name: My sweetheart has not given me one yet—and you can’t choose your own. When I suggested Renaldo the Magnificent, she rolled her eyes. I know she’ll eventually come up with something. 

Day 7: Today is Ter's birthday. It frequently falls during summer vacation, but this year I wasn’t able to bring her gifts along (the Lamborghini wouldn’t fit in my backpack). I did give her a nice birthday card, though. And Bri gave her this Birthday Girl ribbon in Mammoth, which I had brought along to pin to her backpack today. But there was no sleeping in this morning: We had a six-mile grind up to Pinchot Pass to take on.    

A gaggle of backpackers lounge on Pinchot Pass (12,100 ft). Of the other 14 people here, half of them were British thru-hikers doing the JMT southbound with an American mountain guide. (This is, by far, the most people we saw in one place in the backcountry.) The pass was named after Gifford Pinchot, the first director of the U.S. Forest Service when it was created in 1905. Pinchot was an avid conservationist at the national level, though his philosophy differed from that of John Muir. Muir viewed the wilderness as God’s cathedral where one could venture and commune with Nature, while Pinchot saw it as a commodity that could serve multiple purposes if correctly managed and protected. This difference in viewpoint clashed mightily when the City of San Francisco proposed turning Hetch Hetchy Canyon (inside Yosemite Nat’l Park!) into a giant reservoir. Muir and the Sierra Club vehemently fought it. Pinchot sided with San Francisco. Congress approved it in 1913. 

Lake Marjorie on the north side of Pinchot Pass. As blue as blue can get. 

Terry rambles briskly down one of the easier sections of trail in an attempt to make up time. 
The faraway valley is the headwaters of the South Fork of the Kings River, which is where 
we're supposed to be camping tonight—if we were on schedule. And we’re not. We’re simply 
not hiking the downhills as quickly as I'd expected. Also of note: Bench Lake Ranger Station 
is near where this photo was taken, where exactly twenty years ago, backcountry ranger, 
Randy Morgenson, set off on a routine patrol and vanished. He was renowned for his 
experience (28 years) and knowledge of the Sierra Nevada's high country. For a good read, 
check out The Last Season by Eric Blehm. 

“Fear not to try the mountain passes. They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy.”       
        —John Muir

Another day, another pass. And today it’s Mather Pass (12,100 ft). The approach took all morning and we ran out of water, obliging us to stop here to pump enough for the final push to the top. The pass (in background) was named in honor of Stephen Mather, the first director of the National Park Service when it was created in 1916 (though the pass wouldn’t take his name until after his death in 1930). Like Forester, Mather Pass was undiscovered when construction began on the JMT.   

The obligatory selfie from the summit of Mather Pass. Yeah, baby! Note the tent pole sticking up in Trail Boss’s pack. I busted it last night while pitching the tent, peeving Trail Boss to no end. Also note our bright, cheery demeanor. This will soon change.

Heading down to the Palisade Lakes on north side of Mather Pass. The peak at right skyline 

is on the Palisades Crest, where four of the Sierra Nevada’s mighty Fourteeners reside (I’ve

climbed three on the Crest: Thunderbolt, North Palisade and Sill).

Terry stands atop the nefarious Golden Staircase—to which she renamed Staircase to Hell 
after descending it. Due to the super-rugged terrain, the 11-mile stretch from Mather Pass 
down to the Middle Fork of the Kings River was the last segment of the JMT to be built 
(completed in 1938). Much of it is steep and rocky, a real butt-kicker. Needless to say, we 
didn’t reach the Middle Fork of the Kings today. At sundown we made camp along Palisade 
Creek, far short of our goal.

JULY 24th—
There’s a pall of gloom over camp tonight. Trail Boss had a meltdown and wants to go home. Extra rations of whiskey were dispensed. Her right knee aches and needs to be iced—but no chance of that happening out here. The Golden Staircase really beat her up, coming at the end of a long day. But the biggest morale killer was the fact that, after all the sweat and blood shed today, we are no closer to getting back on schedule. In fact, I think we lost another mile. And thus we somberly ate our supper in the dark.  

We’ve been on the trail for eight days now. I figure we’ve got another 37 miles left to Muir Trail Ranch, and split over the remaining three days, it seems doable. But Trail Boss is not buying it. Her spirits have hit rock bottom. Even when I tell her there’s a good chance we’ll recover all the lost mileage tomorrow, she’s unfazed. But I’ve studied the map: Tomorrow’s terrain should be easier than anything we’ve done the past few days. Plus it’s mostly uphill hiking, which plays to our strength. If we can reach Starr Camp (11-12 miles), we’re golden; we're back on schedule. But if we don’t... then our chances of reaching MTR on the 27th are slim. I didn’t mention that last part to Trail Boss. But she knows. Like it or not, it comes down to what happens tomorrow. 

We’re happy campers the following morning when we reach Grouse Meadows, where the Middle Fork of the Kings River languidly meanders. At first light, we had roused ourselves out of bed, swiftly broke camp, blitzed the 3½ miles down to the Middle Fork (where I was stung by a bee) and upstream here to Grouse Meadows by ten o'clock. As I had predicted last night, the trail was a piece of cake. But even more significant, all that lay between us and Starr Camp now was seven miles and an elevation gain of 2,000 feet. 

The hike up LeConte Canyon, along the banks of the Middle Fork of the Kings, is truly spectacular. Big granite walls abound. This monolith is called the Citadel, which soars 3,400 feet above the canyon floor. There’s a Dave Nettle route on it called The Edge of Time (14 pitches, 5.10+) that ascends the monster arête above the snowfield. Sierra backcountry climbing at its finest. Also, to put into perspective the elevation differentials we’re dealing with on a day-to-day basis: Mather Pass—which we crossed over yesterday—is 400 feet higher than the summit of the Citadel.   

We made camp about a quarter-mile above Starr Camp at an elevation of 10,500 feet. FINALLY, after four days of trying, we are back on schedule—and we made it all up in one day. Both of us were elated. To celebrate, we indulged in a sunset revelry and finished off the whiskey. 

“The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies.”      
         —John Muir

Day 10: We wake up to a herd of deer grazing in camp. Curious creatures, they were—and 
no fear of humans. One of them was practically begging for a bite of my egg burrito. 

Terry ascends a snowfield on the approach to Muir Pass. This is the final pass between us and Muir Trail Ranch, and we’re fired up this morning to bag it. 

Two striking alpine lakes sit just below Muir Pass, named after John Muir’s children, Helen 
and Wanda. This is Helen Lake (11,600 ft), which is on the east side of the pass. On the west 
side lays Wanda Lake (11,400 ft).  

We’re on Muir Pass (12,000 ft) at 11:30, striking a pose on the steps of the Muir Hut. The pass was discovered in 1907 by George Davis, who was leading a USGS survey team in the area. In 1930, the Sierra Club constructed the John Muir Memorial Hut on the summit. It is built completely of stone that was gathered from the area, with the mortar, sand and water imported via pack mules. Total cost for labor and material came to $5,810 ($84k today), which was wholly paid for by Sierra Club member George Frederick Schwarz. Thank you, George.

Here’s an interior view of the Muir Hut, looking up at its unique, conical roof. San Francisco architect, Henry Gutterson, designed the structure, borrowing in part from the Agnes Vaille Shelter on Longs Peak in Colorado. 

And we’re just sitting down to eat lunch on the pass, and who comes striding up? Catherine! The last time we saw her was on Kearsarge Pass, where she was hiking out to spend a Zero Day with her parents in Independence. Now she has caught up with us. 

The afternoon was spent trekking down the incredibly awesome Evolution Basin, ambling 
along picturesque alpine lakes. This one is Evolution Lake, looking back the way we have 
come. Mount Solomons—named after Theodore Solomons—is the snow-streaked peak in 
the far distance on the skyline. Muir Pass is the low point on the skyline just left of the peak.

We’re dog tired when we roll into McClure Meadows and pitch camp on Evolution Creek. 
Feet hurt. Knees hurt. But the scenery is truly enthralling, sitting there watching the late-day 
sun play out on the meadows and high country while an angler casts for trout in the creek. 
Then I realize that I know that angler. It’s Walt!  We’ve been bumping into him and his 
girlfriend regularly since Forester Pass. 

We stop by Walt and Taylor’s camp after dinner for a short visit. They’re both students at Auburn University; drove all the way out here from Alabama to hike the JMT. They’ve never been to California before. They’re having an awesome time.   

JULY 26th—
We hiked 13 miles today, making camp at McClure Meadows. The ascent to Muir Pass went trouble-free. But the long trudge down to McClure hammered my feet and Trail Boss’s knees. Suffice to say we’re not moving spritely on the steep descents. However, we are now only 12 miles from MTR, and the trail tomorrow should be mostly gradual downhill. It was nice to see Walt & Taylor tonight. Like us, they’ll be heading to MTR tomorrow to pick up their resupply bucket, but not spending the night like we are. I’m looking forward to that soft bed and hot shower.    

The alarm goes off at five o'clock. We skip breakfast and start breaking camp. A doe grazes with her fawn in the meadow. It’s another cold, crisp morning with the promise of sunshine.

Taylor catches a ride across Evolution Creek on Walt’s back. As we stood on the bank and watched him ford the current, proving that chivalry is not dead (at least in the South), I turned to my wife and said “Nope, ain’t gonna happen.” Before crossing, Taylor had explained that she was battling bad blisters on her feet (like me) and had applied fresh Moleskin that morning (like me) and didn’t want to get them wet (like me). Which means my wife should be carrying my sorry butt across the creek. “Nope, ain’t gonna happen,” she said.  

Heavy timber lines the South Fork of the San Joaquin River on the final, seven-mile stretch 
down to Muir Trail Ranch. The trail is mellow. We’re making good time.

We arrived at Muir Trail Ranch mid-afternoon, checked into our cabin and decompressed. Words can’t describe how we felt exactly, but allow me to try: elated; numb; fatigued; grateful; dirty. Once settled in, we washed all our clothes at the outdoor laundry station (a hand-powered washer and wringer) and then took a lonnnng, hot shower. This rustic ranch is completely off the grid. Electricity is generated from an on-site hydro plant. Hot springs provide all the hot water needed. And since the nearest road is five miles away at Florence Lake, everything must be transported in by pack mules. They also straddle the halfway point on the JMT, and thus do quite well in the resupply business: You mail your food bucket to the Florence Lake post office, and they'll haul it up to the ranch on your arrival date. Our bucket had a special prize in it: Another fifth of Jameson’s Black Barrel Reserve.  :-)

We are a table of happy MTR guests who have just finished a scrumptious meal. This wasn’t chuck-wagon grub they served: This was a gourmet feast prepared by an incredible chef named Warren. Most of the two dozen ranch guests ate in the log cabin dining hall, but six of us sat outside under the pines. Sitting across from Ter, left to right, are Chuck and his wife Wendy from Santa Cruz, and Cole from San Diego. Sitting next to Ter is Portland Jim. Good times were had by all, and as the evening progressed, the topic gravitated to the inevitable bear story, because every backpacker has a bear encounter to share—except for Portland Jim, who sat and listened quietly. Chuck, being a retired NPS ranger, had the most and best tales about Ursus Americanus. All of these yarns put Portland Jim on edge, and later that night, after we had all turned in, he was awakened by people shouting and yelling outside his cabin. He was convinced that a bear was invading the compound, so he wedged his trekking poles against the door to barricade it shut and slept with one eye open. In the morning, we learned that the commotion was due to Chinese space junk entering the atmosphere at 17,000 MPH, creating quite a light show. We slept through it. But now Portland Jim has a bear story. Sort of.   

JULY 27th—
Traipsed into MTR at 3 P.M. today, bushed but ecstatic. We’re now halfway through the hike! Trail Boss is in high spirits, especially after taking a hot shower. Washed all our clothes, and then enjoyed a wonderful evening with new friends. The dinner was exquisite. We both dined wearing our rain shells, buck-naked underneath (all our clothes were on the clothesline drying). MTR is a funky, mountain paradise. Our only remorse is wishing we were staying two nights. 

We’ve been hiking for eleven days straight now—117 miles over eight passes. We are definitely feeling the strain; could use a Zero Day here to rest and not have to hike. But it ain’t gonna happen. In five days we have to be in Mammoth or we’ll lose our hotel reservation—though, even if we blew off the reservation, there’s no vacancy at MTR tomorrow anyway. So in the morning, after breakfast, we’ll pack up and say goodbye. But forget about all that. Right now, we’re relaxing in our cabin, feeling the glow of accomplishment. We read in bed. There are no worries, nor are we setting the alarm for the morning. For the first time in a while, we’re not thinking about tomorrow. Let it take care of itself. 

Continue on to PART 3