Ivabell Hot Springs to Red’s Meadow
Today is day 14, two full weeks. Does this mean we’re officially dirt bags? Officially hikertrash? Gosh I hope so.
We wake up to our first alarm of the trail. We know the climb to Red’s will be long, hot, and exposed, and we want to get on the trail as soon as possible. Plus, rumor has it that there are milkshakes at Red’s Meadow, and I would have woken up at 2am if you could promise me a milkshake. I would shank a donkey for a milkshake.
Today waking up to an alarm buys us another treat – more hot spring time. We venture to the closest spring and have it all to our selves this morning. I can feel my muscles unwinding in the hot water, my tendons lengthening. I’ve been trying to fight the onset of tendonitis in my calves and feet with nightly massages and it’s only partially working.
We breakfast on the old standby: crushed cheetos (#sponsoredbycheetos – I wish) and mountain house breakfast skillet. The food I’ve eaten on this trip could best be described and horrifying in it’s nutritional shortcomings. That and I’m really getting sick of these fucking eggs. But. Nothing to be done!
The first four miles of the trail descend along the creek to a bridge. More evidence of avalanche activity – root balls exposed, trees ripped from their homes and thrust into the trail. At the creek we tank up on water, chug some brondo (it’s what the body craves) and begin the climb. Getting out of the valley is easy. Slogging along six more miles through sand and ripe horse shit is exhausting. We’re pushing hard to Red’s. Not stopping for snacks, or water.
Along the way we pass two big groups and maybe three to four additional pairs of hikers. All are headed down to Ivabell Hot Springs. All are surprised when we tell them their the newest member in a disconnected conga line. Bless. We all think we’re so unique.
Suddenly up on a ridge we can see the back of Mammoth Mountain and then everything stops. We have LTE! this small precious connection to the outside world. Keith and I huddle and hard stare at our phones for 15 minutes. I send a message to my family just some light details and that we’re still alive and I’m thrilled that I get a text back quickly from my mom. It’s funny, we’re not really the type of family to call each other every day, sometimes not even every week but suddenly I miss them all terribly and start to cry a little while I group text them updates. Then quick as it came, we’re out of service again and we move on.
With less than a mile to go to Red’s Meadow we are blasted by tourist. They all smell amazing; clean like laundry and soft indoors things. I knew I’d smell on the trail, it’s hardly shocking when you consider we exercise all day, don’t bathe, and then sleep on the dirt. What I didn’t consider is that your nose never adjusts to your own oder. I know I smell as intensely as I know that these bright, scrubbed people don’t smell and I allow myself to linger here among the wafting scent of cleanliness.
Finally we’re at Red’s Meadow with the crowds and the food. Then, from nowhere it’s Phil! Phil is here! We thought he’d be a day behind us and now he’s here, what sorcery. We eat burgers and potato salad together and Phil tells us he’s done with the trail. We try earnestly to persuade him otherwise, create alternate plans that would give him lower milage days, invite him to hike out with us.
But in the end his heart isn’t in it, he misses home, his girlfriend. He says repeatedly that he didn’t know this hike would be so hard. “I just can’t handle another pass” he says. In the end he makes plans to get off the trail the following day. Once he’s decided I try to make him feel good about his choice. Thru hiking isn’t for everyone, and that’s ok.
After lunch Phil goes off to shower and call his girlfriend while Keith and I try to go nap – but mostly I end up petting a dog that’s tied up near by. I try and feel happy for Phil, he looks relieved to know he’s done. But I can’t really imagine making the same choice. Maybe because I (and by extension I assume Keith) knew this was going to be hard much if not most of the time. I end up on the opposite side of the spectrum from Phil. I love thru hiking. I’ve accepted that there will be 3,000 foot climbs that I’m not going to want to do, and that thru hiking isn’t some blissed out life, it’s more like a master class in accepting discomfort and letting go of attachment and anticipation.
We spend the afternoon relaxing, waiting for our stomachs to be hungry for food again. The tourists look angry as they wait in a long line for the shuttle that will take them back to Mammoth and their air conditioned hotel rooms. Is everybody this stressed out on vacation? A guy in army boots complains to his bro about his quads seizing up after a two mile hike, babies cry, girlfriends scowl, and uppity soccer dads give anyone who even thinks about cutting the bus line the stink eye. I try not to feel superior to these people and fail.
In the end we opt not to hike out tonight, and instead grab some adult beverages to supplement our burgers and milkshakes (!) and hang out with the dirtbags in the hiker campsite. Around the fire we talk about equestrians on the trail. And I’m surprised to find so many people who echo my feelings about equestrians on the trail. In short: We hate that they bring their big, stupid, non-native animals into the backcountry where they shit and piss on everything. We hate the the riders have no responsibility to pick up after their animals. And we hate that they look down their animals noses at us as we give them the right of way and they barely say thank you. If I could wave a magic wand and ban pack animals from the high sierras I would. Or at least force them to clean up after their big dumb pets like everybody else has to.
People trickle off to their tents in ones and in pairs. I’m in no rush, and I spend the evening chatting with a guy heading SoBo who has packed such an insane abundance of food that it’s comical. It’s barely past hiker midnight when the party breaks up. I snuggle down in my perfectly fluffy quilt, ear plugs in. Finally, sleep.