Category: Backpacking

Chief Lake to Ivabell Hot Springs

We wake late today. Partially due to not getting enough sleep while partying at VVR, and partially because we know that we have a pretty mellow day ahead of us. We’ll be hopping on the Fish Creek trail, an alternate that will take us to Ivabell Hot Springs where we plan to while away the afternoon soaking in the hot waters there.

After two miles on the JMT we merge onto the Fish Creek Trail which we’ll follow along the creek of the same name, up and over a small ridge, and down to the hot springs. We’re trying to rush today, but the heat is crushing us and we don’t move as quickly as we like. Still by 1pm we’re high on a ridge looking down into the hot springs. We can spot small collections of tents in the trees.

The ideal time to visit a hot spring in Southern California is not labor day weekend when droves of clued in, cool kids from LA and SF pour into the mountains  and their secret spots that, like, nobody knows about. Except everybody knows. Nothing to be done. By this point in the hike our schedule has shifted enough that the only way to avoid the inevitable crowds at the hot springs would be to not go at all. That’s clearly not an option for Keith, so here we are.

We drop down a series of tight switchbacks, through more evidence of the avalanches that ripped through these mountain valleys taking out trees the size of telephone poles in the process.

In camp, it’s oppressively hot. And all we can do is chase little patches of shade until the sun stops harassing us. We haven’t been this low in elevation since we started on the trail and now it’s apparent that the heat from the central valley is encroaching into the higher elevations.

At 6pm we hit the fulcrum of hunger and heat aversion and the temptation of food spurns us out of our respective shaded hiding places. Tonight is spaghetti and meat sauce and it’s amazing. I’m realizing that hiker hunger is starting to hit me, and I’m hungry much of the day. While I’m actively eating I start to think about what I want to buy in Red’s Meadow. Chips for sure, cheese, salami. Just nothing sweet. I didn’t think it was possible to get sick of chocolate, but that’s another thing I can add to the “Stuff Kara is Wrong About” list.

During dinner we chat with a girl who’s part of a large group from San Francisco up for the long weekend. She’s a transplant to Cali – just like everyone – by way of Oregon and Vermont. We talk thru hiking and the JMT. Keith and I share the story of a hiker we’ve only heard lore of called 100 Pounds.

From stories told round the camp fire we’ve learned that 100 Pounds is a SoBo PCT hiker who is training to hike the single year triple crown in 2018 (that is to complete the AT, PCT, and CDT in one year, that’s like 8,000 miles of hiking, it’s crazy town banana pants, but people do it). Apparently this cat got it in his head that the best way to do that would be to carry weeks worth of food at a time, instead of just 3-8 days like most hikers do, and then save time by rarely going into town. This is resoundingly the opposite of what nearly everyone else does. It’s amazing how some people can take all the collective knowledge of those who have come before and then decide to do something illogically backwards. God speed 100 Pounds, you’re gonna need it.

Once the sun sets we hike up the ridge into the gloaming light and settle in a hot spring, the water is perfect for just sitting, hours and days could pass sitting here.

Another hiker shows up and we have the repeat conversation that comes with meeting people who aren’t thru hikers. A girl asks if we’re sad to be almost done – six days left to be precise. I’m struck in the moment that I hadn’t considered this notion, to be sad the end of our trip is approaching. Intellectually I know we’re on the home stretch but mentally I feel like I could stay out here forever.

We watch the sun set over the valley, through the smoke. There is no golden hour during fire season, the smoke suspended in the air leads to a permanent feeling of the sun almost setting. The stars pop out, just a few, their siblings muted behind the smoke and bats swoop over the water, catching bugs, pulling airborne acrobatics. Tee hee actrobatics.

VVR to Chief Lake

 

 

 

 

Bear Creek to Vermillion Valley Resort (VVR)

Just Before MTR to Bear Creek

When I wake up it feels early, but when I get out of the tent to baño I realize that half the people camped near us are already gone. Womp womp, last out of camp again.

Our day today starts with a climb up Selden pass, and it’s a real bitch. It’s hot down here at this lower elevation and humid with trees still dripping from yesterdays rain. Early into the climb we pass a couple of hikers fresh off their resupply at MTR.* This means they have rested legs and heavy packs. They are no match for our light packs and we pull ahead of them and soon they’re out of sight.

* MTR or Muir Trail Ranch is a privately owned backcountry outpost known for charging a lot of money to stay in their cabins, and generally being unwelcoming jerks to thru hikers who aren’t staying there. You can mail yourself a resupply there, but the general consensus is that it’s not worth it.

We spend the entire morning climbing up Selden, Keith making puns behind me “I’ve Selden seen anything so beautiful.” I groan. I’m dripping sweat and the occasional breath of a passing breeze is all that keeps me going. Thru hiking is all about taking pleasure in the little things and every time a breeze blows past both Keith and I stop and sigh with pleasure. Then the breeze is gone and we’re still hiking up.

The top of Selden Pass is like something out of a movie. That movie is probably Avatar – remember when they go to the planet of the blue people and everything is really gorgeous and there are plants everywhere? I read somewhere that they modeled that planet off of the Japanese hanging garden. So really I should have said the top of Selden Pass is like a Japanese hanging garden. Water pours seemingly from nowhere, from between the rocks, and down across the trail. The world is so green here with hundreds of little wild flowers speckling the hills in a riot of color. We’ve been so high lately we haven’t had the chance to see many wild flowers and now they’re here in full force, their brightness is startling and wonderful.

Once we crest the top of Selden Pass we can see Marie Lakes sprawling out below us. It strikes me now – in a way that names on a map never do -that we were at these exact same lakes almost a year ago! Except then it was closer to sunset and the reflection on the water was so beautiful that it literally made me weep which, I didn’t know was something that people actually did until I became one of them. Today the lakes aren’t quite the same, cooly reflecting big puffy clouds against their calm waters.

Keith wants to take a break at the lake to – no surprise here – fish! I’m game to sit around and stretch my legs which are tight from our long day yesterday and my knee is still complaining at me. Unfortunately for both of us, and fortunately for the fish, it’s mid-day and there are no little fishies to be seen, so we continue on. Down towards Bear Creek, passing the campsite we stayed at a year ago when Keith and I were up here tackling a loop over Italy Pass. Memories! I think I could hike through the Sierras and never know them entirely. But then, I’d miss so many other wonderful things. I guess that’s your choice in life, to know a few things intimately or many things only a little. I’ve always chosen the later.

At the bottom of the descent we know we’re going to have to ford Bear Creek. Before the ford a group of giggly girls tells us we’ll have to put our water shoes on to cross the creek. We just smile and shake our heads, this confuses them but they hike on in their heavy leather hiking boots and heavy water shoes.

With our trail runners on we simply walk across the creek – causing a minor scandal amongst another group of hikers on the far side who feel the need to ask us “don’t your feet get wet?:” I stare at them unsure how to answer. The water is above my knees, of course my feet are wet you walnut! But I don’t say that aloud, just “trail runners drain water really well.” I can’t tell they don’t believe me, and they can probably tell I don’t give a fuck about what they think.

We hike on and I ponder all the weird judgement there is around thru hiking. Keith and I don’t carry water shoes because they’re too heavy and we’ve decided that we can do without. Conversely people are constantly mentioning, critiquing would be a more accurate word, our small packs. As thought we couldn’t possibly be happy/comfortable/safe with so little gear. And yet here I am judging those girls for having heavy packs and big hiking boots. Maybe all backpackers are hyper competitive assholes and that’s why we all spend so much time alone in nature. Yeah, that hit’s close to home.

The afternoon is spent hiking along Bear Creek, or as I’ve decided to call it The Creek of Many Faces. The waters are always changing, merging, spilling over rocks in new and exciting ways! Oh mama nature, may I never understand you.

The trail along the creek is lovely and relatively flat for a change, wet from rain we didn’t see, keeping the dust at bay. We’re aiming for a big campground where we hope to camp with some of our fellow JMTers. But when we get there it’s completely empty and nothing is as it should be. Assuming it’s GPS error we hike on and a quarter mile later come along another, smaller, less nice campground and it’s filled to capacity. No Fitz, no Limpy Perkins, just a chubby man camped too close to the water who makes a useless comment as we back track to the bigger, emptier campground.

Back at the correct – but empty – site we make to set up camp and Keith hangs up his hammock, waiting to gloat at the next hiker who comes by. This of course means that nobody hikes past our campground for the rest of the day.

Dinner tonight is bean and cheese burritos – sans tortillas because we forgot to pack them. Perhaps a better name would be bean and cheese burrito soup. It’s still one of my favorites.

Night falls and with it comes the stars. We opt not to cowboy camp because rain is in the forecast. Tomorrow is a town day and we’re both stoked. Showers! Salads! Beer! I try not let myself fall into the trap of constructing elaborate fantasies of the perfect resupply stop, knowing that it will never live up and I’ll only be disappointed. Finally, sleep.

Upper Le Conte Canyon to near Muir Trail Ranch

Today, for once, we’re up early and on the trail quickly.

Keith is a non-competitive, anti-sports, band kid who grew up to be an engineer and as a result he’s a pretty mellow person. But occasionally he’ll get this weird competitive drive and today that drive is directed at one thing: beating Limpy Perkins to the summit of Muir Pass. Maybe his ego is a little bruised from being repeatedly passed by a hiker with an injury? Or maybe he just wants a win today? Whatever the reason I’m happy to go along with it and hopefully be able to make some miles before it gets too hot.

Even at 11,000 feet it’s warm this morning and we’re hiking in just shorts and t-shirts. Later we’ll learn that all of Southern California is in the middle of a heat wave, but in the moment I’m just glad it’s not freezing up here.

The approach to Muir pass is officially my favorite climb so far. The trail follows a creek that tumbles down the mountain in a series of short waterfalls linking bright lakes which glitter cheerfully as we pass. Soon we’re winding our way across gentle snow fields, already warm and slushy in the early sunlight. This is definitely type one fun, easy adventure, beautifully calm, and before long we’re cresting the pass and are greeted by the Muir Trail Hut. Hello cute little hut with your irregular walls!

Inside the hut we meet Fitz! He’s another hiker that we’ve been leapfrogging for a few days now, and whom I already dislike a little because we saw him camping behind a clear “no camping sign.” Luckily for Fitz he’s pleasant to talk to and entertains us with details about his MYTH (Multi-Year Thru Hike) of the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail). This basically means that Fitz started his hike of the PCT at the boarder of Mexico and hikes as much as he can in a two week span each year before going home. At this rate it will take him about 10-11 years to complete the entire trail.

While we snack and chat with Fitz a group of older hikers gather outside the hut and talk about “back in my day” and “how the hut used to be.” From their conversation I can gather that the hut is basically the same, perhaps a little better cared for now, and that hiking stories, like fishing stories, only get more outlandish and embellished with time. Before I know it the group is departing down the pass without so much as having stepped in the hut! Is that weird? I think it’s weird.

Fitz heads out shortly after the group, and after a little while Keith and I follow suit.

The north side of Muir pass is a gradual descent past a handful of alpine lakes. So blue contrasted with the glittering white of the snow and solemn grey of the granite peaks. While I stop and tape a hot spot on my foot I am passed by Limpy Perkins. There she is! I know she’ll soon pass Keith, and that he’ll be happy that we at least met our/his goal of beating her to the pass.

When I catch up to Keith I can tell he’s excited to tell me about a plan he’s hatched. “What if” he starts “we hiked all the way down to the San Joaquin River today?”

“Yeah?” I respond lamely. Admittedly I don’t really even know what that would even mean for our hike. More miles? Less miles? Good? Snacks?

We settle on snacks while Keith bulls on undeterred by my unenthusiastic confusion. Hiking down to the San Joaquin river would mean combining two days into one, doing close to 20 miles of hiking, and getting into our resupply at VVR one day sooner. Since we’ll be descending for much of  today this is probably the easiest big day opportunity we’ll have.

I’m in! I’m so so in. I start preparing for Big Hiking. We sit down to wolf calories, and I mix two coffee packets into some cold water and chug that which tastes terrible but I’m just here for the caffeine and calories. If I wanted to eat delicious food every day I wouldn’t backpack.

The first mile I have this weird anxiety about hiking this far. My legs have been really tight today and I’m nervous I won’t be able to make it all the way to camp. Conversely I really want to get to our resupply faster so I can stop rationing food. Eventually the calories kick in and the caffeine anxiety ebbs and my legs churn into high gear. The earth passing below my feet.

We wind down into a deep green valley where we are shaded by thick pine trees. This is another blessing as we’re both running low on sunscreen. All afternoon we traverse through bare sections where  avalanches ripped through during the winter. Even in August there are clear signs of the crazy snow year that the Sierras had.

The afternoon is punctuated by little breaks to snack and stretch. Never sitting too long lest our legs tighten up and we have to go through the entire process of warming up all over again. Halfway through the day the rain begins and we don our gear and keep moving. All around us little tents pop up like brightly colored mushrooms in the trees.

We’re getting close to our campground now. A few miles left, two miles left. Stopping to chat with an elated SoBo JMT hiker who tells us about how he scored big at MTR by raiding the hiker box for his resupply. One more mile to go and there are campgrounds everywhere.

Finally at the bridge, at the river, our big day is done! Except it’s not.

The one tiny campsite at the bridge over the San Joaquin is taken by a woman whom I’m sure is a lovely person but in the moment I kind of hate her.

Luckily for us there are several tributaries that we’ll cross in the next mile.

Unluckily for us, all these creeks are dry, and so we just keep hiking and hiking into the gloaming. The sun does a pink and orange sherbet light show above us, and we talk about how we’re both so grateful to be out here. Hiking late isn’t so bad when there are great sunsets to look at.

When we finally get to a viable campground we see 7 or more tents glowing in the dark. And Fitz is here! It would seem we were not the only people to miss the last chance to get water, and now we’re all down here gathered together.

As the last people in camp we sit around eating potato soup by the red light of our headlamps while all around us the other hikers get ready for bed. One by one the glowing tents turn into dark tents as headlamps are clicked off until it’s just the two of us silently slurping soup.

We go to sleep against the white noise of the river rushing past our tent.

Palisades Lake to upper Le Conte Canyon

One full week on the trail. In planning, I never really imagined what this would feel like. I knew where we’d be, but only in vague terms and locations on a map. Palisades lake was just another day on the trail, someplace I’d never been, and something less important than figuring out the million little details that come with planning a thru hike.

But what it feels like in the moment is something all together different.

Trail life is so remarkably easier in some ways than what Keith and I have started to refer to as “the real world.” Since we’ve left I’ve read no e-mails, social media is irrelevant, I haven’t had to put gas in my car, and the only social interactions I’ve had are either incredibly brief, or are with the one human who I like spending most of my time with anyway.

Conversely, it takes 5-10 minutes of waddling around camp every morning before the tendons in my legs and feet warm up enough for me to walk comfortably, and already I’m starting to fantasize about what types of foods I’m going to eat once we get into town. Mostly I want things like salad, grilled chicken, fresh strawberries. Anything, really, that hasn’t been dehydrated and vacuumed into a plastic bag. But we still have four days including today before we have any option to get fresh anything, so I ignore my salad cravings and try not to eat too many of my M&M’s for breakfast.

We start our day walking into the lush green valley that we can see spread out below our campsite. The novel thing about today is that there will be no passes to climb. We’ll simply walk on calm, flat, mellow, nicely graded trails that are soft! The kind of sigh-inducing soft of fallen pine needles and dirt, the kind of soft that I didn’t know I wanted until I spend the previous six days walking almost entirely on granite.

I know that after this trip is all said and done people will ask me how it was. And even only seven days in I have no idea what I’m going to say. The truth about thru hiking, and backpacking more broadly, is that you’re in some moderate form of discomfort all of the time. Too cold, too hot, runny nose, itchy, sore, hungry, bloated, chafe, thirsty, tired and a hundred more feelings. And then it’s hard you guys. Climbing up mountains is hard, down is hard, exercising every day for 6-10 hours is just as hard as I thought it was going to be. I knew all of this was going to happen, and yet I cannot stop from remarking on it. The low-level suffering of a thru hike is remarkable.

These are the things I think about as I drift through the forest today following the little brown path that will lead me all the way to Yosemite.

Our day is punctuated with snack and water breaks, the last one coming at the Le Conte ranger station where we eat snickers bars while sitting in wooden chairs. Maybe that’s a better illustration of what thru hiking is like: sitting in an unpadded wooden chair will be the most comfortable I am all day until I get to roll onto my glorious sleeping pad, surrounded by my ultra fluffy down quilt and sleep. Thru hiking is the least glamorous, most romantic thing I’ve ever done, and I’m totally in love with it.

My revery at Le Conte is interrupted when several weekend hikers come by to ask if we are the ranger (we’re not), if we know where the ranger is (we don’t), and if we knew why the helicopters were circling this area yesterday and today (again, we don’t). I can sense they’re disappointed in our lack of knowledge, and more disappointed when we can’t get properly excited about the idea of a rescue taking place near by. Shortly after the weekend hikers depart so do we.

Later Keith will tell me that he resents people like that. Only interested when things go wrong, wanting to know the intimate details of some strangers bad day, curious without the ability to be helpful. I have to agree with him.

The sun is dipping behind the ridge of the valley we’re walking through and I know we must be getting close to camp. The problem is that each campsite we pass is full of people, or it’s not really a campsite at all – set up too close to water or the trail. We keep climbing up towards Muir pass, frustrated at others for camping where they so clearly shouldn’t. Frustrated at myself for holding myself to a high standard, why can’t I just be a jerk who ignores the rules like everyone else? But then, where would I garner my elevated sense of superiority from? We keep hiking.

The trees are gone, and now it’s only rocks and uneven patches of dirt as the sun begins to set in earnest. We’re starting to get frustrated when we pass another hiker: It’s Limpy Perkins!

Limpy was a girl we met on our second day, and whom we’ve been leapfrogging ever sense. She told us earlier that she’d injured her achilles tendon (hence Limpy) and was considering getting off the trail at her next available opportunity in a few days (but she’s just so damn cheerful – hence Perkins). Now we see that she’s lost her trekking poles, and has had to erect her tent using a big stick. I feel bad for her, but her camp spot is barely big enough for one tent, and so we march on. Goodbye potential trail friend!

Finally we find a spot atop a big flat rock and set up camp. Technically we’re a little too close to the trail, but at this point we are so close to the pass that we don’t want to keep hiking, and it’s unlikely that we’ll see another person come through this late.

As we’re getting ready for dinner we see our first SoBo PCT hiker! So much for no more hikers coming through.

Marjory Lake to Palisades Lakes

In our rush to get up and over Pinchot pass last night I had forgotten to mention to Keith that I’d been carrying three extra breakfasts for him. But at breakfast today I certainly remember and am not terribly gracious when I point out this fact. The whole “Extra Breakfast Kerfuffle of 2017” isn’t his fault, it’s not really anyones fault, it’s just a mistake. But that doesn’t keep me from being an unnecessary jerk about the whole thing and huffing out of camp. Smooth move, Kieffer.

I hammer down the trails this morning, carelessly crossing a creek and as a result foregoing any chance I had to keep my feet dry today. I don’t stop hiking until I’m well into the forest a few miles from camp. At which point I’m forced to confront that I’m being an asshole to Keith over a mistake that I made, and that if I keep this pace up I’ll leave him in the dust which isn’t really cool since the permit has my name on it and we need to stick together. So I put my big girl under-roos on, park myself on a rock, and promptly apologize to Keith when he arrives. Adulting! I’m learning!

The rest of the morning we descend down into the deep forest that grows along the South Fork of the Kings River. There is so much oxygen down here! And it’s so much warmer! And today we’ll cross our first ever official JMT foot bridge. Which, I recognize sounds really lame, but it’s actually really cool since it’s a suspension bridge, far sketchier than I thought it would be, and feels vaguely like a Disney ride in that it’s probably safe but there is really no evidence of that.

Climbing alongside the Kings River is like walking through a natural water park. The bright aquamarine water spills through slot canyons pouring white into round pools carved by eons of continuous water flow. The trail stays far above the water to give you an excellent view of this natural show. This also makes it impossible to get water from the river, as one slip down the steep banks would end in being swept down stream and like 50/50 odds of dying. Even though it’s late in the season, the unusually high snow year means that the rivers are still flowing high and fast.

By the time we finally find a tributary stream we can gather water at, we’re both well and fully bonked, and disappointed in how little milage we’ve covered. We take our break alongside a perfect little mountain creek in the company of a group of hikers my parents age.

One woman is talking about her dislike of Trump and her corresponding liberal political views, which results in the kind of long gaping conversation pauses indicative of people who don’t want to talk politics in nature. I both understand and resent her hiking partners for taking the silent approach. It’s hard to see affluent older white men who are so uncomfortable speaking up about politics, or perhaps even secretly approving of our president that they opt for silence instead of trying to engage and understand conflicting view points. Or perhaps they are so cowardly about their own beliefs that they’re uncomfortable speaking about them. Either way, I’m glad when they all pack up and move on, and after a while we do the same.

The rest of the long climb to the pass Keith entertains us with his never ending litany of puns. I think if he could, Keith would speak in nothing but puns, luckily for all of us he’s never managed to figure that out. Today’s offerings revolve around the fact that Mather sounds a lot like rather – and you can probably see where this is going, but by half way up the pass we’re laughing and trying not to asphyxiate in the thin air while we dream up 80’s style photoshoots for the pass, all of which will be captioned with the phrase “there’s no place I’d Mather be.” Actually, I’m not sure that any sane person would view that as the logical outcome of such a terrible pun. But maybe those sane people don’t use all their vacation days to go exercise in nature for thee weeks either.

By the time we’re actually on the pass we’ve lost much of our photoshoot-mojo. This, combined with the presence of a handful of lady hikers means that we only take about three pictures before our self consciousness get’s the better of us. Just before we leave to descend there is the Sacred Exchanging of Beta, a vital ritual that happens when you get a chance to talk with people who have just left the area you’re about to enter. We tell them they’ll have no snow until the south side of Pinchot pass, which is largely mellow and uneventful. Then they tell us that we’re heading towards a sketchy snow patch on the north side of Mather, but that there is a well marked rock scramble around it and you’d be an idiot to cross the snow where the trail is.

As if to illustrate this point a man summits the pass, he’s sporting several bright spots of road (snow) rash from falling on the snow because he decided to attempt to cross where the trail was, lost his footing and slid/fell. This is exactly my fear and 100% not an experience I’m looking to emulate. It’s quickly apparent that he’s mostly fine, if not a little shaken, and we depart the pass being since we are able to offer no additional help than another pair of staring eyes.

The rock scramble on the descent is fine. The snow crossing is clearly a bad choice – as evidenced by the absence of any foot prints aside from falling guy. In general getting down Mather is so relaxed and the detours so logical that I’m actually a little mad at the Aussies for scaring the crap out of us two days earlier. Keith wisely points out that maybe taking snow crossing advice from people who live in a country almost completely without snow is in poor form. Add to that the rogue, 70lb unpredictable animal that is hiking with a child, and you can see how almost any snow crossing would be sketchy. Lesson learned.

We’re camped along Palisade Lake for the night, and while I set up the tent Keith goes to filter water and then yes, fish. I relax in the tent and read until the failing light forces me out of my warm cocoon to call Keith in for dinner. Tonight he has caught one – barely big enough to bother eating – fish. A trout of some sort which I promptly name Trevor, and then promptly regret giving our dinner a name.

A little backstory, dear reader. Before we left for the JMT Keith and I made a deal that if he caught a fish worth eating, and killed it, I’d do the dirty work of gutting, cleaning, and filleting it. Honestly, when I agreed to this, I thought he’d never catch a fish let alone one that’s big enough to eat. But a deal is a deal and that’s how I found myself squatting next to a creek, in the near dark, gutting a fish with a Swiss Army Knife grateful for the fish gutting PDF that Keith made me download. In the end, dispatching of Trevor’s entrails is not as gross as I thought it would be, and if you’re going to eat meat I think you have to be willing to know where your food comes from and what it’s like to butcher it. And what it’s like really isn’s so bad once you’ve cut the head off and it’s stopped staring at you.

Then, sleep. Next to a beautiful lake that reminds me of all the incredible things we’ve seen on this trail, and which I’ll almost certainly be unable to fully capture with words.

Lower Rae Lakes to Marjory Lake

I’m pretty sure today is officially the longest I’ve ever been on a backpacking trip. From today until the end, each day is both metaphorically, and literally new territory.

Today we will climb all day long, before dropping down just a little bit to our campground for the night. Though our morning campsite is lovely, and today is bound to be long and hard, I’m ready to get on the trail. This is largely because our camp mates are loud and annoying in the special way that only frat boys can be, and I have zero desire to spend more time around them than is purely necessary.

The first half of the day is spent ascending through trees, and as a result I take almost no pictures. I’ve never quite figured out to take a nice picture of the forest on an iPhone, how to capture that soft light that filters through the trees and illuminates everything. Somehow, when photographed, that same light looks dull and flat and I always end up deleting the pictures.

We take our lunch break at Twin Lakes which rests right at the edge of tree line, backed by steep granite cliffs. Keith bounds around the lake, his recent success with fishing has kindled some sort of dormant hunter gatherer instinct and he’s itching to put his new found skills to the test.

My first priority of the day is washing my hair which has grown increasingly gross, oily, and itchy. Unfortunately the only real option is to dump cold, non-soapy lake water on my head again and again until I feel somewhat clean. So that’s what I do, it’s a sensation somewhere between refreshing and brain freeze. After I sit in the sun, snacking and listening to podcasts when I come to the realization that I’ve been carrying three of Keith’s breakfasts. Well damn. I’ve been worrying that I’ll run out of food, and now it’s almost certain that I will. This was such a big conversation between Keith and I before we started. How much food was too much, how much is too little and un safe, why does food weigh so damn much? On and on until we settled on about 1.5lbs of food per person per day. It all feels impossible to know and even after all our stressing I apparently wasn’t that attentive while packing. At least my pack is a little lighter now.

The wind is picking up, and the sun is getting lower in the sky, urging us to make miles before we’re stuck hiking in the dark. The benefit is that the climb towards Pinchot pass  is bathed in the most wonderful afternoon light that spills over the rolling hills of dry grass and rock outcroppings.

Conversation is sparse. So it’s time for podcasts! I listen to the delightful Nicole Antoinette interview Oiselle’s Sally Bergsen where I find myself nodding along vigorously with all their smart insights. Sally talks about the power of feminism in business, being the underdog, and building a brand. After Sally I listen to a podcast about a guy riding his bike across America which randomly brings me to tears. It’s not even that good of an episode, but here I am in some sort of emotional quagmire that I cannot understand. I’m not usually one to cry, stoic to a fault, but here I hike on the side of a 12,000ft pass with my face dripping. Hiking long distances does weird things to your emotions it would seem.

At the summit of the pass we meet an awesome couple! They’re our age, really nice, and only later do I realize that my social skills have gone to crap in five short days and I have yet again forgotten to ask what people’s names are. Regardless, they’re going on a different trip that us. Potential new friends turn back into strangers as we depart the top of Pinchot pass in opposite directions.

For the first time since we started this trip we’re camping alone. Blissful solitude! Being able to pee without worrying about strangers looking at your butt! No hiker bro’s yell-talking after dark! Our only neighbors are an older couple camped a few hundred meters away who crawl into their tents before the sun has even set, leaving us alone to watch the sun set over the lake: laughing and talking about farts and our complete degradation of etiquette.

Bubbs Creek to Lower Rae Lakes

It’s so nice to wake up without an alarm clock, something I haven’t done in what feels like years. Keith is still snoozing, and so I attempt to extract myself from our tent as quietly as possible so that I can start morning chores – poo, gather water, make coffee and watch the sun fill the valley we’re camped in. Somewhere in there I wash my hands, promise. While I’m gathering water a doe walks within 50 feet of me, getting her early morning drink from the creek. I feel special to be sharing this little bit of creek bank with a wild creature – meanwhile the busy campsite above us is filled with the clanking of titanium pots boiling water for oatmeal, and the hiss of sleeping pads being deflated.

In the early morning light I can see that Keith and I are definitely the youngest people here, by at least 15 years. One couple looks older than my parents. I hope to still be exploring these wild places when I’m in my 70’s.

With only 10 miles on the agenda for the day we spend the morning dicking around in camp. Keith fishes in the creek and actually manages to catch a few fish! They’re too small to eat, but I frankly didn’t think he’d catch anything on his $10 fly fishing rod, so he’s already far exceeded my expectations.

We’re on the trail by 9:30am and today is the first day that I don’t feel 100% stoked to be out there. My legs are tired I’m feeling slow and stumbly as we descend along the creek. However, once we start our ascent towards Glenn Pass the endorphins kick in and I’m feeling good. Woo, body drugs!

A little into our climb we pass our first NoBo hiker! We haven’t seen anyone else going our direction, and we’d started to feel like the only ones. He says he’s struggling on the climb, and we agree – it’s hot today and the climb is steep. Unfortunately for our new found friend our struggle pace is faster than his struggle pace and so we hike on knowing that we’ll probably never see him again.

Glenn Pass also feels like a struggle because there are so many people descending past us, so we’re always playing the step aside, you go, no you go game with strangers who all look vaguely familiar. I tell Keith that we must have missed the thru hiker uniform memo – carrying a massive backpack, dressed live Steve Irwin raided an REI, and being a white 40 something dude. All day we pass guys who look like REI or LL Bean catalogue models and it’s really weird. It’s times like these when the white, hetero-normative, bro-y nature of our outdoor spaces is really obvious. Over the course of the next two weeks I’ll calculate that only about 30% of the people out here are women, and that about 10% of people are anything other than white. I don’t know how we fix those statistics, but we need to.

The top of Glenn Pass is barely big enough for more than a few people to gather at a time, so we get our picture made and then start to scurry down the back side. There is another snow crossing that I’m less than thrilled about, but at least I keep the water works at bay.

About 100 meters below the saddle we meet an Australian couple hiking the JMT with their young daughter. They’re pretty freaked out and want all the beta we can give them on Forester Pass – how much snow exactly, how close to the top, what about the south side, etc etc. We answer with an odd combo of honesty and assurance which we can see isn’t doing much to assuage their fears. They then tell us that both Muir and Mather passes have super sketchy snow crossings and that you definitely want to cross them in the morning*, but when Keith asks why they have no good reasoning.

* Note: this is objectively terrible advice. If you have to navigate a snow crossing, the best time is early to mid afternoon when the snow is soft and it’s easier to self arrest on if you take a fall.

The last three miles of the day I’m bonking – hard. But we’re so close to camp that I really don’t want to stop to deal with eating. Plus, I’m starting to get the creeping sensation that I haven’t packed enough food.

Rae Lakes welcomes us with a big, slow moving, ford where the surprisingly warm water comes above my knees. The word warm when applied to alpine bodies of water refers to anything that doesn’t make you gasp when you get in it. It’s like a natural ice bath for my aching legs.

Our camp mates for the evening are another clueless bunch of bros. Some are camped far too close to the water, bear canisters stored unnecessarily inside the bear box, others set up camp right next to us with no introduction, they just assume it’s fine which, it mostly is, but their arrogant nature bothers me. I’m grateful that I was raised in an outdoors family, that I was brought up knowing how to behave myself outdoors, how to be kind to mama nature when I’m out and about, and how to generally not be the jerk that people write blog posts about.

Laying in our tent, protected from the mosquitos, I run over the confusing beta we received from the scared Aussies earlier today. So far both Forester and Glenn passes have had snow crossings on which I was less than comfortable. What will happen if Muir and Mather and Pinchot are worse than that? On the JMT there is no real option to bail, no real alternate trail where you could go around a pass if you’re sketched out. I resolve to deal with it when I get there, and not try and stress myself out before that moment. Of course, there is no other option in this situation either, either it will be fine or I’ll have to figure it out.