Wallace Creek to Bubbs Creek
I wake up to find an empty campground – our German bro friends having gotten an early start. Or perhaps they were eaten by bears as punishment for hanging their food so poorly and so unnecessarily.
We’re slow to break camp, something that will become a bit of a theme on this trail. But we’re finally up and moving a little after 9am. Winding through the trees in the calm morning light and almost immediately we start to see SoBo hikers. They ask about how far ahead their friends are, how the creek crossings are, and they all want to know how the summit of Mt Whitney was. “Was it amazing?” they ask. The first few times we’re presented with this question we try to answer honestly “it was cloudy, it was cold, but you’ll probably have better weather.” However, this honesty is both time consuming and the SoBo’s really don’t care so we just start answering with “yeah” and a smile before sending them on their way.
Lunch is spent relaxing on the side of Tyndall Creek. I spend an hour jumping around taking pictures of my shoes for a review I’m slated to write after the trip. Keith tells me about how Tyndall was flowing so fast six weeks ago that the local SAR (search and rescue) teams had set up a line and were helping PCT hikers navigate the waters. He tells me it’s running at less than half that level now. Keith then heads down by the bank to try his new fly fishing set up. I’m not even sure there are fish in this creek, but I’m content to sit in the warm sun and eat snacks while he snags his lure in a bush.
The rest of the afternoon is spent climbing towards Forester Pass, the tallest point on the PCT and the second highest point on the JMT. The approach to Forester is a long and gentle climb, the trees dropping away as you wind past glittering high alpine lakes nestled amongst a granite moon-scape. Walking all the time towards what appears to be a solid granite wall, towering a thousand feet or more over your head. Keith and I try to pick out the most logical place for a pass and just epically fail.
The trail up Forester Pass climbs through a solid rock face, away from more gentle slopes, and finally through a sketchy little notch that you would 100% not hike through were it not for some nice old timey man who came and blasted a trail through here almost 100 years ago. Old timey folks were hard core AF.
As we climb, the world does a gentle Tilt-a-Whirl under my feet, and I have to slow down my pace to the step-breathe-step method. My heart is racing in my chest, and yet my legs are moving at a pace I’d call strolling. Thus is born the HIS method of walking – High Intensity Strolling – which Keith and I will employ up each of the 12,000ft tall passes that we’ll need to climb over the next few days.
The top of Forester blows my tiny human mind. To the south I can see the land which we’ve walked across for the last two days, and ahead more land, more passes, more everything that stretches on for ever and ever and ever amen. I have a real insignificant moment. Not a moment that is insignificant, but a moment in which I realize how small we are among everything, Keith, me, humans in general, we’re just hanging out on borrowed time on this incredible bright blue planet of ours, going about our little mammalian lives and adventures as though their the most important things in the world. We’re so cute. While I have an oxygen deprived moment of clarity Keith takes pictures for an older German couple and then it’s time to go.
My moment on the top of Forester does not preclude me from being scared as we are forced to cross a snow field on our descent. I’ll hike and climb on rock, and I’ll ski or snowboard on snow, but I really hate hiking and especially descending on snow. Keith scampers down like nothing, his mountaineering skills kicking in. I, conversely, sit on my butt, scooch down a little, and try not to lose it while I picture what would happen if I started an uncontrollable slide. Namely, that I’d slide to the end of the snow field about 150 feet down, where I’d then be deposited rapidly and unceremoniously onto a giant field of granite scree – which, if you’ve ever hiked on granite you know is essentially lots of tiny bits of glass and rock mushed together. In short, the fall would be not enough to kill you, but it would certainly fuck up your day and possibly end your trip. Then I start to cry a little – which really doesn’t help matters – and then, as gracefully as a giraffe on roller skates I’m off the snow. I make a mental note to sign up for an ice axe and snow travel class as soon as I’m home.
The rest of the day is spend descending to our campsite near Bubbs Creek. I’m tired from my little drama session on the snow, but that doesn’t prevent me from marveling at how inexpressibly beautiful everything is.
When we finally make it to camp we’re a little disappointed to find around 12 other people already there with their camps set up. I’m going to have to get used to hiking and camping near other people – something I take pains to avoid during the majority of my trips.
The several groups at Bubbs Creek give off a distinctly “you can’t sit with us” vibe, and so Keith and I set up our tent on the edge of the clearing and don’t try too hard to make friends. I start to get the feeling that we’re some of the youngest people on this trail – at least were substantially younger than everybody we’ve seen so far. It’s an odd feeling to have at nearly 30 years old, but out camp mates look more like they could be my parents than my friends. Ah well, nothing to be done about that.
Dinner is green chicken chili – recipe and seasoning packet courtesy of Derrick an Anna, thanks guys! – so, sufficiently filled with carbs and sodium we retreat into our tent home.
