CHAPTER TWO
THROUGH SNOW & HIGH WATER: THE HIGH SIERRA

Weldon to Echo Lake

May 12 to June 24

429 miles

 

The Sierra Nevada was first named by Spanish sailors who saw the distant range of jagged snow-capped mountains from their ships. A sierra is a serrated mountain range, nevada means snowy. The range stretches for some four hundred miles, of which two hundred towards the southern end of the range constitute the High Sierra. Essentially the High Sierra is a huge tilted block of granite with the steep scarp slope on the east side, dropping some 9,000 feet to Owens Valley. On the gentler western side the mountains slowly dwindle away to forested foot hills. The High Sierra contains Mount Whitney, at 14,505 feet the highest summit in the 48 contiguous States, which I was hoping to climb, and Lake Tahoe, the largest alpine lake in North America. There are also three national parks, including world-famous Yosemite, twenty wilderness areas and two national monuments. This is the land of Scottish-American naturalist and conservationist John Muir who explored it from the 1860s and fought for its preservation. It was Muir who gave it the name Range of Light. I’d barely heard of Muir when I hiked the PCT as he was little known in Britain then. However with the John Muir Wilderness and the John Muir Trail in the High Sierra I soon realised he was a significant figure. The PCT follows much of the 210 mile John Muir Trail.

For the next 290 miles and 34 days I would not cross a road and would only resupply twice on the edge of the mountains. The longest single section between supply points was 200 miles and took 22 days. I’d never spent anything like that long in wild country without a break before and I was looking forward to it with excitement. This was the wilderness heart of the PCT. This was the landscape that had inspired my walk. This was the land I had come to experience.

Although geologically the Sierra Nevada starts well south of Weldon and we’d been walking through it for several days there was no sign of this in the desert landscape. From Weldon the trail started to climb and the landscape slowly changed to forest so I really felt I was finally leaving the chaparral and desert country behind. The High Sierra was still some fifty miles away but I was returning to the mountains and glad to be doing so. My first journal entry for the day I left Weldon reads ‘back in the hills!’ Soon after setting off we climbed into cool Jeffery pine forest. By the end of the day we’d climbed 4,500 feet onto the Kern Plateau.

Black bears are common in the Sierra Nevada and in popular areas may raid campsites for food. Never having been in bear country before I felt nervous about encountering one of these animals. On this first day in the range it wasn’t a bear that caused problems though but a domestic bull. We were on a dirt road with steep slopes either side when we rounded a bend to see a large bull standing in the middle of the track. On seeing us he shook his head, snorted and began pawing the ground. With amazing speed given our big packs Scott, Dave and I dropped down a slope into dense undergrowth. Larry edged round the bull, which thankfully didn’t charge. This was brave certainly but also probably unwise. The three of us bushwhacked through the undergrowth until we were well past the beast.

The only other danger came from creatures the opposite in size to the bull. On accidentally turning over a small rock I found two pale gold scorpions, the only ones I saw on the trail. There was other wildlife too. Red-winged blackbirds darted through the trees, looking similar to the blackbirds of home apart from the distinctive red markings, while overhead a red-tailed hawk soared, again reminding me of home as it is very similar to the common buzzard.

We camped that night in the woods at 6600 feet, the highest for two weeks. It would be nearly fifty days before I camped below 6000 feet again. The crisp cool air was welcome and I felt I could return to sleeping properly at night. By dawn the temperature was only just above freezing.

So far on the walk most days had gone roughly according to plan. The next one didn’t. After only a mile or so we lost the trail when it faded out in a big meadow. Unable to locate it anywhere we ended up following some orange plastic flagging on a very circuitous route that did eventually lead back to the trail. After four hours steady walking we’d progressed just five miles along the PCT. Then I discovered I’d lost my compass, which I’d been using to ensure we at least walked in the right direction when not on the trail, and along with it my safety whistle, which was on the same length of cord. If that wasn’t enough I then broke a camera. I’d brought a clamp with a camera attachment that I could fasten to posts and branches to take self-portrait and low light pictures. So far it had worked fine but using it that day the screw went right through the base of the camera. The shutter then jammed open and the light meter wouldn’t turn off. I was relieved I’d brought two camera bodies and vowed not to use the clamp again. The day did end with a fine campsite amongst superb Jeffrey pines, white firs and lodgepole pines. There was no snow yet but the meadows were mostly flooded and the ground sodden from recent snowmelt.

The first snow came the next day on 9350 foot Siretta Pass where there were also some magnificent gnarled limber pines, which I hadn’t seen since Mount Baden-Powell. Scott skied for the first time, which I found fascinating. I didn’t know you could use skis for backpacking. All I knew about skiing was that it was something done at noisy, crowded resorts with much ironmongery, which didn’t interest me at all. I hadn’t come across ski touring or cross-country skiing. Watching Scott and Dave over the next weeks I realised it was an ideal way to travel on snow. Snowshoes, as used by Larry and me, were okay but much slower. I wanted to glide rather than plod. The next winter I would take a course in the Scottish Highlands, after which skiing would be a regular activity when there was snow.

We were now on the Kern Plateau and in the Domeland Wilderness. The reason for the latter name was obvious as we walked below a wall of granite domes, spires and cliffs rising out of the forest. Once out of the snow the ground was sodden again and we had the first of what would be many creek fords in the Sierra Nevada. Little Trout Creek was thigh-deep and very cold but the water was slow and the bed firm. The next day started abruptly after a frosty night with an equally deep ford of equally slow Fish Creek beyond which we soon reached the big South Fork of the Kern River. We didn’t have to try and ford this though but instead followed it to the roadhead and bridge at Kennedy Meadows where there was a Forest Service campground and a store that held parcels for PCT hikers. Here I had a box containing dinners for 18 days. It weighed nearly 17lbs. I added a bit more as I suspected it might take longer than 18 days to reach the next supply point given the snow and then doubled the weight with breakfast and lunch foods. Although this resulted in a pack I could hardly lift I was to be glad I had so much food as the next section was to take 22 days. I was also delighted to receive my first letter from home, posted 27 days earlier. I’d been away from home for 46 days without any contact until now, which is hard to believe in this age of text messages and email. I could have phoned of course but the cost was prohibitive and friends and family knew I would only do so in an emergency. It would be three weeks before I could send a reply as there was no postal service from Kennedy Meadows. My main form of communication was postcards, some of which I sent from each post office.

Having reached Kennedy Meadows quite early in the day we didn’t stay but walked a few miles alongside the South Fork of the Kern River and camped in the forest. In the store we’d been told that a black bear had hassled a hiker in this area recently so we hung our food for the first time, a procedure known as bear bagging. This proved quite difficult with food sacks weighing some 30lbs. It was essential in some areas though, especially further ahead in the High Sierra. Black bears are common in the Sierra Nevada and in popular areas have learnt that hikers’ food is quite tasty. Protecting food also protects the bears as ones that become used to human foodstuffs can lose their fear of people and become a danger so they have to be caught and relocated or even shot. Indeed, it’s to protect bears that there are now regulations regarding food storage. Today many areas of the High Sierra require hikers to use large plastic food containers that bears cannot break into. However these bear-resistant containers, sometimes known as bear barrels, didn’t exist back in 1982 and hanging food high in trees was the only way to keep it safe from bears. Sierra bears are clever though and just throwing a line over a branch, hauling up a food bag and tying the other end of the line round the tree trunk is ineffective as the bears have learnt that if they find a line and break it a food bag will appear. This isn’t true in other areas and in later trips I used this method in the Canadian Rockies, the Yukon Territory and other places and never lost my food.

In the High Sierra a more complex method, known as counterbalancing was required. Setting this up was tedious and could be time-consuming. It involved finding a branch at least fifteen feet above the ground, throwing a cord over it tied to the end to a stone, hauling a food bag up to the branch, tying another bag of equal weight to the other end of the cord and then hurling that bag into the air in the hope that the two bags would end up side by side at least ten feet above the ground and five feet away from the trunk of the tree (bears can climb). There was much that could go wrong with this. Cords could get tangled up round branches and branches could break. Stones would fly off into the distance. Sometimes it could take time to find a suitable branch. Popular campsites could be identified not just by bare ground and fire rings but also by lengths of cord hanging out of reach from branches. I quickly learnt that it was best to set up the system as soon as I made camp and before I relaxed too much so that after eating all I had to do was haul up my food bags. I hated doing it but losing my precious food to a bear did not appeal. Mornings were worst as I had to leave my warm sleeping bag and rescue my food from its tree - usually by jumping up and down with my ice axe until I could snag one of the bags - before I could have breakfast. This disrupted my preferred morning camp ritual which involved lighting the stove and making coffee and drinking this with breakfast - usually granola - before leaving the sleeping bag. However in case I was tempted to not bother hanging my food the regular fresh bear tracks and droppings encountered every few days were a good reminder.

For the next three days we slowly climbed through the southern Sierra Nevada, gradually gaining height and encountering more and more snow. From the South Fork of the Kern River the trail led through open forest with some magnificent Incense Cedar trees to the vast Monache Meadows above which rose the impressive triangular rocky 12,123 foot Olancha Peak, the first of the big Sierra peaks. There was little snow on the south and west slopes of this mountain but we knew that deeper into the Sierra Nevada we would find plenty. Although we’d been on snow-free trails and there hadn’t been much ascent it had taken seven hours to walk eleven miles and that was enough with our very heavy packs so we stopped and made camp. I really felt the weight on my hips and shoulders and my ankles were aching. ‘Still, it’s getting lighter every day’ I wrote in my journal. I was to think that many times in coming days. That evening I lay and watched a beautiful pastel shaded delicate slow sunset, all pinks and pale orange. The natural world was already a reward for the effort of carrying the pack. Here with the forest and meadows all around and Olancha Peak rising high above I really felt I was in the Sierra Nevada for the first time. The thought of the many weeks of this to come sent a shiver of excitement through me.

Dawn came with a heavy frost. Everything was white. A drifting mist wreathed river and rocks and meadow. It was a beautiful start to the day. A climb led up to a saddle on the side of Olancha Peak. At 10,500 feet it was the first time I’d been above 10,000 feet on this walk. Now much of the next three weeks would be above that altitude. On the saddle were many weather-beaten foxtail pines, a rare tree that is only found high in the mountains in California. The name comes from its thick bundles of long needles, which resemble a fox’s tail. Unsurprisingly at this height there was also snow though it was patchy and we could still follow the trail. Descending from the saddle the snow became deeper with a breakable crust. This is awful stuff to walk on, or rather through, as each step collapses when you put weight on it. With our heavy packs the going was hard work and slow. Again we only made eleven miles before camping but this time it had taken nine hours. We were not going to get through the Sierra Nevada quickly. Another first came with the camp. It was the highest of the walk so far at 9,000 feet.

Again we climbed on mostly snow free slopes but descended in deep snow on the north side. The ascent led to a ridge that gave our dramatic first view 9,000 feet down to Owens Valley and the pink alkaline flats of Owens Lake. This lake is now mostly dry because its water was diverted through the Los Angeles Aqueduct along which we’d walked across the desert. In the snow I finally wore for the first time the snowshoes that I’d been carrying for fifteen days. I’d never used snowshoes before and had no idea how to do so. I quickly discovered that they were fine on flat terrain as long as I remembered to walk with a wide-legged cowboy waddle but that they slipped rather easily on slopes. That was until I realised I should kick my toes into the snow. The boot attachments were hinged and had crude points, called ‘sno-claws’ under them for grip on ice, so I could push these into the snow while the actual snowshoe lay flat on the surface. The snowshoes were essential. Without them I’d have spent exhausting hours postholing through deep snow and my progress would have been much slower. On gentle slopes and uneven terrain balancing on the snowshoes was sometimes difficult though as I didn’t have any poles for support. Trekking poles didn’t exist back then and, not being a skier, it never occurred to me that ski poles would have been very useful. On steep slopes I could use my ice axe but this was too short elsewhere. Larry didn’t use poles either, nor had Scott or Dave in the Southern California mountains. If they had I’d probably have bought some. On their skis Scott and Dave soon left Larry and me far behind.

Late in the day we climbed towards another saddle where we planned on camping. The snow was soft now after many hours in the hot sun and even with the snowshoes and skis we sank in it. Learning from this we realised we should set off at dawn and stop mid-afternoon and that ideally climbs, which were south-facing, should be done early in the day. The PCT in the Sierra Nevada followed a fairly regular pattern of ascents to high passes followed by descent back into the forest and then another ascent. A daily routine was soon established, unlike further south where constant changes from chaparral to desert to forest to mountains had meant very different days with no consistent pattern to them. In the Sierra Nevada we rose before dawn to cook and eat breakfast in the usually freezing air while waiting for the first warming rays of the sun. Many nights we camped on snow and most nights the temperature dropped below zero though never lower than -10ºC. This meant the snow early in the day would be rock hard - ‘Sierra cement’ as it’s known - and we often needed crampons for security. Later in the day we’d try and get as close to the next pass as possible before the snow became too soft and we gave up and camped.

Progress through the High Sierra was arduous and we averaged only ten miles a day. The landscape though was glorious and worth all the pain and effort. Range after range of golden granite peaks of every shape and form soared above the snowfields and the deep wooded canyons down which crashed wild creeks from the still-frozen alpine lakes, the water surging out from under the ice. For a lover of wilderness and natural beauty this was a perfect world. Ten miles a day would remain the average for the next 200 miles, all the way to our next supply point, Mammoth Lakes. The magical, wonderful, unbelievable wild world would last all that way too. We were above 10,000 feet virtually the whole way and often camped above 11,000 feet. Timberline in the High Sierra is around 10,500 feet so sometimes we dipped down into the alpine forest of foxtail, whitebark and lodgepole pines but most of the time we were above the trees in a monochrome world of black and grey rocks and white snow with the only colours coming from the blue of the sky and the changing sun, which went from dark red to orange to gold to yellow to white and back again. Although the landscape was complex our days followed a repeating pattern. Forest, snow-filled canyon, mountain pass again and again and again, a sequence of which I never tired.

As we progressed northwards I came to particularly love timberline, that area where the trees thinned out and grew smaller and the forest gradually merged with the open mountainside. Timberline was not static, it rose and fell with the shape of the land, the aspect of the slope (higher on the south and west facing slopes, lower on those to the north and east) and the underlying terrain. The types of trees and their size varied too. In some places the forest ended fairly abruptly in a ragged line of tall trees, in others small trees continued to grow high above the forest proper. The variety was a delight on the eye and kept the landscape always interesting. It was a stark contrast to the forests of home, which were mostly plantations in rigid blocks. Even the few natural forests left in the hills were generally curtailed below the natural timberline due to overgrazing by deer and sheep. Only in a handful of places in the Scottish hills was there a real timberline and nowhere could it be seen extending mile after mile after mile. However although I was familiar with the woods in the hills of Britain it was only after seeing these Sierra Nevada forests and the forests that lay ahead on the PCT that I realised just how damaged or unnatural they mostly were and how much regeneration and restoration was needed to bring them back to a wild and natural state. Ever since the PCT I have supported those organisations working to do this such as Trees for Life, the Woodland Trust and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. The Sierra mountains were magnificent but life lay in the beauty of the forests.

All that was lacking were animals and birds but that was due to the time of year. Wildlife sightings were uncommon because most creatures would be down in the forest below the snowline where there was food and warmth. We did see many yellow-bellied marmots basking on rocks. These large bulky rodents were a common sight around rock fields and scree slopes and would stand on their hind legs and whistle loudly on seeing us before diving for cover in holes between the boulders.

We approached the High Sierra over the mostly snow free Mulkey Pass and Trail Pass. Mount Langley, the southernmost of the twelve peaks over 14,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada, came into view. From the climb to Cottonwood Pass, regarded as the start of the High Sierra, the views were stupendous. Beyond the pass we camped at Chicken Spring Lake at 11,242 feet, the highest camp I’d ever had. So far the altitude hadn’t affected me and I was hoping this would continue as there were higher passes to come. The way the PCT unfolds helps with acclimatising to altitude as the height only gradually increases and the first sections above 10,000 feet are only short. By the time I reached the High Sierra I had been high enough often enough that my body was starting to acclimatise. In fact the altitude didn’t affect me noticeably at all.

This camp was also the finest of the trip so far. A curving ridge with a cornice, cliffs and scree hung above the lake, which was frozen solid. I felt in the heart of the mountains, remote from the world below with snowy peaks all around.

Now we were mostly in the snow the trail was invisible, with only tree blazes and other signs indicating its presence. At first we still tried to follow it but often it traversed steep slopes that were difficult in the snow, especially when it was icy. On the day out from Chicken Spring Lake we looked down to the flat plain called Siberian Outpost and decided to cross that rather than stick with the trail which ran through steep woods. After this, whilst we stayed close to the line of the trail, we took what looked like the easiest route in the snow, which often meant crossing meadows and valley bottoms - sometimes across the middle of frozen lakes - rather than traversing slopes. During the day we entered the southernmost of the High Sierra’s national parks, Sequoia, which was created in part to protect the magnificent Giant Sequoia trees that grow on the western edge of the High Sierra. These are far from the PCT and I didn’t have time to make a diversion to see them. Many years later I came back and did a 500 mile circular walk from Yosemite Valley to see the Giant Sequoias and other places I’d missed on the PCT including King’s Canyon and Yosemite Valley itself. One of the few restrictions on a long walk is the need to stick to the route most of the time. I knew I had to reach Canada before the first snows of the next winter made the going dangerous and maybe impassable (and also before my six-month Visa ran out). Giant Forest where the big Sequoias grow was just too far away to visit.

Down in the forest the creeks were mostly open, making for some cold though not usually hazardous fords, though there was occasionally a snowbridge still strong enough to bear our weight. When I was wearing them I sometimes waded across in my snowshoes - one of the few advantages they had over skis. They were also easier to carry in the trees as they didn’t stick out high above my head but otherwise the skis were clearly the better way to travel. If our boots were still dry - mine were usually soaked by the end of the day and still damp in the morning - we wore running shoes for creek crossings. This nearly resulted in a disaster at Rock Creek below Siberian Outpost when Dave dropped one of his ski boots into the water and it was rapidly washed away. We searched along the banks and eventually I spotted it trapped against a log jam and managed to retrieve it after a slimy and slippery crawl out on a thin branch. We were many days from a road and hiking in running shoes would not have been easy or pleasant in the snow. After that incident I made sure I tied my boots to the pack rather than carried them in my hand. That night we camped by the creek at 9400 feet, which already felt quite low.

We were now only seven miles from Crabtree Meadows, a starting point for the ascent of Mount Whitney. We all wanted to climb this mountain and had agreed to take a day off from the trail for this. This was one diversion I wasn’t going to miss. Although not on the Pacific Crest Trail Whitney is the southern terminus of the John Muir Trail. As with all highest mountains in a region or country (even Mount Everest these days) it is popular and in the summer there is a permit system and numbers are strictly regulated - a few weeks after our ascent we heard that the mountain was already fully booked for the coming summer. We would avoid all of this. When we’d asked a ranger about the need for permits for the national parks in the High Sierra and about camping restrictions he’d just told us the parks were closed and that we could go if we wanted but there were no rangers and no support. We’d be on our own, which was fine with us.

At Crabtree Meadows, which we reached at lunchtime, we found a good site on snow free ground under some lodgepole pines with a view across the meadows to the soaring spires of Mount Young, Mount Hitchcock and the serrated Mount Whitney Pinnacles. A white snowshoe hare darted across the open meadows as we watched the mountains. ‘A superb site, perhaps the best yet’, I wrote in my journal. There were to be many more contenders for this in the High Sierra.

Mount Whitney would be a long and steep climb. I was familiar with using ice axe and crampons and had done a little snow and ice mountaineering as had Scott and Dave. Larry hadn’t however so as he was determined to come on the climb I spent a few hours at Crabtree Meadows teaching him the rudiments of ice axe use. This was hardly an adequate preparation for an ascent of a remote high wilderness mountain but it was all that was possible. Scott and Dave skied round the meadows, free to speed along gracefully without their heavy packs. Watching them convinced me I had to learn how to ski.

Late in the afternoon there was a sudden build-up of dark massive cumulo-nimbus clouds over the main Sierra crest. Soon the threatened thunderstorm began though no rain fell on our camp. It raged for the next three hours, a dramatic sight, before fading away as the sun set, leaving the last clouds to turn pink. This storm convinced us we needed a very early start for Mount Whitney as the thought of being up high in such weather was terrifying so we were awake at the ghastly hour of 4.30 a.m. and off by six on the 18-mile round trip. More significant than the distance was the ascent though, which was over 4,000 feet.

A walk up a narrow canyon under glaciated rock walls led to a traverse of steep icy slopes where crampons were needed. Next came a series of switchbacks that were only partially snow-covered and which led to the main ridge at Trail Crest. We were now in the heart of alpine wildness far above the forest. All around were superb glaciated cirques laced with snow gullies and topped by rock ridges and pinnacles. Ignoring the partially hidden trail we made a direct ascent on scree to Trail Crest. Back on the trail we now followed the crest towards the summit, winding between sharp pinnacles above the granite-lined cirques and with, far below, the tiny circles of frozen lakes and the dark spread of the forest. Between the pinnacles there were dizzying views straight down to Owens Valley. The narrow path was often snow covered and precarious, especially where it was steeply banked up with snow round the bulging sides of the buttresses. Here we could teeter round on our crampons, facing inwards and clinging perilously to the rock. In a few places I’d have felt much safer with a rope and a belay. This felt like real mountaineering.

Eventually the crest widened out to a vast snowfield that lead easily to the summit. The view was huge. The High Sierra was spread out around us with the sharp rock ridges and peaks of endless snow-spattered mountains rising above vast snow-filled basins. To the east the mountain fell away precipitately to the shimmering pale desert. Away to the west a big thunderstorm was raging.

We spent an hour on the summit taking in the view and recovering from the climb. The altitude had affected me less than I thought it might and I only felt slightly breathless but even so a rest was welcome. Also, this was the highest mountain I’d ever climbed. I didn’t want to dash away, especially with such a stupendous view. This was wilderness! At this time of year anyway as there were signs of the summer - a toilet shed and a concrete ice-filled shelter - which I did my best to ignore. A brass USGS benchmark disk marked the height as 14, 494 feet (current measurements make it 14,505 feet). There’s nothing higher in the USA outside Alaska.

On approaching the mountain we’d noticed several snow-filled gullies running down from the west face of the mountain. To speed up the descent and avoid the scary traverse below the pinnacles we decided to descend one of these. First we dropped down the summit snowfield and then a long slope of bare talus that led to the top of the narrow, twisting gullies. From above we couldn’t see all the way down any of them. Finally we selected one that looked reasonably safe for a sitting glissade - sliding down the snow on our backsides with the ice axe ready to use as a brake. We went one at a time to avoid crashing into each other. Dave first, soon followed by Scott, both of them reappearing on the wide snow slope at the bottom. Then Larry set off. I watched as he picked up speed rather too rapidly and then vanished round the first kink in the gully in a cloud of flying snow and stones. There was a loud yell then silence. There was no sign of Larry where the others had appeared. I waited, shocked. Thoughts raced through my mind. Was Larry injured? Was he even still alive? Finally, after what seemed an age though was probably only a minute or so, I heard a faint cry - ‘I’ve lost my ice axe!’ Unable to see where Larry was and not wanting to collide with him I scrambled carefully down the loose rock beside the gully. Where he’d lost control there were stones sticking out of the snow. Not far to the side I found his ice axe wedged between two rocks. Below Larry lay spread-eagled on his back in the middle of the slope. I called out to him, asking if he could move to the side of the gully so I wouldn’t crash into him if I glissaded down. He started to move but immediately slipped and lay still again. Rather than risk a collision I climbed down, kicking steps in the hard snow and using the two ice axes as daggers to support myself. I could have done with crampons but they were strapped on the back of Larry’s pack - we’d only taken pack between us as we hadn’t much to carry. In fact the two pairs of crampons on the pack were probably what had stopped Larry’s slide.

When I reached Larry I found him shaken but without injury other than a grazed hand. He didn’t want to glissade anymore though so we slowly descended kicking steps and using the ice axes for security until the angle eased off and he felt able to slide the last few hundred feet. Finally and with great relief we reached Scott and Dave who had been watching from below and wondering what was going on. We’d been very lucky. A serious accident days away from any help could have had unthinkable consequences. We plodded back to camp, arriving tired but pleased after a thirteen hour day.

Back in camp we found a note from two PCT hikers, Phil and Andy, who’d passed by on skis. Perhaps, we thought, we might have tracks to follow until the sun obliterated them, at least for a few days. Our morning tracks had already softened though and would soon be gone. Even on the top of Mount Whitney the snow was thawing. We weren’t too surprised when Phil and Andy’s tracks were barely visible the next day. After the long arduous day on Mount Whitney we were happy to have a somewhat easier day though we were still in snow virtually the whole time. We were also mostly in dense trees and for once snowshoes were more manoeuvrable than skis and for the first and only time Larry and I had to wait an hour for Scott and Dave to catch up on a wooded saddle. The day was most memorable for the view from the vast open space of the Bighorn Plateau, which was ringed by wonderfully rugged and ragged rock peaks. Looking back we could see Mount Whitney soaring steeply into the sky. It was hard to believe we had stood on top just the day before. To the west lay another impressive wall of granite peaks, the Great Western Divide, which runs parallel to the main Sierra crest. Ahead the Kings-Kern Divide, so-called because it is the watershed between the Kings and Kern rivers, linked the two. Tomorrow we would cross this great rock ridge via the highest pass on the PCT, 13,180 foot Forester Pass. This is the first in a series of high passes crossed by the PCT in quick succession. Remembering the thunderstorm we planned to be over each of them in the mornings, which meant more really early starts.

The day on Forester Pass was helped by camping at almost 11,000 feet the night before. This left half the amount of ascent we’d had on the climb of Mount Whitney. Against that we were carrying full packs. Awake before dawn at 5 a.m. the day began with Scott and Dave setting their stove ablaze. We were all using white gas stoves that required priming by lighting liquid fuel to get them going. Still half-asleep Scott and Dave had failed to close the fuel tank on their stove so when they lit the priming fuel the flame quickly spread to the tank and the whole stove went up in a ball of fire. All they could do was sit and watch a tankful of fuel burn away. The stove wasn’t damaged though and no-one was hurt. It woke us all up too! This event was soon forgotten as the day unfolded, a day I was to describe as ‘another epic day’ in my journal.

The approach to Forester Pass was through barren snowy and rocky ground past frozen lakes. Ahead the Kings-Kern Divide was a solid rock wall that looked impassable. In fact there is a trail that was blasted into the rock in 1930. Initially steep crampon work led up frozen snow to the start of the switchbacks up the rock face. These were snow free and made for easy walking until the trail crossed a snow-filled gully not far from the top of the pass. Half the gully was in sunlight, half in shadow. The snow in the sun was fairly soft, that in the shadow rock hard. Dave and Scott crossed the gully and continued up the switchbacks, here quite snowy, to the top. I’d noticed that when they crossed the sunny section Dave and Scott had set off little snow slides, which made me concerned about the possibility of an avalanche. That still doesn’t explain my stupidity however. For some reason when I reached the edge of the sunny section I decided to try and climb straight up the gully on the front points of my crampons. It was only about forty feet but trying to climb that distance up very steep hard snow at 13,000 feet with one ice axe, bendy boots and a pack weighing around 70lbs is not sensible. I managed though until a final corniced vertical section of soft snow stopped me. I could make no progress up this, sliding back as my footholds collapsed. I was stuck. Rescue came from above. Dave lowered down his ice axe on the 5mm line Scott was carrying, mostly for river crossings. I tied the cord round my waist and was belayed from above. With Dave and Scott heaving on the rope and by pulling up on the two ice axes thrust into the snow above me I managed to plough my way up to the cornice. A helping hand enabled me to squirm inelegantly onto the pass where I lay panting and very relieved. Larry, waiting patiently below, wisely decided to follow Scott and Dave and take the sensible route.

Forester Pass is a narrow notch on a rocky crest that is the border between Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. We were now in the heartland of the High Sierra. Rock and snow peaks rolled away before and behind us. Thankfully the descent was easy, just a tramp down snowfields on snowshoes to roaring Bubbs Creek with excellent views of a series of rock spires called the Kearsage Pinnacles. We camped in the woods beside the creek on the edge of Vidette Meadows with another superb view, this time of East Vidette, a massive triangular rock peak that reminded me of Buachaille Etive Mor, one of the most distinctive and impressive mountains in the Scottish Highlands.

The next few days would give me an opportunity to experience the High Sierra in solitude. Scott and Dave had cached supplies in Onion Valley on the east side of the mountains and were planning on going out to collect them the next day and spend a night down below. As there was a store there Larry was going with them. I didn’t want to leave the mountains and break their spell so I agreed to look after the tents and other gear so they could travel light. I handed Larry a shopping list, mostly of day snacks as, despite the huge load I’d carried from Kennedy Meadows, I’d run out. From Vidette Meadows we clambered over avalanche debris below the Kearsage Pinnacles and followed a stream to mostly frozen Bullfrog Lake where we found Phil and Andy just packing up. They too were going down to Onion Valley. By mid-morning I was alone.

Bullfrog Lake was in a beautiful situation at timberline with a few gnarled whitebark and lodgepole pines half-buried in the snow dotted around and mountains rising in every direction. Clark’s nutcrackers, rosy finches and mountain chickadees flitted through the trees. The snow was deep but thawing fast. Whilst walking we’d not really been aware of just how quickly it was going but now it became very apparent. Larry had pitched his tent to store all their gear so I had two tents to look after. And they did need looking after as every few hours they began to sag as the snow round them melted and the pegs pulled out. Soon they were sitting on platforms several inches thick as the snow under them didn’t melt. I lay outside on my insulating mat reading and writing my journal some of the time but mostly just watching the mountains and the trees and the sky and the snow. I relished this time alone and without any pressure to move on. I could just relax and be here in the wilderness.

This stationary sojourn in the mountains gave a different perspective to the Sierra Nevada and to the journey. I noticed details missed when on the move - how the shadows changed as the sun moved across the sky, how at different times the light picked out tree bark, rock walls, the curves in the snow. I was static. The world was not. That night I could hear coyotes howling not far away. I woke to a heavy frost coating the inside and outside of the tent. Unable to go far because of the tents I wandered round the lake watching the open water increase in size as the snow and ice thawed, crossing creeks on diminishing snow bridges and staring at the peaks. In the afternoon clouds built-up and shrouded the peaks. A cool breeze sprang up. Soon a steady drizzle was falling, the first rain for forty-four days. I had expected the others back late in the day but they didn’t appear. When the rain stopped I wandered towards Kearsage Pass, which they’d crossed, to see if they were coming. A snow bridge over a creek they’d crossed had gone, leaving rushing water ten feet wide. Their boot prints had vanished. As the skies cleared at dusk a thin crescent moon appeared and the last clouds hanging over Kearsage Pass turned pink. There was no sign of the others.

During my two days alone at Bullfrog Lake I didn’t appear to do much. I let the world lead me. I’ve sometimes been asked if I contemplate nature or meditate when alone in the wilds. Both those sound too dynamic. They imply doing something. I’m not that active. I just let my mind wander where it will, picking up on hints and signs from the natural world. I don’t try and direct my thoughts and sometimes I’m not aware of thinking at all. If something – a tree, a bird, a pattern in the snow – caught my eye I would watch it for a while until distracted by something else. No effort was involved and nothing really happened. Hours could pass without my being aware of them. I was absorbed in the world and not really aware of myself. I have been told this is meditation. If it is I did it without effort, thought or intention.

My companions returned the next morning bearing gifts of food and fuel and even a newspaper. The Onion Valley store had been closed so they’d gone out to the town of Independence in Owens Valley. Larry had brought me what seemed an enormous amount of food, all of it welcome. Half a loaf, a big chunk of cheese, a tube of honey, sugar, coffee, 12 instant puddings, 3lbs granola, 12 chocolate bars, 6 granola bars, 4 quarts of instant milk powder and 2.5lbs of trail mix ingredients. I needed the lot. My appetite was enormous. The crossing of the High Sierra was proving extremely strenuous and I had no fat reserves left. Every calorie I expended I needed to replace. I had a toasted cheese sandwich followed by honey sandwiches for lunch, which was a delicious change from the usual granola bars and trail mix. It was good to feel full too. Larry had also brought me up a quart of stove fuel, a pen, a lighter, a loo roll and, most precious of all, two rolls of film. I’d been rationing photos for several days. Now I could shoot a few more each day.

The day turned very windy and we had to repeg the tents more often. Larry’s blew down twice – not that he was more careless than the rest of us but because the design meant it was more dependent on pegs for its shape. A raven flew into camp and scavenged some food scraps Andy and Phil had left, then hopped around just a few yards from the tents. Seeing one this close really brought home how big and magnificent these birds are.

In the evening we discussed plans. We were 12 days out from Kennedy Meadows but had only progressed 84 miles, partly due to the snow and partly due to the day on Mount Whitney and the days here. It was about 118 miles to Mammoth Lakes. We hoped to be there in ten days – and would be hungry if we weren’t. We needed to speed up. The next day would see the end of my eighth week on the trail. Two months gone already. I’d planned on around 500 miles a month so should have walked about 1000. In fact it was just 650. Miles were needed.

Needed maybe. Gained no. The first day out from Bullfrog Lake we did just seven and a half miles in ten and a half hours. That did involve crossing 11,978 foot Glen Pass, which, along with Forester Pass, is the hardest and steepest in the High Sierra but even so it was disappointing. The approach to the pass was over hard snow so we needed crampons. The last section looked hard and dangerous with thin steep snow with lots of rocks and talus breaking through and nasty boulders at the bottom to hit if you slid back down. Deciding to avoid this we climbed safer looking slopes to a point about two hundred yards from the pass and then scrambled along the narrow rocky ridge to it. Real mountaineering again. Real mountain weather too with a piercingly cold wind. I needed gloves, balaclava, fibre-pile jacket and windproof jacket.

As with Forester the north side of Glen Pass was much gentler than the south, just a long wide snowfield. As the run-out at the bottom was just more snow we decided to glissade. This went well at first but then I caught my foot on something and flipped over twice, ending up with the pack pushing down on one shoulder. I couldn’t get up without Scott’s help. Once on my feet I decided to let the pack slide down on its own. This was a mistake. Initially it slid down smoothly but then it hit something, flew into the air and then burst open as it landed back on the hard snow, scattering my belongings over the snow where they then slid down the slope. With the assistance of the others my goods were eventually all retrieved and nothing was lost. Amazingly nothing was broken either except a pen that had snapped. I did lose some used guidebook pages, which blew away in the wind. At least being paper they would eventually rot away. I was most concerned about my camera gear but this was all okay, a credit to the heavily padded pouches I was using. Ironically, during the glissade a weld broke on Larry’s external pack frame even though he’d had no problems with the descent. The broken frame was tied up with cord but clearly it wouldn’t support the load as well and would have to be replaced once we were out of the mountains. Until then Larry would need to treat it carefully.

Beyond the glissade snowfield the terrain became steeper and more difficult so it took time to reach Rae Lakes. The views made up for the slow progress as we gazed on a ring of multi-textured, multi-coloured peaks at the head of the lakes, with Dragon Peak and Painted Lady standing out. The glorious landscape accompanied us to our campsite near Dollar Lake from where we had views of the great wall of Diamond Peak, the Rae Lakes peaks, the soaring tower of Fin Dome and jagged Mount Clarence King. It was an evening to sit outside and watch the mountains fade to silhouettes and a quarter moon shine in the sky.

Pondering mileage that evening I realised that worrying about it would only detract from the walk. I was here to enjoy being in wild places. Reaching the end of the trail was a convenient goal but it wasn’t close enough to be concerned about yet. The walk was about the daily journey and the nightly camps not the final destination. Here in the snow I would go as far as I could each day and think about the next stage of the walk when it arrived.

Thinking this proved wise as we only progressed nine miles the next day and ten the following one. Continuing our descent from Dollar Lake we dropped below 9000 feet and below the snow for the first time in many days. The trail appeared, an actual footpath running through the woods, and led to a log bridge across the roaring snow-melt torrent of Woods Creek. Down here it felt like spring with birds singing, green shoots sprouting from the black sodden soil, still saturated with snowmelt, and many butterflies flitting about the sunlit meadows. The forest was richer than at timberline too with massive incense cedars, red firs and ponderosa pines plus aspens and willows beside the creeks. Being out of the snow and able to walk without crampons or snowshoes was a joy, albeit only a brief one as we were soon climbing back up 3,000 feet to camp on snow again at over 11,000 feet ready for the crossing of 12,100 foot Pinchot Pass. That evening thick white mist rolled in and blanketed our camp. For once we could see nothing. The mountains, our constant companions, had vanished.

The landscape reappeared for the climb to the pass. The early morning snow was hard and icy and we needed crampons. A long rising traverse across a steep snowfield with avalanche tracks down it, which made us glad we were here before the sun started to soften the snow, led to a final rocky scramble to the pass. The descent was easier than the ascent, something we were now coming to expect, and we were soon back down at timberline. Again the PCT dropped down into the forest before climbing back up. We decided not to do this however and instead stayed at timberline on a long and marvellous traverse above the glaciated canyon of the South Fork of the Kings River with the coloured bands of the metamorphic rocks of Striped Peak and Cardinal Peak always in view. In my journal I wrote ‘superlative alpine scenery – as usual!’ We camped in the Upper Basin of the South Fork ready for the next pass.

‘A strange day ensued’ starts my journal entry the next evening. So far we’d roughly followed the line of the PCT without any difficulties but now we went wrong. Looking up at the snow and rock wall above us, somewhere along which was 12,100 foot Mather Pass, we could see no sign of a trail. A notch in the ridge must be the pass we decided so we climbed up to it, at first on icy snow and then some final rock climbing that was unpleasant with crampons on. From the tiny narrow cleft we looked down on a lake that shouldn’t have been there. This wasn’t Mather Pass. Instead we were well to the east of it and some 400+ feet higher. How we’d made the mistake we couldn’t work out. Luckily we didn’t have to retreat but could descend the north side and rejoin the correct route at the frozen Palisade Lakes, down the centre of which we walked.

Below the lakes is a tight set of steep switchbacks blasted into the rock face known as the Golden Staircase. We certainly needed to be on the right route here as there was no other way down the steep rocks below the lakes basin. They were only partially snow-covered so following the switchbacks wasn’t difficult. Then it was on down into the woods and out of the snow beside Palisade Creek. For the first time in over a week we camped on dry ground. At 8400 feet it was also the first camp below 9000 feet for two weeks and the first below 10,500 feet for a week. It was the last day of May and really spring-like. To save fuel we cooked over a wood fire. We also hung our food, something we hadn’t bothered with up in the snow – and which wasn’t possible at many high camps anyway as any trees were too small.

4000 feet of ascent led back up to 11,955 foot Muir Pass, the last time the PCT would be above 11,500 feet. Two mule deer, easy to identify due to the big ears that give them their name, watched us from the trees. Slowly the soft forest gave way to harder, rockier terrain. Glaciated granite walls and peaks rose all around. We crossed much avalanche debris and scrambled beside water slides on the Middle Fork of the Kings River. In places avalanches had swept right across the river and up the far side, tearing down big trees and scattering them like matchsticks. The thought of the force needed to do this was terrifying. Dramatic waterfalls poured down from the snowfields above. In a land of superlatives this day was especially spectacular, particularly magnificent LeConte Canyon with its vast slabs of smooth granite and unbroken rock walls.

Camp that night was the highest of the whole walk, at 11,600 feet above frozen Helen Lake, named for one of John Muir’s daughters. The view back to the 14,000 foot summits of the Palisades was breath-taking. We were now in the heart of the John Muir Wilderness and it was an easy climb to Muir Pass itself. A beautiful octagonal stone hut marked the top. For once we could see no trees as the canyons either side twisted down between rock walls. The PCT runs for ten miles above timberline here for the only time in the High Sierra. A big storm could be serious so far from the forest. Then the hut would be welcome.

As we descended from Muir Pass the highest section of the High Sierra was behind us but that didn’t mean that all the difficulties were over. Nor the most beautiful and spectacular landscapes either. Indeed Evolution Basin, which lies below Muir Pass, is possibly the most impressive place on the PCT. A wide stony valley laced with lakes – Wanda, Sapphire and Evolution – and walled by granite peaks there is a feeling of mountain perfection here with every element of the scene balanced by every other.

Evolution Basin lies in the Evolution Group – Mounts Darwin, Mendel, Fiske, Haeckel, Huxley, Spencer, Wallace and Lamarck. The evolutionary names were given in 1895 by mountaineer and explorer Theodore S. Solomons who is important in the story of backpacking in the High Sierra as he was the first person to suggest and reconnoitre a trail the length of the range, an idea that eventually resulted in the John Muir Trail.

A gentle wander down Evolution Basin over the frozen lakes led to a steeper descent into the woods of Evolution Valley where we found the trail snow-free in places. It was an interesting game trying to follow the line of the trail through snow patches in the lodgepole pine forest. We hiked through a series of beautiful meadows before camping on the edge of one of them, Evolution Meadow. Again we cooked over a wood fire. I was becoming bored with my dried meals as was Larry so we mixed some of them together and added some spices to make something that tasted a bit different. It still had a familiar mushy texture though and I was beginning to look forward to fresh food with a bit of a bite to it. With maybe four days to Mammoth Lakes I could afford to start looking ahead. The longest section in the wilderness was approaching its end.

Dropping deeper into the forest we left most of the snow behind and were able to follow the trail easily as it ran beside the South Fork of the San Joaquin River. There were groves of aspen trees just coming into leaf and many flowers in the meadows, especially bright red paintbrush. The easy walk below soaring glaciated granite walls was a joy after all the hard going in the snow. I felt like a backpacker again rather than a mountaineer. We weren’t finished with the snow yet though and the day ended with a climb back into it and a timberline camp at Sally Keyes Lakes. Here we met the first PCT hiker since Phil and Andy at Bullfrog Lake. Manuel had hiked the southern Sierra then dropped down into Owens Valley and walked the road before returning to the mountains. He had spare food which we gratefully received.

Now we were in slightly lower and mostly less steep terrain the nature of the challenges posed by the High Sierra changed. Our first taste of the new difficulties came after we’d crossed lovely 10,800 foot Selden Pass and descended back into the forest. A ferocious creek barred our way. There was no bridge. In summer it was probably no more than a trickle. We ventured into the water and found it stronger and deeper – waist deep on me – than we’d expected. Dave somehow struggled across using his ski poles for support. Larry, Scott and I linked arms and only just made it. The snowmelt water was very cold and it took some time to warm up afterwards. I suspected there would be more of these fords to come as the snowmelt speeded up. That day other creeks were bridged though. Dipping in and out of the snow as the trail rose and fell we eventually dropped down to a low-seeming 7750 feet where we camped by Mono Creek. An almost full moon lit the forest. For the first time in ages I didn’t pitch the tent but slept out under the trees.

The next fords came the next day. Larry and I were ahead of Scott and Dave now. We’d decided that when we reached the road we would try and hitch-hike into Mammoth Lakes and it seemed sensible to do this in pairs rather than as a foursome. A cold thigh-deep ford of the North Fork of Mono Creek was followed by a roped crossing of Silver Creek. We used the rope because there was a waterfall below the ford. I hadn’t brought any rope but Larry had thirty feet, which was barely enough. I made a mental note to buy some more. After crossing Silver Pass – the passes now were easy compared with the rock notches to the south – we wandered through pleasant forests above Cascade Valley. Here I saw my first graceful mountain hemlock trees and in shaded places the strange red spikes of the parasitic chlorophyll lacking snow plant.

Late in the afternoon, for the first and only time in the High Sierra it snowed, flurries of big white flakes brought on a cold north-west wind. We took shelter in the gentle bowl of Tully Hole and squeezed the tents onto some snowfree ground below big trees. Mammoth Lakes was in reach so we no longer needed to ration food and ate large meals – pasta, instant soup, rice all mixed together and then instant puddings. None of it was satisfying though. I suspected this was because it was mostly processed carbohydrates, especially sugar. I wanted fats and protein to chew on and to fill me up.

With Mammoth Lakes so near I began to really look forward to a day or two in town. It was 25 days since, back in Weldon, I’d last had a shower, washed my clothes or eaten in a restaurant. Suddenly I really wanted to do all those. In the cold and the snow I hadn’t noticed how dirty and smelly I was. Now, with temperatures staying above freezing, it became unpleasantly obvious.

The High Sierra didn’t let us go without a final difficult day with hard going in soft and slippery snow to Duck Pass and then a nasty steep descent on icy snow. For the first time I needed to brake a fall with my ice axe. Finally though we emerged onto a highway. We’d crossed the snowbound High Sierra. Now it was time to get into town and celebrate. We stuck out our thumbs and soon had a ride. ‘You look like you’ve been out some time’, said the hikers who picked us up. ‘Do you want to go to the campground or a restaurant first?’ ‘Restaurant’ we responded instantly.

In Andersons Restaurant I ate a three-course meal with all trimmings, especially enjoying bread, cheese and crisp salad. It was huge and went down as if it was only a morsel. After this snack we made camp at the Shady Rest Campground. An hour after leaving we were back at the restaurant for another three-course meal. The waitress seemed surprised. Later in the evening Scott and Dave arrived. An ice cream parlour provided a pint of ice cream each to tide us over until morning.

After a shower the next morning I looked in the mirror at the bag of skin and bones that must be me. Only my legs had any muscle on them. My face was burnt dark despite all the glacier cream with pale circles round my eyes left by my sunglasses. My cheeks and chest were hollow, bones clearly visible. My arms were like matchsticks. Coming up was another long section, probably fifteen days, which meant another heavy load. I needed to replenish my energy as did the others so we spent two whole days in Mammoth Lakes, mostly eating. I collected my next food parcel plus mail and sat in restaurants writing letters and postcards. A bag of film went back to Kodak for processing. My pictures of the greatest adventure of my life so far.

A small ski and outdoor town Mammoth Lakes was an ideal place for such a long layover. Surrounded by forests and mountains I didn’t feel I’d really left the wilds, more that I was resting on the edge. Not so big as to seem truly urban and city-like Mammoth Lakes was large enough to have outdoor stores and supermarkets so I was able to replenish my supplies and buy some necessary odds and ends such as new socks, mine all being in holes, a candle lantern (an unnecessary but tempting purchase – it wasn’t actually much use) and 60 feet of 7mm rope. Larry bought a new pack to replace his broken one while Dave was lucky enough to meet a rep for The North Face who gave him a pack when he heard what he was doing. I sent my snowshoes to Warren Rogers – they were too big to mail home. I’d been carrying them much of the last few days and could do without the weight. My crampons, also seeing less use recently, did go home. I reckoned the snow would be soft and patchy enough from here on not to need them.

In Mammoth Lakes we saw Andy and Phil for the last time. They were going their separate ways, Andy to hitch-hike north in search of snowfree areas as he was sick of the snow and Phil to wait here, in his hometown, for the snow to melt. Other than Manuel we’d seen no other PCT hikers since Weldon and all sense of being part of a northbound backpacking community had vanished. Were any other hikers still on the trail? We didn’t know.

Before leaving we weighed our packs in an outdoor store. I was shocked. Mine came in at 92lbs, Larry’s went off the scale, which went up to 100lbs. We’d carried even more from Kennedy Meadows. How I didn’t know but it certainly wasn’t surprising that we’d only averaged 12 miles a day and that I’d eaten so much and still felt hungry.

A day in the woods from Mammoth Lakes saw us at Reds Meadow, a summer resort with various facilities. Now it was still snowbound and everything was closed. Hiking through sombre dark snowbound red fir forest we’d seen little. Tomorrow we’d return to the mountains. I lightened my load a little here as I discovered that my balaclava and long johns had shrunk in the drier at Mammoth Lakes, something I’d managed not to notice at the time. They went into a trash bin and I hoped forthcoming nights wouldn’t be too cold.

Before leaving Reds Meadow we had a look at the Devil’s Postpile, a strange hexagonal columnar basalt rock volcanic formation the same as the ones that make up the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland and Fingal’s Cave on the island of Staffa in the Hebrides. It looked like nothing else we’d seen on the walk.

Beyond Reds Meadow a new difficulty arose. The snow formed suncups - a series of bowls separated by thin ridges. Walking on these was hard-going, especially when they were big enough to be more than a stride apart and deep enough to require a high step to exit. Geometric uniformity seemed the theme of the day with the regular columns of the Devil’s Postpile and now the regular depressions of the suncups.

To make up for the hard work of the day we had a superb camp on a rocky bluff looking at Mount Ritter, Banner Peak and the pinnacles of the Minarets, fine mountains all. The first known ascent of the great rock block of Mount Ritter was by John Muir in 1872.

We were all struggling to adjust to being back in the snow with heavy packs. I think mentally we felt the success of the High Sierra crossing should mean being done with the snow and we were now beginning to resent it. Our third day out from Mammoth Lakes was, in the words of my journal, ‘strange and frustrating’. I was in a daze at first and the others seemed no better off. Concentrating on finding the trail in the snow was beyond us and it took four long postholing, trail losing hours to reach 1000 Islands Lake, a rate of maybe a mile an hour. The only consolation was the superb view along the lake to the mountains. Soon though we were back in dark red fir forest, also known as snow forest as the shade of these giant conifers means the snow lasts longer here than elsewhere. From the lake we straggled up through soft snow to Island Pass then dropped down to a camp beside Rush Creek. We’d progressed just eight miles. So much for easier going on the lower terrain. None of us felt very cheerful.

By the next evening our spirits were much improved. We’d walked seventeen miles and had reached Tuolumne Meadows where the store had opened for the summer just two days before – it had been closed when we were in Mammoth Lakes so we’d made no plans to use it. This meant some fresh snacks that evening. We were also now in Yosemite National Park, pictures of which had been the original inspiration for my walk. Reaching Tuolumne Meadows had begun slowly with more difficult snow to deal with en route to 11,050 feet Donohue Pass, the last high pass on the PCT in the Sierra Nevada. It was on this pass that we entered Yosemite. To our great delight looking down from the pass we could see that long Lyell Canyon, which led to Tuolumne Meadows, was snow free. The last nine miles of the day down this beautiful springtime valley with its meandering creek took just three hours. We hadn’t walked so fast since entering the High Sierra. The only downbeat note to the day was that my telephoto zoom lens had jammed with rust, having got damp on a creek ford. It never worked again.

Any idea that the most difficult and most dangerous part of the PCT was behind us was soon proved wrong in the Yosemite wilderness beyond Tuolumne Meadows. The next six days really were the toughest and most hazardous of the walk. The route here had the reputation for some of the steepest and longest ascents and descents on the PCT because it crosses the grain of the land, climbing over steep ridges and descending into deep canyons again and again, but these weren’t really a problem after the High Sierra passes. However the route was also reputed to have some of the hardest creek crossings even in summer. Arriving at the height of the spring thaw with the creeks overflowing with snowmelt meant these fords would be really dangerous. Deep snow still lay in the high forests and on the passes too, making for much arduous postholing. Even the meadows were hard to cross as each was a mass of suncups, some of them several feet deep and several feet across. And to finish off the severity of Yosemite there were big thunderstorms nearly every afternoon. But it was the creeks I remember most vividly. So many creeks, so much water, so much noise, so much risk. Many years later I returned for a summer backpacking trip and found it hard to believe that the little creeks I could easily paddle or rock hop across were the same ones that had been so savage on the PCT.

From Tuolumne Meadows Larry and I travelled separately from Scott and Dave. This was a mistake. We’d gone through the High Sierra together so we could support each other, both practically and mentally. Now that we thought the going was getting easier we reckoned we didn’t need to do that. In fact this was just the time when being in a group would have been much safer.

Initially we followed a good trail beside the racing Tuolumne River, a wide deep torrent we wouldn’t have considered fording. The amazing glaciated landscape around us was typically Yosemite with smooth rock domes and sharp spires – whale-backed Lembert Dome, the Horned Peaks of Unicorn and Cathedral, the big triangular face of Fairview Dome. Twice we crossed the river on bridges that were partly swamped by meltwater. At one some day-hikers – we met about twenty near Tuolumne Meadows, as many as on the rest of the walk so far put together - had paused and were staring at the water streaming over the bridge. They looked startled and somewhat shocked when we just stomped straight across. We didn’t expect to keep our boots dry anyway. We passed the thunderous waterfall called White Cascade, the biggest we’d seen, before turning up Cold Canyon where we hit the first awful suncupped meadows and then a raging mass of water called McCabe Creek. Water crashed round the trees and surged over snowbanks, making it hard to tell which was creek and which land. Many fallen trees spanned the roaring water. We selected a group that looked secure and crawled gingerly across just inches above the boiling white-water. The noise was deafening and disorientating and the logs slippery and wet with sharp stubs. I found the crossing very frightening and was relieved to reach the sagging snow of the far bank.

Camp was in the forest but the night was still frosty. The air was humid from the melting snow and all this moisture vapour condensed and froze on the trees and our sleeping bags, turning them white. The rising sun soon dissolved the frost however. The ensuing day was long, hard, hot and slow. There were many creeks to cross. Two of them – Return Creek and Spiller Creek - were waist-deep and we roped up for safety, belaying each other from the bank. Whilst the ropes were psychological aids I doubt they’d have been much use and could even have been a hindrance if one of us had been washed away. But feeling that link with another person, along with using the tension of the rope to help with balance, made using it worthwhile. My sixty feet of rope was barely long enough, Larry’s thirty feet wouldn’t have been so I was glad I’d bought it.

The fords in freezing water left us shaky with cold. A steep arduous climb in soft deep snow soon warmed us up. The cold water seemed to have dulled our minds too as we made some map reading mistakes, lost the route and became completely confused. In the forest there were few landmarks so once we’d mislaid the trail finding it again was difficult. As we considered what to do Scott and Dave appeared, having followed our footsteps in the snow. Looking at the map we could see that Miller Lake, which lay beside the trail, should be easy to identify. Reluctantly we climbed up to a ridge so we could look down at the landscape. Miller Lake appeared below us so back down we went. On the trail again we were soon in spectacular Matterhorn Canyon, a wonderful glaciated valley rimmed with steep walls and laced with sparkling blue lakes and rich green meadows, many sodden but free of snow. Exhausted by the fords and the deep snow we camped after just seven miles. Since Mammoth Lakes I’d been sleeping out every night. Usually I was so tired I slept until dawn but in Matterhorn Canyon I woke in the dark and lay on my back staring up through a circle of trees at the stars shining in the totally clear black sky. I felt relaxed and in the right place. The travails of the day had gone.

More passes, more canyons and more fords marked the following day, along with being unsure of our whereabouts again. The fords were rough but didn’t require roping up. The first pass, Benson, was just on timberline and gave grand views of surrounding peaks. Then it was back into the forest and down to Piute Creek. This stream had overflowed its banks and spread out into the forest. If there was a bridge it wouldn’t span most of the water. The area round the creek had become a swamp with many rotten fallen trees, mud and, a real nuisance for the first time, mosquitoes. The water was mostly slow but deep and we waded several waist-deep overflow channels before crossing the faster flowing main channel with another log crawl. Once out of the flooded forest we climbed through more magnificent glaciated scenery to Seavey Pass or at least somewhere near it. I wasn’t convinced we’d reached the right spot. The next canyon, Kerrick, still lay below however so it didn’t really matter. I just preferred knowing where I was. Scott and Dave decided to camp at the possible pass. Larry and I continued on, traversing steep but soft snow above yet another raging creek to camp about 100 feet above it amongst some red firs. The day again was hot, speeding up the snowmelt and leaving us sweaty but with cold wet feet from the wet snow.

Whenever there were views from passes and meadows we could see steep jagged mountains on the main Sierra Crest. This was the Sawtooth Ridge, the northernmost mountains in the Sierra Nevada over 12,000 feet high. Long before I knew about the PCT or wanted to visit the Sierra Nevada I’d read about these mountains as they appear in Jack Kerouac’s novel The Dharma Bums, which describes his attempt on one of them, Matterhorn Peak, in the company of a group including Japhy Ryder, who is a lightly fictionalised version of the poet Gary Snyder. A real mountaineer and wilderness lover unlike Kerouac, who was really more at home in bars and cars, Snyder wrote several poems featuring this area of Yosemite, one of them called Piute Creek. Inspired by Snyder Kerouac did spend some time in the mountains and became entranced with the idea of backpacking and wild camping, writing in The Dharma Bums ‘I wanted to get me a full pack complete with everything necessary to sleep, shelter, eat, cook, in fact a regular kitchen and bedroom right on my back, and go off somewhere and find perfect solitude’. This didn’t last however, perhaps if it had Kerouac would have had a happier and longer life.

The three days since Tuolumne Meadows had felt dominated by water with much time spent on creek crossings. There was more to come however. My journal entry for the fourth day begins ‘a day of water!’ It started with a crossing of Kerrick Creek. This foaming torrent looked unfordable so we cast around for a logjam. And not far downstream from the trail we found a massive one where the whole forest on both banks had been avalanched with big trees thrown over the creek. We crossed on several solidly jammed logs, again inching along in a maelstrom of foam, surging waves and deafening noise.

Relief from the water and the snow came on an ascent of a rocky trail lined with flowers. Birds sang in the trees and a buck mule deer, his antlers in velvet, watched us from the forest. Soon though we were going down again to the next ford – Stubblefield Canyon Creek. To cross this very deep and fast creek we went upstream to where three creeks merged to form it and forded each one separately. One of these was chest deep and all were strong. We roped up for two of them.

Another snow-free ascent followed. We were becoming used to this pattern now. Up south-facing slopes where the snow had melted to a pass on a spur of the main crest then down in deep snow into a canyon where there were creeks to ford before the next ascent. The next descent took us to nearly ice-free Wilma Lake where we had a knee-deep wade to the bridge over the outlet. Jack Main Canyon Creek was a wide, deep river that we quickly decided was beyond our fording abilities even with the aid of the rope. Instead we would work our way along the bank until we found somewhere it seemed safer to cross. That night we stopped near the creek and had just lit a fire when a huge thunderstorm broke out with torrential hail the size of marbles followed by heavy rain. We pitched the tents extremely quickly but still had much damp gear – though some of this was from the fords. The storm raged through the evening then declined to mist and drizzle. I realised it was the first real storm for two months.

Morning came with cloud and dampness. We spent a whole day slogging up Jack Main Canyon through soft snow and collapsing suncups. I was becoming disenchanted with this section of the trail. The effort required and the frightening fords seemed far in excess of the rewards. There was no choice but to go on anyway so I dismissed these thoughts. I certainly wasn’t going back! My mood improved when the sun appeared and we started to dry out. Then we reached Tilden Creek, the ultimate ford. It took an hour and half. This was because it was so wild and fast and furious that we decided we needed a fixed line across it. Larry crossed first, without his pack but with the rope tied round his waist. Near the far bank the water knocked him over but he managed to scramble out. With the rope tied between two trees and attached to it by a karabiner linked to a belt made by wrapping his bear bagging cord round and round his waist Larry returned, collected his pack and took it to the other side. Then it was my turn. Larry weighed 12 stone and was over six feet tall and found the crossing difficult. At 10 stone and 5 foot eight inches I just swung from the karabiner edging along on my heels, the force of the waist deep water bending me double. We now had the problem of retrieving the rope. Neither of us wanted to cross without it being tied between the trees. Then Larry said he knew a knot that came undone when you pulled the cord attached to it but which was otherwise secure though he hadn’t wanted to use it when carrying the packs. Back over the river he went to tie this knot and come back with the cord. Unfortunately just as he reached the bank he dropped the cord and away it went back to the far side. So Larry had to go back and start again. This time it worked. Larry had now forded Tilden Creek seven times. I was very impressed. Just once had been enough for me.

As if Tilden Creek wasn’t enough shortly after the ford we were crossing big Grace Meadow when a thunderstorm broke above us and lightening cracked all around. We dashed for the trees, amazed at how fast we could run through sloppy snow with heavy packs when we were scared enough. Once secure in the forest we camped, after just seven miles. I’d felt tired all day and was now exhausted. Yosemite was proving tougher than I’d expected. We left the park the next day though at Dorothy Lake Pass. Looking ahead we were amazed and relieved to see that the mountains were mostly snow free. We were also delighted when we found a bridge over the West Fork of the West Walker River after descending from the pass. Although we didn’t know it the hardest part of the walk from Mammoth Lakes to Echo Lake was over.

Yosemite was hard because of the steep glaciated terrain and the narrow canyons. On leaving the park the landscape changed dramatically. Gone were the steep cliffs and big rocky mountains, here the hills were lower and more rounded. The granite of Yosemite vanished. Here the volcanic rocks had a different colour, texture and form, which made for gentler more open scenery and easier walking. Steady rain that afternoon following another thunderstorm had me walking in my waterproof jacket for the first time on the walk. It had been worth bringing after all!

My appetite had not diminished and despite what had seemed like the enormous amount of food I’d carried from Mammoth Lakes, and which had been topped up at Tuolumne Meadows, I was running out again as was Larry. So when we reached Highway 108, the first since Tuolumne Meadows, we diverted from the trail and walked seven miles to Leavitt Meadows store where we found Scott and Dave who couldn’t resist the thought of food either but who’d managed to hitch a lift. Here I stuffed myself with cheese sandwiches, soft drinks, fruit pies and coffee. It all tasted glorious. I then stocked up on candy bars and fruit pies for the next few days. Despite us spending quite a bit of money the store owner made it clear he didn’t like backpackers and hassled us about packing up the groceries we’d bought outside the store. ‘An unpleasant nasty man’ I wrote in my journal. He stood out as the only person I met on the trail who was like that. His other customers were friendly however and interested in our walk.

Not wanting to walk back up the highway Larry and I joined Scott and Dave in hitch-hiking. It took three hours to get a ride but when we did the driver took all four of us and insisted on giving us fresh bread, cheese, butter and salad vegetables. His generosity more than made up for the crabby store owner.

Sonora Pass on Highway 108 is generally thought to mark the northern end of the High Sierra. From here on the Sierra Nevada is lower and less mountainous. The volcanic hills certainly looked different and the walking was easier, though in places there was still much snow, and mostly in the forest. Larry and I spent the first day north of Sonora Pass following Scott and Dave’s tracks, relying on them not to lose the trail, and then joining them to camp. The walking was suddenly less committing with no high passes, deep fords or icy slopes to contend with and I was able to relax more and let my mind wander. The weather was worse though and again heavy rain, hail and thunder raged through the afternoon. I was glad we hadn’t had such weather further south. The only real interest to the day was my first sighting of a porcupine, a large greenish beast that tried to climb a tree on seeing us but slid back down before wandering off into the trees, having seemingly forgotten our presence.

Midsummers Day arrived with mist and drizzle that dripped from the trees. The longest day remained damp as we slogged through thawing snow and along muddy trails below impressive purple, red, green and grey volcanic cliffs and pinnacles. The landscape felt more spread out and less mountainous. Here the forests dominated. The remoteness and sense of pristine wilderness had gone too. Sometimes we hiked on jeep tracks and highways appeared every so often. Following the trail wasn’t always easy though as sections were still snow-covered and some junctions were unsigned. Four days out from Sonora Pass Larry and I became completely unsure of our whereabouts. We were trying to locate a seemingly distinctive hill called The Nipple. However the first hill we thought might be it wasn’t and eventually we gave up trying to find it and just headed along a trail going roughly in the right direction. I was reminded of Alice in Through the Looking Glass only being able to reach a hill by walking away from it and was talking about this to Larry when we found a signpost. We were traversing The Nipple. Below us lay the half-frozen Blue Lakes just where they should be.

Eleven miles remained to Echo Lake and the end of the second longest continuous section of the PCT. The 178 miles from Mammoth Lakes had taken 16 days. The marathon crossing of the High Sierra really was over now. It had been the toughest backpacking trip I’d ever undertaken yet also the most satisfying. The landscape had been the most spectacular I’d ever seen too. However I needed to increase my daily mileage if I was to have any chance of reaching Canada. In total I’d now walked 942 miles in 83 days, an average of only just over 11 miles a day. I hope that easier terrain ahead would mean I could increase that greatly without too much effort.

Despite the need to press on I also needed a rest, as did Larry so we spent that afternoon and most of the next day at Little Norway, a hamlet above Echo Lake. Scott and Dave were going for a longer break and hitch-hiked to South Lake Tahoe. At Little Norway we slept in a woodshed and used the bar as an office and packing room. There was a PCT register in the Post Office from which we learned that Ken, who we’d last seen in Weldon and who’d planned on hiking up the highway in Owens Valley had been here three weeks ago, despite having ten days off in Independence with an infected blister on his foot. Clearly hiking the highway was much faster than traversing the snows of the High Sierra. I had no doubts about my preference though.

On learning we’d come through the High Sierra the Postmaster put us in contact with Mike Lewis, a reporter from the local paper, the North Lake Tahoe Bonanza, who wanted to interview the first PCT hikers to make it through the snow. We spent an evening with Mike in the bar and he said he’d send us copies of the interview. Sure enough several weeks later a photocopy of the article arrived in the mail. Mike described us as ‘looking like miners out of an 1849 gold rush photograph’ in the picture he took. We certainly looked rather wild and in my case very skinny.

Two other PCT hikers turned up while we were at Little Norway. John was heading south and planning on finishing at Mount Whitney. He had discouraging tales of 50% snow cover ahead along with difficult fords and route finding problems. Our stories of Yosemite weren’t encouraging for him either. After John had left the second PCT hiker turned up – by bus! This guy had started two weeks after me and had made it all the way to Tuolumne Meadows without any snow or ice gear. The Yosemite creeks had stopped him though. He’d fallen into Spiller Creek and trapped his foot between two rocks. Somehow he’d then managed to free himself and scramble out but with a sprained ankle and a badly gashed foot. With difficulty he’d limped back to Tuolumne Meadows where a doctor advised him he needed to take a few days or more off from hiking whilst his injuries healed. Not wanting to tackle the creeks again anyway he’d caught the bus to here. He’d been lucky to survive the creeks and very brave to tackle them on his own. There’s no way I’d have done that.

Hoping for less snow and warmer weather ahead and liking the idea of lighter loads Larry and I both sent home some gear. I managed to shed 10lbs including the rope, Larry double that. With resupply points closer together now as well we’d be carrying much less, which should make hiking easier and also longer daily mileages more feasible. Although we both intended hiking solo eventually Larry and I decided to stay together until we were sure there were no more deep creek fords or big snowfields to deal with. Ahead lay the northern Sierra Nevada and then the start of the Cascade Mountains before we finally left California.