Inspired by Andrew F.’s recent visit to the Middle Fork Kings, I reserved a permit for the Copper Creek Trailhead out of Road’s End, in Kings Canyon National Park, for Friday, August 8th.
Andrew F. published an excellent trip report summarizing his trip. It contains descriptions of flora and fauna, and of the natural history of the area; has beautiful photos and descriptions of alternate routes; and in general, provides wonderful context for his visit to the region.
In comparison, my TR will read like a third-grader’s book report, with shoddy cell-phone camera pictures hastily thrown in.
The purpose of my trip was drastically different than Andrew’s. He took 4.5 days, and sought to do off-trail exploring around Arrow Peak, but diverted due to weather. My “plan” was to do three big-mile days, pushing myself physically and—I assumed—mentally. I should mention that I’m not in “trail shape”—I haven’t carried a pack nor done significant hiking since May. This occurred to me about halfway through day one.
It would be a “first” in a lot of areas for me:
1. First significant solo trip (> 1 night, > 20 miles)
2. First hike with >10,000 ft. ascent in a day
3. First time doing 30 mile days (back-to-back, at that)
4. First time solo with significant night hiking, and
5. First time solo in significant inclement weather.
Also the first trip wearing shorts, but as a bullet point, that seems to lack impact.
A brief summary of the hike is below. After that, I ramble on at length, occasionally drifting off to unrelated topics, until I eventually get tired, and click “post”.
Summary:
The map and elevation profile are shown below. The distances below come from Tom Harrison maps; the elevation changes and the profile are from Sierra Mapper.
The map has timestamps on it from when I actually arrived at certain places— those came from my recorded SPOT messages, or my memory.
Day 1:
Copper Creek Trailhead to Palisade Creek / Middle Fork Kings junction
32.3 miles
+10,813/-7,805 ft
Day 2:
Palisade Creek / Middle Fork Kings junction to Dollar Lake
32.7 miles
+9,721/-7,546 ft
Day 3:
Dollar Lake to Road’s End Trailhead via Glen Pass
22.9 miles
+2,928/-8,132 ft
Larger, interactive map is here
Full-size profile is here
The Plan
I didn’t really have a firm plan. I looked at the maps, and looked at the profile. I asked Andrew about water sources, trail conditions, and locations of established campsites along the Middle Fork Trail. Armed with that, I decided “I’ll just walk until I don’t want to anymore.”
And that’s basically what I did.
My primary plan was to complete the loop shown above, but my fall-back plan—if I was slow, injured, or held for weather at Pinchot—was to exit using the Wood’s Creek trail via Paradise Valley instead of continuing over Glen Pass and descending Bubb’s Creek. That would save about 15 miles and about 4,000 feet of climbing—not that significant.
The kicker was that I only had three days—I was due back at work on Monday.
Gear
Everything I carried is shown below. Base weight (including a Bearikade Weekender) was 10.3 lbs. Total starting weight, including consumables, was just under 17 lbs.
Left-to-right, top-to-bottom: Bear can, visor and bandanna, rain shell, first aid kit (including firestarter, headlamps, Aqua Mira, etc), 20 oz and 32 oz Gatorade bottles; gloves, fleece hat, fleece balaclava, toiletries, Zpacks Hexamid Solo tarp; baselayer pants and top, hooded down jacket, cellphone, TP, 30 degree quilt; Steripen, clean hiking socks, maps, trowel, bear can tool, and SPOT, 1/8” CCF pad with MLD bivy rolled up inside
Food
All the food I packed is shown below—about 12k calories. The quart-sized ziplocs in the lower left contain snack-sized ziplocs, which in turn contain single servings of Perpetuem. The Pringles can contains about 9 servings of Pringles, crushed so it fits in a single Pringles can. The baggie on the right with the gold in it contains two chocolate bars. The row of white packets are peanut or almond butter packets; the row of orange bars are Probars. The baggie in the lower-right contains 5 oz of beef jerky and three sticks of string cheese: I’m from Wisconsin; we believe it’s bad luck to adventure without cheese.
Day 1
An early departure from the bay area, and I’m at the Road’s End permit station at 8:15am. A couple ahead of me is speaking with the ranger—I overhear the ranger say: “No, I don’t think you want the Copper Creek trailhead. Why don’t you come back at 9:00, and see if any of the Woods Creek or Bubb’s Creek permits are available?”
Quite a sales pitch for my trailhead, I think.
I must finally look like I know what I’m doing. I say that after the ranger says to me twice: “You look like you know what you’re doing”. Is it the shorts? I’ve never backpacked in shorts before. Is that the secret handshake?
I stuff my face at the trailhead, and start hiking around 8:55am. The climb starts immediately, but is gently graded, with a soft trail. Switchbacks…why do people hate switchbacks? I think I might love them. The trail ascends about 6,000 in the first seven miles, but I’m flying along. The virtues of fresh legs and a light pack! I pass a number of hikers, most with pretty cumbersome loads. One of them hiked this very trail 57 years ago! I hope I’m doing this in 57 years.
The switchbacks continue for miles. I cross water a few times, and stop each time to drink—I’m not carrying any. Eventually I leave the woods, and the views open up to the south; I can see some high peaks, but I can’t name them; I haven’t spent enough time in southern Kings Canyon. Can I see the Kaweahs? I doubt it. But they’re out there somewhere.
At 12:30pm, I reach the top of the ridge, and descend into Granite Basin. Ah, beautiful Sierra granite.
I ascend towards Granite Pass, and I’m on top by 1:45pm. I stop to chat with some hikers—they camped at Upper Tent Meadow last night. I’ve been alone for long enough that I’m starting to get chatty. I don’t know it at the time, but the peaks I see far to the north are old friends: Mt. Darwin and Wheel Mountain. After descending the pass, the clouds that have been building begin to deliver—rain at first, then hail, then heavier rain. I’m off the pass, so I don’t care. “Bring it on!”, I say, to either myself or mother nature. This is why I’m out here.
I wind my way through a light forest, then begin the long descent to Simpson Meadow and the Middle Fork Kings. I can see the canyon of the Middle Fork Kings ahead, but can’t see the bottom—it’s far, far below. The descent consists of loose, dusty switchback after loose, dusty switchback.
Andrew had warned:
“You’ll do anything to avoid going back up the switchbacks to Simpson Meadow,”
and now I know what he meant. It was a pleasure to go down—you could almost glissade—but going up would be a two-steps-forward, one-step-back ordeal.
Looking south towards Kings Canyon. The tallest peak directly in front is Palmer Mountain; the lower peak to the right is Avalanche Peak. Below and to the left is the Sphinx.
Looking south across Granite Basin
Looking north, towards the canyon of the Middle Fork Kings: Wheel Mountain and Mt. Darwin are among those peaks
Descending into the Middle Fork Kings gorge. Charybdis on the left; Wheel Mountain in the middle
Dust from the switchbacks fills my shoes, even with my gaiters on. The price of breathability, I guess.
Finally—finally—I’m at the bottom. It’s 6:25pm, and according to the SEKI mileage, I’m 22.8 miles into the day. I realize that my original mileage estimates are a little off. Originally, I thought this might be a good place to camp, but I’ve already spotted a sign:
JMT 9 MILES
it says. As soon as I see it, I decide to continue. People hike 3 mph, right? So…I should make it by 9:30pm, if I move quickly. And I move quickly. The mosquitoes in this meadow are particularly horrendous, and that helps me move quickly.
I’m doing the math as I hike: if I camp at the JMT junction, I should be around 11 miles from Mather Pass, and around 21 miles from Pinchot Pass. If I start early, I’ll get over Mather early, but can I get over Pinchot by early afternoon? If I hike at 2.5 mph, then 21 miles is a little over eight hours…so if I start at 4:00am, I’ll be over around noon. Perfect!
Back in the world I should be paying attention to, the trail has grown more and more faint, and soon I’m convinced that I’ve lost it. The meadow is narrow; bounded on one side by the Middle Fork Kings, and on the other by talus. I don’t think I’ve gone too far on not-the-trail, but rather than backtrack, I hike towards the talus from the river, hoping to intersect the trail. The grass in the meadow is wet from rain, so my shoes are soon completely soaked. The dust from the switchbacks becomes mud in my shoes, and starts to chafe.
I reach the talus slope, and still haven’t found the trail.
F***.
I don’t have time to lose. The setting sun is racing me—I want to make the most of this daylight. I work my way back across the meadow, towards the river.
Argh! How can this happen? I’m not sure whose fault it is, but at the time, I’m pretty sure it’s not mine. I’m not thinking about how beautiful the meadow is, or being thankful that it’s still light out, of course.
I know which direction the trail goes—it just ascends along the river—should I hike along the river until I (undoubtedly) run into the trail?
I decide there’s too much schedule risk in that maneuver. I clench my jaw, and start to backtrack. I don’t have far to go, and after a quarter mile or so, I find a Y. I had taken the path more worn, so I take the one less traveled, and soon see signs of an engineered trail. I guess Frost was right. It’s 7:00pm—darn.
As I hike the rocky, overgrown, roller-coaster trail along the river, my mood worsens. I stop for water at a creek crossing, but the mosquitoes are relentless, so I keep going. The clouds clear as the sun sets. By 8:30pm, inky darkness has crept over the canyon, so I don my headlamp.
I’m going slow now, but I don’t care. Nightfall has done something. The sun has set; there’s nothing left to race, so I take my time. My mood has improved—that’s what happens when you stop caring.
A brilliant full moon rises above the canyon walls, and bathes me and the granite in its cold light. The silver walls tower over me—me and the dark, crashing river, far below. I realize how happy I am—how excited I am to be alone in this beautiful canyon, yet at the same time so calm: hiking alone, at night, several miles from where I need to be, and many miles from where I started, in a gorge that I appear to have all to myself. If this isn’t power—if this isn’t life—what is?
I’m starting to feel like this wasn’t such a stupid plan after all. After all, I’ll be on the JMT tomorrow morning—no more getting lost—and it’ll be up and over Mather, then the mercy of the weather gods for Pinchot. But there’s nothing wrong with being at their mercy—by all natural law, we should be at their mercy. We forget that nowadays.
I move in and out of the shadows, up and down and up and down, along the roller- coaster trail carved from the steep canyon wall. My moon-induced euphoria keeps me going—up, down, up, up. Every so often, the trail plays hide-and-seek with me, and I have to sweep my headlamp around, looking for it. I don’t mind playing this game.
But there’s no getting over the toll of the miles. My feet ache, and my wet shoes have made admirable progress towards heel blisters that have been forming since Simpson Meadow. My legs are tired, my knee aches, and I’m coughing pretty frequently. It’s a dry cough; it’s there whenever I breathe too deeply. I’m glad I’m below 8,000 ft—this can’t be an altitude-sickness cough, it must just be an I’ve- sucked-too-much-dry-mountain-air cough. I’m cold and put on my shell, but nothing else.
I’m ready to be done for the day, but I’m unwilling to stop until I’m across Palisade Creek and back at home, on the JMT. So I just keep walking.
Empty the mind and walk.
“Clomp, ting, clomp, ting, clomp, ting”, say my shoes and trekking poles, as I creep along the rocky trail.
And then I hear a rushing creek in front of me, and a few paces more, and I’m there. Done! Just cross the footbridge, and find a flat spot.
Except, where’s the footbridge?
I look around. My headlamp stabs through the night, illuminating wet rocks and whitewater. This is not a small creek. This must be Palisade Creek. I look at the USGS Topo.
“Footbridge,” I read aloud.
I sweep my headlamp upstream and downstream. Rocks, trees, bushes, water. Empty black void where there isn’t one of those. There is certainly no footbridge—at least, not where I am. Exhaustedly, I wonder if this some kind of joke, where I don’t even get what I’m not getting.
Am I still on the trail? I wander around for a little while, and go back to where the trail definitely is, and follow it to the creek again.
There is certainly no footbridge.
I’ve never waded across a creek at night, but this always was supposed to be trip of firsts. Shoes on—they’re wet anyway—I make my way across. The water is only thigh-deep at the deepest spot, and not as cold as I expect.
Across the creek, I squish around for five minutes, looking for a trail—any trail— but can’t find anything. I do find a flat spot, and immediately nickname it “bed”.
I throw down my sleeping pad, quilt, and bivy—no tarp needed tonight. In the comfort of my quilt and dry sleep clothes, I review my maps, and pull out my compass. I realize that I don’t think I’ve ever needed to use a compass in the backcountry before. The thousands of dollars I spent flying Cessnas in my teenage years pay off: at least I know how to use a compass, and can adjust for declination.
At the end of my orienteering session, all I can say for sure is that I’m pretty damn sure that I know where I am. It appears the JMT may not be where it’s supposed to be. And that footbridge too.
I move the bear can off to the shrubbery, and give my muscles one last rub down. 32.3 miles today—not counting my lost wanderings—and something like 10,800 feet of climbing. Burly.
When I go to bed at 11:30pm, I don’t know for certain where I am—there’s a missing footbridge, and a missing JMT. I do know for certain that I’ll laugh about this later. Just not yet.
But, it’s another first: the first time I’ve gone to bed slightly lost.
My original plan was to wake up well before dawn, so I could get over Mather, and make my thrust over Pinchot before the weather could counter-attack. But I think that daylight is the best remedy for my slight locational predicament, so I set the alarm for 5:30am.
Sleep comes quickly, even though I’m still coughing.
Day 2
I wake up and test my legs.
I’m worried, of course, that I broke them yesterday. They’ve never done that before. I hope they’re willing to do it again today.
I go through my morning ritual, which consists of sitting up in my quilt, accomplishing as many tasks as I possibly can without getting out. Usually, that’s just about everything, except packing up the quilt, and rolling up the CCF pad and bivy.
I’m on my feet by 6:15am.
“North-east”, I say aloud, and follow my compass. The trail should be to the north-east, I reasoned last night.
I run into it in less than fifteen paces. Back on I-210.
In stark contrast to yesterday’s trail, people are suddenly everywhere. I ascend, passing backpacker after backpacker. Most are getting their camps packed up. I stop to talk to many of them, due in large part to my eighteen-hour social drought. Mostly JMTers. Mostly surprised by my small pack.
“Do you even bring a tent?”, they ask, wide-eyed.
Soon I’m ascending the Golden Staircase. I pass a few hikers. In one group, I pass a woman, then a few minutes later a second woman, then finally a third. She’s a few minutes ahead of the other two.
“I’m the slowest one”, she says, nonsensically. I don’t understand, but I’ve already awkwardly said “yeah”, so I continue.
By 9:00am, I’m At lower Palisade Lake. I pause for breakfast, and for water; I wisely carried none up the Golden Staircase.
It’s as beautiful as I remember it—perhaps more so, since this time the skies are bluebird.
What kind of world is this that I can do this—be here—in a weekend?
Looking back down the Golden Staircase. Wheel Mountain and Devil’s Crags are straight ahead.
Upper Palisade Lake. Mather Pass is the lowest notch, to the left, in the background.
I finish the climb to Mather by 11:00am, passing—and chatting with—many hikers along the way. At the top, it’s a veritable party. I talk to a crotchety old guy, who is leading a group of four, and who Hikes His Own Hike, but thinks yours is wrong. I meet a woman who has a Zpacks pack. She’s the talk of the pass.
“What do Cubans know about fiber?”, the hikers ask her.
I ask her a few questions about support in frameless packs, then unintentionally steal her thunder when I mention that my pack started at 17 lbs, and is probably around 14 lbs now.
“Do you even bring a tent?”, the hikers ask me, wide-eyed.
“Why did you tell us we needed all this stuff?” the old crotchety hiker’s group asks him.
I zip down the south side of Mather, into glorious Upper Basin, basking in the awesome scenery that surrounds me. Heaven is something like this place, isn’t it?
Looking south from Mather Pass, across Upper Basin
Another gratuitous Upper Basin photo
There’s a hiker ahead who I’m slowly catching up to. He’s hiking fast, or I’m hiking slow. I begin to rope him in. I almost have him when I come across a scene requiring pause: at a South Fork Kings crossing, a large group (perhaps a dozen) of hikers have laid all their gear out—all over the bright granite slabs. It looks like an REI exploded.
“Odd place for a yard sale,” I say, proud of my wit.
“Yes!” one says back. No others respond. I sense a language barrier, and return to my task of reeling in the Fast Hiker. That was witty, wasn’t it?
I’ve soon caught up to him. His name is Avi, and he’s backpacking for the first time—through-hiking the JMT. He’s on day 16 or so, which surprises me—at his pace, I figured he was on day 8 or 9.
“I like to hike fast, then stop and enjoy myself,” he says.
A man after my own heart, I think. Except I’m skipping the enjoying part, on this trip.
We hike together—because I want someone to hike with, and because he’s moving at pretty close to my speed. Even with all the JMT hikers, I’m pretty socially deprived—I haven’t had a conversation that was longer than ten sentences since Thursday. We talk about all sorts of things, but mostly lightweight backpacking.
The trail is easy and the scenery beautiful; when I’m not talking to Avi, I’m thinking about Pinchot Pass. Clouds have begun to form, but they don’t look too menacing yet. I think I’ll hike towards Pinchot, and if things get nasty, I’ll pitch my tent, and wait until evening. Then I’ll hike over Pinchot at twilight, and descend to Wood’s Creek crossing by moonlight.
“I think I’ll probably camp at Marjorie Lake and hike over Pinchot Pass by moonlight,” psychic Avi says to me.
I tell Avi to look for me there—I’ll be in a blue tarp that looks like an origami spaceship. I’ll be there if there is weather is bad; maybe we can hike over together.
I leave Avi, and continue on, still descending. I am stopped by a group of three, who ask me a few ultralight backpacking questions. I never turn down an opportunity to proselytize this religion of mine, so I pull out my cuben-skinned titanium pulpit, and deliver a sermon on the topic of camp shoes, sleeping pads, tarps, and quilts, and close with a few warnings on “stupid-light”.
Soon I’m on way down again. All this chatting is really slowing me down, but I don’t mind. I’m not really racing anything anymore, although I probably should be —the cloud development has slowed, but not stopped.
I break at the bottom to drink some water, then start the ascent. I feel like I’m not moving as fast as I should be. I don’t know if it’s the altitude, or exhaustion—I’ve already climbed 5,000 feet today, and I’m not sure how much of a recovery I made overnight.
At the turn-off to Bench Lake, I pause with JMT hikers Scott and Dave.
“Are you going to go for it?”, they ask me, referring to the ascent over Pinchot.
“Yeah, these (I motion to the clouds) don’t look too bad. If they get worse, or there’s thunder, I’ll rethink it,” I say.
They’re going for it too, so we get a move-on. My move-on is faster than their move-on, so soon I’m hiking alone again. The climb is fairly easy, but the clouds continue to grow and darken.
I pass Marjorie Lake, and tip my hat.
I’m soon on the final push towards the pass. At least, I think I’m on the final push, until I see a speck of a person far ahead and far above, moving over what must be the true pass. Darn.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m where the speck was. I hear distant thunder, and am glad to be on top. To the south the weather looks better—there are large patches of blue sky.
Looking back towards Mather Pass (the lowest notch) from the Bench Lake junction.
South of Pinchot Pass. Beautiful.
One more south-of-Pinchot shot. Cedric Wright is to the center, Baxter is front-left. Off to the right, I might be able to see Cotter and Clarence King, but I’m not sure.
Down, down, down—down to the beautiful plains below Pinchot Pass, then down, down, down, down to the Sawmill Pass junction and Wood’s Creek. As I’m descending, the storm erupts behind me—I suspect (hope!) I’m the last person that went over the pass.
Down, down, down, down down, and the rain starts. Light at first, then heavier, then light. It stays light, but doesn’t stop.
As I descend, the aches and pains from my body begin to report in. I’m not done yet, but I’ve hiked 25 miles today, climbed 8,000 ft and descended 6,000 ft. After yesterday’s punishment, I think things might be starting to come apart and break down. My ankles are one of those things—both ache, the right worse. I’m also tired. So tired. I probably slept less than four hours a night for two nights in a row. I can’t wait to sleep.
Down, down, down. Never. Ending. Descent.
I’m reminded of last year, when Dad and I came down this trail. We had gone too far for the day, and it had gotten too late, and we were hiking by headlamp. Tough day for Dad. It wasn’t raining then, at least.
I see the obvious canyon—from which Wood’s Creek drains—ahead and to the left, and soon, I’m there. I cross the suspension bridge, which has more slats missing than I remember. On the other side, it’s people everywhere—another party.
I chat with Mickey, an older hiker. Mickey is a nice guy. I tell him I’m going to soak my feet and have a snack, and then I’ll be back.
I head down to Wood’s Creek. I soak my aching ankles, and drink some water, and eat some Pringles. Then chocolate, and peanut butter. Then more Pringles.
It’s 6:30pm, and I’m trying to decide what to do. I’m pretty beat. I could sleep like a rock here, at this party. But it’s still light out, and it seems like blasphemy—for the purposes of this trip—to stop while it’s still light out. Plus it’s raining, so if I stopped here, I’d pretty much just set up my tarp and go to sleep. I’ve still got a few miles left in my legs, don’t I?
I decide go four miles further, to Dollar Lake. I put my shoes on, and climb up from Wood’s Creek, to talk to Mickey and procrastinate a bit.
We chat about life, and about hiking. He finds out I’m an engineer, and tells me that he was just hiking with four engineers; they had a wonderful trip. He recommends I read the book The Last Season, which is about a backcountry ranger who was stationed at Bench Lake.
While we’re chatting, I look around. All the hikers here—they must be new at this, I reason. None of them are wearing shorts.
Soon I’m off, like a crazy person, hiking upwards into the rainy twilight, away from the Nice Campsites.
Shortly after starting to move again, my body exudes a chorus of complaints: knees, ankles, blisters, even elbows. I imagine that there are a lot of flashing lights in my body’s control room. Circuit breakers need resetting. A few things need to be booted-up in safe-mode. Not all features are functional.
It’s raining, but I’m happy—I know I’m totally crushing it. If I get to Dollar Lake, I’ll have done two greater-than 30 mile days; unheard of for Wisconsin Adam. And tomorrow will be easy—just up and over Glen Pass, then down down down to Road’s End. Should be there by…3:00pm? I’m not sure. Math is one of the features that appears to no longer be functional.
But Dollar Lake doesn’t get here as soon as I want it to. I check my maps. I’m not even halfway.
Just like last night. Clear your mind and walk.
The sun begins to set, and the rain slows. Soon I’m in the twilight phase where I probably should have a headlamp on, but don’t, because I think I can just squint a little harder.
In an unusual spot—about 50 feet off-trail, in a clearing, I see a backpacker. He’s leaning on his poles, looking at me, but standing perfectly still. I can see his hat and his face and his pack. He doesn’t move.
“Hi!”, I offer.
Nothing. No movement.
This is one of those things, isn’t it? This is like when you’re a kid, and you wake up, and see your clothes draped across a chair in your room, and you see a person there, staring at you. But it’s just clothes—it’s your mind making things up.
Or maybe I’m just tired enough to hallucinate. I’m not sure. I keep going.
I hear something over my left shoulder, and look. BEAR!
The bear is perhaps 75 feet away. While I’m wondering if it is a hallucination too, it moves, and my wondering ceases. It shows no interest in me, so I keep going.
I decide it’s headlamp time, and don it.
Ten minutes later, I get a heebee-jeebee, and turn around. With glowing eyes, the bear is staring right back at me, less than fifty feet away.
“BLARGH!”, I yell. “BLARGHUBLABLABLABLA!”
I reach down and throw some rocks, and he runs off, crashing through the bushes.
A trip of firsts, I remind myself. First time I’ve been stalked by a bear.
I clear my mind and walk. I’m not afraid of bears. I know the facts, I know the data. Still, I check my six every so often.
“Just stretching my neck,” I justify.
Time passes. I reach the 10,000 ft sign, and know I must be close. I’m coughing again.
It’s beautiful like last night, but I don’t have the awe or the triumph. I’m just tired.
Fin dome emerges, and is spectacular in the moonlight. But everything is spectacular out here, so I’m not really wowed.
I reach Dollar Lake, and try to quietly explore, looking for a flat spot. I find a good one, although it’s within earshot of two other tents. If they’re up at 5:00am, I’ll apologize, I promise myself.
I’m in my quilt soon. No tarp again, but the clouds above seem too numerous too ignore. After warming up in the quilt for a bit, I decide to pitch the tarp.
My body temperature is doing weird things, and my cough is worse. When I get out, I’m shivering—uncontrollably—but I don’t feel that cold. A few minutes after getting back in my quilt, I’m sweating profusely. Hat on—too hot. Hat off. Too cold. What the hell is going on?
“A trip of firsts,” I remind myself.
With my tarp pitched, I climb back in my quilt. I have the odd sensation of being in a prison. At some point in the last few years, the psychology of sleeping in a shelter had, bizarrely, reversed: I used to have an affinity towards sleeping in a shelter, and now I can’t stand sleeping in one.
At first, I go through sweat-chill-sweat-chill cycles, interspersed with coughing spells. Fortunately, within an hour, my physiology seems to calm down. Still, my sleep is fitful: I’m awake at 11:30pm, then 12:00am, then 12:30am, then 1:00am. I sleep until 3:00am, then poke my head out from under the tarp: clear skies.
From under my quilt, I tear down the prison-tarp, and sleep soundly.
Day 3
I awake at around 5:00am. With a strange feeling of clairvoyance, I already know about several aches and pains in my body. Presumably, they bothered me throughout the night.
I’m packed up and on the trail by 5:55am, but stop at the first log crossing for blister treatment. I’m still paying the price for the Great Wet Shoe Incident from Day 1. I’m a little more worried about my right ankle—she’s yelling at me, using a voice that wants to be heard.
Should I turn around and head back down via Paradise Valley, I wonder?
I don’t, of course. “It’ll get better”, I tell myself, “Worst case scenario, you have an extremely painful 22 mile day ahead of you.”
I hoped that thought would be more reassuring than it was.
The lakes fly by—Arrowhead Lake, then Lower Rae Lake, then the isthmus. I pass camper after camper. Many haven’t stirred from their tents. The ones that have have begun their multi-hour process to get fed and brushed and flossed and sunscreened and packed and probably fed again before they hit the trail. They’re Hiking Their Own Hike, and I think it’s great—but I wonder, do they know about the other Hikes they could Hike? I didn’t, when I hiked the Rae Lakes loop in 2009, with a 55 lb pack.
The scenery is beautiful. The first rays of sunlight illuminate Painted Lady. I look upwards towards Glen Pass. Good old friend, Glen. Always an easy ascent.
First light on Painted Lady. Glen Pass is the low notch that is center-right.
Soon I’m ascending Glen, and he’s not as easy as I remember. I wonder if I’m not recovering sufficiently. I should be flying, but feel like I’m creeping. I pass a few older hikers, and they ask me:
“Were you the one that camped next to us last night?”
“Where did you camp?” I ask.
“Right at the point.”
I don’t know what that means, but I say “No, I camped at Dollar Lake”.
“Oh.”
(authors note: I’m not sure it’s worth including this conversation in the TR, but I don’t have the heart to delete it. Some part of me hopes they’ll read this, and be able to explain what the guy that camped next to them did.)
Up, up, up. Glen is harder than I remember. Is it me, or is it Glen? Up, up, up.
Soon enough, I’m on top. It’s 8:15am. I take a promised selfie at the top. It’s at this point that I realize that I don’t know how to take a selfie; that I never have before. Sometimes you should just act your age. I look at the photo. It’s the worst selfie ever. I take pictures of the nearby peaks. These turn out better.
Worst selfie ever.
Glen Pass panorama, 1/4
Glen Pass panorama, 2/4. Goodale is juuuust peaking out.
Glen Pass panorama, 3/4
Glen Pass panorama, 4/4
I descend the south side of Glen, breaking at the tarn just below the pass for water and a snack. Soon I’m back on trail, and it’s down, down, down.
My ankle—my right ankle—is really burning. I find if I hit the ground just right, it doesn’t hurt, but I have to focus on it.
“Can I do this for 16 miles?”, I wonder.
Down, down, down. At Junction Meadow, I soak my feet in an icy Bubb’s Creek, and contemplate jumping in. I don’t.
Down, down, down. My ankle aches. It gets better and worse in waves. I keep looking up, ahead and to the left, along the southern wall of the canyon; looking ahead for the Sphinx, because I know I’m close then. But it never shows up.
I somehow lose the trail at the Charlotte Creek crossing and wander around for a few minutes. I find the trail, and pull out a Payday, and start munching it. I’m carrying my poles, eating the candy bar, walking along silently.
I round a corner and see motion out of the corner of my eye. Bear! Another bear!
“BLARGHUBLABLABLABLA!”, I yell again.
The bear runs twenty feet, and hides behind a log. A big log—a 5 foot diameter log, that is perpendicular to the trail. If I walk by the end of the log, the bear might be there, waiting for my Payday bar.
I throw a rock above the log, and hit a tree behind it. The bear was waiting right where I suspected he might be—waiting to ambush me as I walked past the log on the trail. But enough is enough; even a Payday bar isn’t worth all these rocks flying around. The bear scampers off.
Soon I’m at the Sphinx, and past the Sphinx, and it’s easy-peasy switchbacks down to the valley floor. I take a dip in the South Fork Kings at the Bailey bridge, and stroll the two-mile sandy walk back to the ranger station, my car, and–eventually–cheeseburgers.
Post-trip comments
It’s over a week later, and my ankle still hurts when I walk on it, but I’ve been running on it too. It’s not in bad shape. No other injuries of note, just soreness for a few days.
I always ask myself “What would I do differently?”
There’s not much.
In terms of gear:
I wouldn’t wear La Sportiva Wildcats again. Too breathable. I loved Raptors, but I’ve had blister problems with the heel of the Ultra Raptors. I need to sort that out.
My pack was excessive. It’s a MLD Exodus FS, which means it has the carbon fiber rods, and the air pad. It weighs about 24 oz. With a loaded pack that is under twenty pounds, I don’t think I even need a waist belt, much less the rods or a pad. I should have taken them out before I started. I should try fitting my 1/8” CCF pad in the pad sleeve.
My quilt was a little warmer than needed. It’s a 20 degree quilt with 1 oz of overstuff. I could definitely have gotten by with a 30 degree quilt. A Zpacks 30 degree quilt could save me something like 8 oz.
I would definitely wear shorts again; shorts for the win.
In terms of food:
I brought 12,000 calories; I ate 10,300. So I got that about right. I was only out for 2d6h, so had I been out for the full 3d, I certainly would have eaten more. Next time, I’d bring an extra 2k calories, and really try hard to eat more. The food I brought was great. I craved the beef jerky on the second morning, so maybe I need to bring more protein. Or maybe beef jerky is just really tasty.
In terms of itinerary:
I wouldn’t do anything different. What a spectacular trail! The scenery was outstanding. This could be done as a leisurely 4 or 5 day trip. For me, three days was pretty intense—maybe even that would be leisurely for others. But I was looking for an intense trip.
This was perfect.
Oh–maybe a little more training would’ve helped.
