“F–k!” I exhale. It is late afternoon, I am climbing the Golden Staircase in driving rain, and here, near the end of day 3, the Big SEKI Loop is kicking my butt. I am definitely not having fun. I am definitely overdoing it, physically exhausted, and not sure where I lost the plot.
How I got here
The last two years had been a churn. A cancelled project, my team dissolved, and the first half of 2023 spent in a job search that moved us back to Arizona. Then came the house, the unpacking, the settling. Our daughter’s family began their year‑long, staggered move back to the state. And just as the dust started to settle, my company “retired” me; three years ahead of our plan. Suddenly I was navigating Medicare, estate documents, and the strange quiet that follows a career’s abrupt end.
I needed space. Time. A place to think, or maybe just empty my head. Life had stacked up, my mind cluttered with endings, loose ends, and beginnings, none of them sorted. The unconscious hoarding had become a daily burden.
It was long past time for a Sierra hike. And when I told my wife, she didn’t hesitate. “I was wondering when you were going to get back out there.” That was all I needed.
I keep a handful of routes sketched out and at least one fully mapped at all times. For this trip I wanted long days, a physical challenge, mostly trail so I could fall into a rhythm, and enough solitude that nothing added to the clutter. The Big SEKI Loop checked most of my boxes.
Clockwise from Copper Creek. Ten trail days. One hundred fifty‑six miles. No resupply. A heavy carry, but I felt ready. I’d made good use of the Arizona hiking season, finishing with a successful Grand Canyon R2R2R dayhike in May. I secured an August 26th entry.
The two weeks before the trip were a blur: Medicare enrollment, estate documents signed, our daughter’s family finally settled in their new home, and hike prep. But once it was done, it was done. With my wife’s wind in my sail, I was ready.
Day 0 – 8/25
Google Maps says it’s a 12-hour drive from my garage to the Roads End trailhead. I want to arrive before 3:30pm to pick up my permit before the office closes and set myself up for an early start tomorrow. I am up at 2 a.m., on the road just after 3, and have my permit in hand at 3:10 p.m.; Los Angeles morning rush hour notwithstanding.
The drive is exhausting. Nine hours of intense traffic from Phoenix to Visalia, and the final hour of switchbacks into Kings Canyon demands constant attention. I won’t do this solo in one day again.
My bed for the night is at Gena’s Sierra Inn. My planning was too late to score something in the park, so I have another 90 minutes to go. I turn off the music, roll down the windows, and let the sound of river and thunder fill the car.
I take long pause at the overlook where the Middle and South Forks Kings converge. More thunder. More lighting. A storm is building but it can’t drive out the one in my head. Miles away, a huge lightning strike hits, followed by a rising plume of black smoke; the start of the Garnet Fire.
I eat an early dinner and am in bed by 7 p.m. Another early morning ahead; I want to be on trail by 6. I sleep well.
Day 1 – 8/26
I wake at 3:30 and decide to rise. Breakfast is what I’ll eat on the trail: Backpacker’s Pantry Granola with half a cup of heavy cream powder and a cup of coffee. At nearly 1,000 calories, I stuff it down. Too late to adjust now, but it’s going to prove too big.
I start the drive. The Garnet Fire creates a red glow to the northwest; mountains have their own turmoil. I am tempted to look, but the twisty road into Kings Canyon, sporadic rockfall obstacles and rain, keeps me focused on the few feet ahead. Slow going. It is straight-up 6 a.m. when I park.
I don my poncho, tidy the car, hoist my pack and set out. The rain varies between steady and spitting. Even at a slow pace, with no breeze, the airy poncho feels like a sauna. At the one-hour mark I bag the poncho and switch to an umbrella.
The climb is relentless. Never super steep, no big steps, just switchback ramp after switchback ramp climbing 5,000 feet in 6 miles to The Lip, where left takes you into Granite Basin and right follows the SHR to Grouse Lake.
As day breaks, the view down canyon shows patchy fog with the rain-bearing clouds discolored by smoke from the fire. The hike is a grind and I don’t find the “zone.” Introspection will have to wait.
About 3.5 miles in, the trail is washed out. A flow of gray mud has taken out about 20-30’ of trail. The water likewise runs gray. I presume this is ash from an earlier fire.
My first routing attempt is to climb above and around the washout. I take down the umbrella and thrash my way under a live oak tree wiping gray mud from every leaf; collecting it on my face, in my hair, on my sleeve, and my pack. “This is not going to go” I mutter, and I reverse my steps. I’ll definitely want to rinse off and do some laundry tonight.
More successfully I scramble downslope of the trail and, once standing in the creek, walk straight up the water flow to the level of the trail, then scramble the remaining distance to solid ground. Given the rain and the lack of footprints, I surmise, incorrectly, that this had happened overnight and I was the first to cross. Later, above Lower Tent Meadow, I meet two women who crossed it yesterday. It had rained just enough to wash away evidence of their passing. At least the rain stops.
At Lower Tent Meadow, halfway through the inaugural climb, I am ready for a break. I pause every half hour to drink, every hour to down a snack, but for these I keep the pack on. Here I set the pack on the bear box, sit a few minutes and snack, then go to fetch water. I take opportunity to rinse my face and head, and returning to my pack, rinse off the worst of the mud. The hoodie will have to wait; I’ve learned to hike with wet feet without blistering, but wet clothes still chafe.
Just shy of 30 minutes later I resume the climb. The trail exits tree cover and enters the “manzanita zone,” an area that burned more than 40 years ago and shows little sign of reforestation. Thankful for the cloud cover, I’m only sweating and not roasting
I reach The Lip before noon. The sun is shining through partly cloudy skies. I am tired. I send a mid-day “lunch break” text on my inReach and settle down for an hour. My pulse is 118; doing well keeping to Zone 2. Time to take my shoes off, put my feet up, and let them dry. The climbing is over, but I’ve still another 4 miles ahead.
The long break is nice, but not restorative; a warning I don’t yet see. I drop into Granite Basin and by midafternoon arrive at Granite Lake. It’s beautiful. A nice reward for a hard day’s effort.
I set camp, clean up, eat dinner, and am in bed by 6:30, pasted. I came to reflect, but the trail decided otherwise. I am certainly not in the headspace. Instead, I ponder, “Why am I so exhausted?” It’s physical, but there is something more.
Shortly after lying down, I hear a couple of guys arrive and set camp nearby, I am too tired to be sociable and soon doze. Later when I get up for a potty break, I see the women I met earlier in the day. Just a wave, and back to bed.
Day 2 – 8/27
I am up at 5:30, ten hours of sleep, but I am still dragging. It takes nearly two hours to breakfast and pack. Everything is wet with dewfall, which freezes just before sunrise. I am feeling more sociable though, waving to my neighbors as they venture out into the morning.
Thankfully, it is a nice gentle walk up to Granite Pass. I take it slow, hoping to gain more energy as breakfast kicks in. The views do not disappoint and give me a needed lift.
Beyond Granite Pass the trail descends gently, passing the signed, little-used trail to Kennedy Pass and the signed trail to State Lakes. I am not 100%, so take an extended noon break at Dougherty Creek. Being the last water until Simpson Meadow, I drink two liters and head out carrying four. After a short 500-foot climb I reach today’s “halfway” point: the cairn marking the northern end of the State Lakes Loop, and the start of the 5-mile, 4,500-foot descent of the Bitch Trail.
The first half winds down a sandy, forested ridgeline. There isn’t enough foot traffic to sustain a visible tread, and I regularly walk off course. Old blazes and occasional sawed downfall keep me in line, but my focus is entirely on route-finding. Again, introspection gets deferred.
About midway down I catch my right toe, on what I am not sure, and it sends me careening downhill at an accelerating rate. I drop a hundred feet before I gain control, slow, and stop. I’m amazed that I stayed on my feet and didn’t smack a tree. I drop the pack and sit for a few minutes to regain my composure, heart racing. That was a close call, and I could have been seriously hurt. A reminder that being buried in detail can blind me to what matters most.
The trail eventually swings around a rock outcrop, exits the trees, and enters the “Manzanita Zone” for the final 2,000 feet. There’s some knee- to thigh-high overgrowth but here the tread and switchbacks are quite clear, and it’s a straightforward, if warm, hike in the umbrella-shaded afternoon sun. At length the trail levels and enters Simpson Meadow, lush with waist-high grass.
I follow a path through the meadow that ends at a campsite with four trail-crew gang boxes. I won’t crash their camp, so I back out to the main trail. Skirting the meadow, I hike a final couple miles until spotting a sandbar with easy access to the river, stepping over three piles of bear scat along the way. Should I expect company tonight? The view from my campsite looks right up Goddard Creek toward the storied Enchanted Gorge. Will I ever dare?
I am tired but not nearly as blasted as last night. I eat dinner after sunset, move the bear cannisters away from my tent, and call it a day as darkness settles in. My spirits have lifted, but the mental clutter remains. It’s as if God is using the Sierra to keep me focused on other things. I’m asleep in minutes.
If a bear wandered by, it left my cannisters alone.
Day 3 – 8/28
I set out again at about 7:30. The trail begins as an easy track through lightly forested scrub with big views, then abruptly taunts with downfall and thick overgrowth at the Windy Ridge Creek crossing. I lose the trail and spend a good half hour thrashing about. Not sure how I missed it. Once I’m back on track, it’s obvious and easy to Cartridge Creek.
I cross the bridge, recalling my Boy Scout troop thrashing down Cartridge Creek from Marion Lake to this point. Nearby is a nice packers’ camp, after which sits a massive tangle of downfall. I work my way around it and eventually recover the trail. With these expected obstacles behind me, the trail is just a rugged climb up canyon, generally fifty feet or so above the Middle Fork Kings River.
I make a wet crossing at the JMT junction and take my long midday break. So far today I’ve made just six miles in about five hours. It has been a rough two and a half days, and I am looking forward to the relative ease of hiking the JMT.
I set out again at 1:30 and reach the foot of the Golden Staircase about 4 p.m. The humidity has been building all afternoon and I am sweat-drenched; then here comes the rain. I feel fine as I start the climb, but a half-hour later I hit the wall. So much for ease.
My pace slows to a crawl. Every switchback I exhale an expletive, then grind out another. Physically, I am wrecked. Emotionally, at an all-time hiking low. I am out here, wanting to sort life, and instead feel like I’m barely hanging on.
I reach Lower Palisades Lake’s outlet at dusk. The rain lets up and I stop to chat with a guy camped about ten feet from the trail. Of the tents scattered about, he is the only person venturing out. He offers ideas on where I might find a tent site, and I crawl a few hundred feet farther to a cluster of three tents.
A woman is out adjusting guylines. I ask if she knew of sites among the boulders above her camp and she replies, “No, it was raining, we saw this spot and only worried about getting our tents up.” She has no issue with me looking around. I find a site a short distance away, and I’ll be able to walk around her camp to access water at the lake. I send an inReach message “At tonight’s campsite – Palisades Lakes.”
I set my tent as light rain resumes. Hopping inside I take stock of my wetness; relieved it is less than expected. I wait out the rain and rest. Once it abates, I wear my headlamp to collect water and prepare dinner.
At last, about 8:30, I’m fed and I’ve calmed. Inside my tent, from the warmth of my sleeping bag, I wonder, “What the f–k is going on?” I list possibilities, trying to make sense of my spiral.
- This is my first long backpacking adventure in 3 years, so is age, catching up with me and slowing recovery? I’ve been adjusting my expectations and slowing my pace, but am I needing more recovery per unit exerted?
- Could it be fitness? I want to dismiss this, having completed the R2R2R, but I was 4 hours slower than my PB.
- Maybe a combination of both?
- This is my first Sierra hike in a merino sun hoody and it runs hot. And though I sweat, and sweat some more, I am drinking on schedule and downing a Saltstick cap as I finish each liter. So though well-hydrated do I have mild heat exhaustion?
- I changed up my menu to include more fat and lighten my food load, but have I given up too much and need more carbs while ascending and more protein for recovery?
- Regardless, I feel I am getting weaker each day, not stronger, and if the trend continues may have to bail.
What to do? The plan tomorrow is cross Mather and Pinchot, and then walk as far as the daylight holds but I am not feeling good about that. Worse, my emotional state; I am not enjoying myself. I came to clear my head, but I’ve never felt such foreboding while backpacking.
Day 4 – 8/29
It is a lovely blue-sky morning, and rested, my head is in a much better place.
I set an easy pace up Mather and stop atop for a rest. About the time I am ready to leave, a woman, Nancy, hiking the JMT northbound, arrives. Recently retired, she is taking a month to hike the JMT, just one of many things she wants to do “while I still can.” We spoke for about a half-hour. She has plans for retirement, and as she shares my thinking shifts away from my butt-kicking and toward my “what’s next.” A chance meeting and one I desperately needed.
I want to do something resembling work, but not full-time. Adding up things I want to do in any given year: travels with my wife, trips to New York to see my son, daughter-in-law, and grandkids, time with my Arizona grandkids, a couple of summertime backpacking trips, etc. I figure I need at least 12 weeks’ vacation a year; not a good match to a full-time corporate position.
My visit atop Mather also got me considering the possibility of not finding an interesting intermittent role; that I could end up retired full-time. I ponder this while ambling through Upper Basin. My conclusion? My world won’t come to an end. I will begin a job search late October as planned, but if a job doesn’t happen, or doesn’t happen for a long while, I am okay with it. I am not defined by my work, and that realization takes a load off my shoulders.
Before I know it, it is time for my midday break at the South Fork Crossing.
There I meet Sam. He is hiking the JMT southbound. Asking about my route I say “the Big SEKI Loop and it is kicking my butt”. He shares that the key for him is to stop for the day by 4 p.m.; go any longer and he just feels wore out. I share how far I intended to go, over Pinchot Pass and on to Twin Lakes, but that on our conversation I would stop today before I am wore out. Quarter to four, and I call it at Lake Marjorie.
I let my wife know I am behind my planned itinerary, but I am okay, and will let her know how I will reroute things over the next day or so.
I take a bath, and it washes away more than grime. I feel renewed. Reflecting on the day, the chance meetings with Nancy and Sam were uplifting; a reminder that clarity on the trail may not come when I am alone with my thoughts, but instead from the connections that happen when I listen and share with the people I meet.
I’ve two great lessons from my fifty-seven years of backpacking: all people are interesting and connected to me if I take the time to listen, and backpacking trips are never my idea, they are ideas God plants within me, His way of getting me to slow down, pay attention, and listen.
Day 5 – 8/30
Another beautiful morning. And for the first time on this hike, just minutes in, it is a good day. I feel rested. It is short work to Pinchot Pass.
Descending from the pass I have the trail to myself and start to hum, and then to sing. At some point I sing “Needle and the Damage Done” and start to cry, hard. My son came through a dark place a few years ago and at one point I thought we were going to lose him. Those emotions sat deep inside, unshared, unspoken. In the tears I release the hurt and fear, and joy rushes in to fill the void. I am so grateful he is healthy and alive, and nurturing a family. One objective of this hike was to reflect and think about what’s next. Evidently there are still “what was” things that need tending to.
One song, one cry, and five years in six miles. I’m at the suspension bridge. Time for my “noon” break.
I have a few reroute options:
- the Colby Pass alternate
- wander the Upper Kern and exit over Little Joe’s Pass and Lake Reflection
- bail after Rae Lakes
- bail through Paradise Valley
Reaching the bridge, I scrap Paradise Valley. I won’t bail today.
As my mood lifts, I take more pictures. The hike into the Rae Lakes exhilarates.
I reach the Middle Rae Lake bear box area about 5 p.m. and look for a reasonably secluded campsite. A number of people are relaxing at the lakeshore; still, I strip down and go for a swim. A couple of days ago I was exhausted and considering bailing. The swim washes the last vestige of weariness away.
And who do I meet on my way back to camp? Sam.
“I thought you were headed to Sixty Lakes Basin?”
“I was, but when I looked up at Basin Notch, I decided it was more than I wanted to do today.”
We share about our lives for a half-hour, then he heads off to find a spot to camp.
Settling in after dinner I write: “Two days ago I was almost over my head, despondent; a cut-short trip a real possibility. Today, an almost opposite lightness of being. I’ve released a heavy load and am embracing the joy of my son’s new life. And while I don’t have, and probably won’t gain, line of sight to exactly what is next, I am confident, job or not, that I can deal with retirement. It is good to be home in the Sierra.”
Day 6 – 8/31
Today I decide: do I bail or do I continue over Forester and complete a shortened version of the loop? I know what I want to do, but I’ll assess my physical well-being and my head space at the Bubbs Creek Trail junction before committing.
It’s another beautiful morning. The Painted Lady above Upper Rae Lake, her summit bathed in sunlight, stuns. My pack feels light. Sure, I’ve eaten ten pounds of the load, but there is more to it. The weariness and exhaustion I carried early on are gone. Glen Pass is a breeze.
I pause atop, briefly, and wonder if Rod, who I met here 15 years ago, still pastors the church in Pixley. And I marvel at a God who slows me down enough to imprint lasting lessons and memories. I hope He works it both ways; it’d be a shame if only I were blessed at these passings.
Descending Glen I enter “the zone,” an effortless walking rhythm and absence of conscious thought. Miles pass without notice. I wake at the appearance of people near the Kearsarge junction, among them a tramily of PCT’ers returning to finish, after skipping the early-season Sierra. We leapfrog most of the day.
I continue downhill towards my decision point, the Bubbs Creek junction, and start assessing. My head is in a good place. I’ve come a long way since my Golden Staircase low point. Physically, I feel strong, another stark contrast. I reach the junction, pause to get water and continue. I’ll hike the Big SEKI alternate through Cloud Canyon.
My goal tonight is a sheltered campsite to the right of trail, the last spot before tree line. My friend Art and I camped here on our JMT “Halfer;” it was a perfect setup for Forester Pass.
The trail ascends gently through Vidette Meadow, then climbs steadily after crossing the tributary draining Center Basin. I take a late mid-day pause before the climb. When I reach the campsite, I find the PCT’ers setting up. Tonight, then, mine will be exposed, and possibly wet, with a storm brewing overhead.
I turn the corner, rise above the trees and meet Kevin and Lynlee resting and debating. Kevin wants to press into the next basin; Lynlee is concerned about the building storm. They are hiking the John Muir Trail. I ask their favorite section so far. “Ansel Adams Wilderness.” I share that for years mine was Evolution Valley and Basin, the Temple Mound and Holy of Holies, but as I’ve gotten older, I am more moved by the basin below Forester Pass that expands into Tyndall Creek, which expands into the Kern. It impresses God’s grandness against my seeming insignificance, with His promise that “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)
“You’re a believer then?” Kevin asks. “Yes.” They ask if I have a need they can pray for. “No, no needs,” I say, but then I am moved to share my journey down Pinchot Pass. We bow our heads and pray: thanksgiving, praise, continued healing, safe passage for the remainder of our hikes. Then we set out, me toward a nearby tarn, they for the next higher basin.
The storminess subsides as I sit beside my tent and tiny pond, reflecting on the day and the longer hike. There may be a physiological reason for my initial struggles, and I’ll make some adjustments, but perhaps I needed defeat to tear down my psychological overconfidence and prepare me to receive.
In six days, I’ve walked two distinctly different hikes. The first was an ending, coming to terms with a few junctures in my life. The second has been a neutral zone, exploring and sorting my thoughts, and settling into a sustainable pace. Hmmm, I wonder…will the remaining days mark the start of building the new?
I send my location and updated route plan, then journal away noting my blessings, and dehydrated meal reviews.
Day 7 – 9/1
I attain Forester Pass in under two hours. I am here alone and considering, then confirming, that the unfolding basins to the south are my favorite section of the JMT.
I ease onto the descending switchbacks and, for the first time this hike, am simply walking and letting my thoughts come and go. Today I reflect on lessons that emerge when I have sufficient time with God. On leadership: “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” (John 10:10) And as a father, that I am the window through which my children form their image of God. A huge responsibility but “I can do all things…” That, to me, has been a powerful lesson.
Three people stand off-trail just above the Tyndall Creek crossing. On approach, one “admires” the color of my hoodie, mauve. I reply “And I didn’t even call you this morning!” noting his being the same color. I accept the invitation and stop. All are hiking the JMT. The guy in the mauve hoodie is solo; the other two on a pre-wedding honeymoon. In two weeks, they’ll marry on Glacier Point. Our reasons for being here differ, but each is equally valid.
Mt. Whitney appears on the horizon as I cross the Bighorn Plateau. My first time here, Mt. Whitney was tomorrow’s destination. Today I’ll turn west onto the High Sierra Trail and start the last quarter of my hike.
I reach Wallace Creek and start my descent to Junction Meadow. It’s easy hiking and I turn my attention from foot placement to drafting a letter advocating solicitation of private and corporate donations for rebuilding Grand Canyon’s North Rim lodge. Perhaps I should “biggy-size” the idea and extend it to sponsorships for our national parks. At the Kern River Trail I turn north to visit the Shorty Lovelace cabin. Nearby, shaded downed trees make a good rest spot. It stands visibly unchanged from my first visit in 2006, but this and other historic landmarks make a strong case for preservation dollars.
Reaching Junction Meadow, I turn right onto the Colby Pass Trail. It was here I had my first close encounter with bears in the wild, a mama and cub. I walk another five minutes and locate a “widow-maker” free campsite. I set up camp and am careful to put every scrap that smells into the bear cans, then walk several hundred feet to a Kern River braid to bathe and make water. Three trail workers pass by; being just after five, they must be working close by. Clean, hydrated, and bottles full I sit listening to the water and watching the many birds flittering about.
I arrive back at camp startled to see a tagged bear sniffing my bear cans. Hands full I can’t wave nor grab the camera, so I just call out, “Hey bear.” It takes no account of me and ambles around to look in my tent before wandering off. Could this possibly be the cub from my years-ago encounter? I’m on alert. I’ll cook and eat away from the tent and carefully repack.
Tucked away for the night I hear multiple shouts at the bear. The trail workers may not have been as careful.
Day 8 – 9/2
I cross the Kern River and soon meet the trail crew clearing overgrowth on the scrubby southeast-facing canyon wall, already hot in the morning sun. They freely offer trail conditions I can expect, expressing a clear pride in their work. Today they are cutting back a clawing overgrowth more at home in Arizona’s Superstitions than in the Sierra, but where conditions are right, I can walk in the pines at home so may as well enjoy this short stretch of desert. I thank them for sustaining my passings.
I climb 1,100 feet to the hanging Kern-Kaweah valley, once again bemused at the staircase marking the descent to Rockslide Lake; the first of four grass-filled ponds behind terminal moraines marking this canyon. The Depression-era trail builders must have suffered mightily cutting and setting several hundred stones for a couple dozen steps, and building them to last.
Gallats Lake, the largest, is an expanse of grass that moves in waves. I pause to soak in the soothing rhythm and rest before the 2,000-foot climb up Colby Pass. Clouds are filling the sky and I hear thunder in the distance, so I make haste on the climb.
I reach the tarn sitting below the pass; a lightning flash, an instant blast, and sudden hail. I don the poncho, find a seat, and ride it out. I may as well eat. Hail falls for a half hour, blanketing the tundra white, while melting and making a creeklet of the trail. I don’t for a minute question the wisdom of sitting amidst this tempest, a wonderment of speed, fury, then peace. An hour or more passes before the thunder fades; the all-clear needed to resume my climb. I cross the pass without stopping.
As the trail into Cloud Canyon unfolds it appears I am walking in the storm’s track. Clouds ahead, clear sky above, and the trail a series of creeklets and ankle-deep ponds. My goal tonight is Big Wet Meadow, or beyond. Hopefully the storm lessened down-canyon and I don’t test wet feet hiking on a ten-mile wade.
The puddles end around Colby Lake. I’ve read superlatives about Colby Lake, and though it looks appealing from above, at eye level, where I’d camp, I’m not impressed. I walk steadily past, descending slabs and shelves with occasional route-finding adventures.
At length, on the canyon floor, I pass a sign noting where trail maintenance (for those ascending) ends and indeed find easy passage alongside expansive Big Wet Meadow. Views back toward the Whaleback awe, while views down-canyon reveal little of what’s ahead; they mirror my life. It’s been good and at times exceptional, but ahead is always unknown. I can enter in fear and anxiety, but choose instead to find adventure.
I reconsider the idea of a job search and expand it to a life search. Where life was once filled with family and work, how does a life of family, leisure, and intermittent work flow? I don’t exactly know. But whereas a job search means meeting with and building on one’s professional network, a life search requires inclusion of family and friends. I start building the list.
Just past Big Wet Meadow I hear the buzz of chainsaws working somewhere inside a massive tangle of downfall. A trail worker calls out to me “Stop, and look to your right. There’s a series of cairns to lead you around this mess.” I thank her and find the laid track. I’d guess 500 or more feet of trail is buried.
I stop for the night a long mile below Big Wet Meadow. There should be a packers’ camp nearby. I find it buried in downfall. I make my way through, find inviting pools in the river, and go for a soak. I chuckle at the obviousness of needing to conduct a life search and that it took all this to see it. That’s good work for the day. I soak until it feels cold.
It’s back through the obstacle course, and I set up camp about fifty feet from the trail. I’m again careful to pack away smells. I lie in my sleeping bag replaying the hike and deciding who to meet with first.
Day 9 – 9/3
Today is the last big day of this hike. My goal tonight is the Sphinx Creek/Bubbs Creek junction about fifteen miles away. I often feel sad as a hike’s end nears, but not today. I’m not glad that it’s over either. Rather, I am marveling at the journey and happy with what I’ve accomplished. From emotional lows to jubilance, from physical defeats to strength, and the clarity that I am rebuilding my life and not just looking for some intermittent work to bide the time. This hike has grounded and prepared me.
It’s a warm morning with partly clouded skies. I am packed and start hiking shortly after 7. I pause for my first water and see the trail worker headed my way.
“Good morning. Where do you guys camp?”
“In Scaffold Meadow.”
“That’s a long haul every day to and from your work site.”
“Yes, but you get this.” She waves her arms as if to reveal the entire canyon around us. “I love this place.”
And I know she does.
I reach Scaffold Meadow mid-morning. I set my pack on the bridge and clamber down to collect water filling all my containers; the next water could be Sphinx Creek, eight miles away. I look over to see the ranger station closed; she is likely out on patrol. Years ago, she shared her efforts to re-establish pack animal access to Junction Meadow. If she succeeded, the years since have taken it back.
Leaving Scaffold Meadow, I’ve a steep 700-foot climb to Moraine Creek. To here, and ahead to Avalanche Pass, the trail has been recently maintained. I marvel at the fresh cuttings and stone sets. The trail crews work hard, and for little pay. Most do it because “I love this place.” I owe them a world of gratitude.
The trail levels and follows Moraine Creek for the next two miles. I’m never far from water, but it’s always an inconvenient detour. The trail takes a sharp left, leaves Moraine Creek and starts the final ascent to Avalanche Pass. At the pass I send the message, “Lunch break on Avalanche Pass. Finished the last big climb this hike,” and note in my journal “No spectacular views, no photos.” So far, today’s been kind of a dud.
I am startled by a couple hikers. Researchers, they are here to study the Roaring River/Cloud Canyon ecosystem for the next month. I ask about the trail ahead.
“Rough, some downfall.”
They look fresh; still, I should have asked for more detail.
Around 2 p.m. I start downhill. It is steep, but good trail, and I make good time to the packers’ camp at Sphinx Creek. I top off my water and start the final descent, switchbacks down the canyon wall to Bubbs Creek. The trail crews have not yet reached here.
The trail itself is good, blasted right into the canyon wall, but every switchback has at least one massive downed tree blocking the trail. Off with the pack, push it under the tree, then lie on my back and push myself, or crawl, under the tree. Walk a couple hundred feet and repeat. Perhaps fresh on a morning climb it is “rough, some downfall,” but after hiking seven hours it’s a major pain in the ass. At some point I hurdle the last, and the grade and obstacles ease for the final mile to the camp area at Bubbs Creek.
It is a large camp area, on a major thoroughfare, and late in the day, so I am surprised I am the only one here. I pick the choice spot, set up my tent, then go down to the creek to collect water and bathe. I relax for an hour then make my way back to camp. There’s another tent. I walk over to say hello.
Trey is hiking the Rae Lakes Loop. He drove up today and hiked in four miles “to get into it.” He was introduced to the Sierra by his dad, and to backpacking through the Boy Scouts. I believe he mentioned this is his first solo hike. I grab my stove and we talk through and beyond dinner. Based on his studies he has thoughts on my physical, aside from age, challenges. I share some trail conditions but try not to give away the places he is about to see for the first time. We talk well past dark, then say goodnight. I’m off to sleep, he to read.
My last journal entry: “Nothing significant today, just hiking. It’s almost as if I needed to relax. Nice visit with Trey, my first hours-long conversation in over a year. Unexpectedly, my first ‘life-search’ meeting.”
Day 10 – 9/4
I wake early and am packed shortly after 6. There’s no movement in Trey’s camp, so I sit quietly, listening. The river, at first a constant roar, slowly reveals tonal undulations as chaotic cascades erupt in symphonic scherzo before the quiet start of another movement overlaid with birdsong. Four distinct calls welcome the morning, though I see no birds.
My hypnosis ends as two deer wander through my camp. I sit motionless. They stare intently, then come close enough to touch, sniff my pack and continue. They are seemingly okay with my being here.
It’s a short four miles to my car, listening all the way.
Epilogue
It’s been four months since my hike. Before writing, I needed time to process my journey. I started, then set it aside to enjoy a beach vacation with my grandchildren, and later again to tend to some physical challenges. Now, with holiday downtime, I’ve hopefully painted a coherent memoir of my journey inside my hike.
Of my physical struggles: There were, perhaps, physiological issues at the root. I’ve needed four surgeries on my legs to correct venous return, and blood work suggests RA and lupus which I’ll learn more about in the weeks ahead; the continual unfolding of age. I am confident, at least in the near term, of keeping this contained. As long as I have R2R2R dayhikes and fifteen-mile backpacking days in me I’ll continue to push, and at times, again exhale expletives.
Of my son: We talk a couple times a week. His kids know firsthand the love of an awesome God.
And of my life search: I am meeting with five to six people a week, and for now, just talking. I’m planting seeds with my family, friends and professional network, but more importantly, tilling my soul with their fertile insights. Perhaps new life is waiting for spring.
