Blistered Kind Of Love

by Angela Ballard

  While we knew there’d be problems (and empty stomachs) ahead, we weren’t about to turn back, not when what also lay ahead, in the words of John Muir, was “a glory day of admission into a new realm of wonders as if Nature had wooingly whispered, ‘Come higher.’ ”

  As we climbed to more than 10,000 feet over the course of the next twenty-five miles, we thought about the six high passes we’d soon be tackling. Ranging in elevation from 10,900 to 13,180 feet, each would be a quad-burning, back-crushing, and often snow-covered, feet-freezing experience. Every day in our foreseeable future would treat us to a 3,000- to 4,000-foot ascent over half a dozen miles and then an extended descent down a snowy mountainside.

  In an effort to prepare myself for the challenge, I memorized the name and elevation of each pass: Forester, 13,180 feet; Glen, 11,978 feet; Pinchot, 12,130 feet; Mather, 12,100 feet; Muir, 11,955 feet; and Selden, 10,900 feet. There would be more high passes after Vermilion, but there were only so many physical hurdles I could contemplate at one time.

  I didn’t ruminate on these painful Stairmasterlike workouts for too long. More pleasant things soon distracted me. Everywhere I looked there was a new delight—yellow evening primrose, corn lilies, buttercups, mountain blue-bells, and groves of my favorite tree, the foxtail pine. The foxtail lives only in the sandy soil found just below timberline, thriving where other trees wither. The tree’s needles grow in clusters, and at the end of each branch is a bristle that looks like (you guessed it) a fox’s tail. Illuminating the foxtails was sunlight like I’d never seen before, crisp and bright as if God had placed this realm in his own private spotlight. Climbing still higher, we veered off-trail slightly for lunch and a dip in Chicken Lake, a glacial pool filled with water so cold it should have been ice. As we ate we noticed a hush, as if we’d entered a temple. We weren’t sure where the High Sierra officially began, but we felt like we’d made it.

  I’d been hearing about how beautiful the High Sierra was since day one. But still, when we finally arrived—well, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Picture lush green meadows, a green only clear snowmelt could inspire. Sprinkle the grasses with buttercups, scarlet Indian paintbrushes, and blue bugles. Send a stream rushing, snaking, and pouring around and over boulders of granite twinkling with quartz crystals. Make the granite so white you might mistake it for snow. Surround the meadows and rock gardens with forests of pine and creamy-barked aspen. As a backdrop, insert snowcapped peaks, kissed by bright afternoon sunshine, glowing in warm twilight, and looming ominously when shrouded in thunderclouds. Nature’s cathedrals, the bare summits reaching toward heaven, double-dare you to be unimpressed. And, of course, don’t neglect the frosty alpine lakes, rimmed with turquoise ice, clear as fine crystal, and still as mirrors.

  Next up on our wonderland tour was Sequoia National Park. The park greeted us with a sign reading “No pets, weapons. No grazing.” Good-bye cow poop, hello big trees. Sequoia National Park is home to the giant sequoia, the largest living organisms on dry land (some whales are bigger). General Sherman is the king of these giants. Discovered in 1879 by a veteran of the civil war, the General Sherman tree boasts 47,450 cubic feet of lumber, is 275 feet tall, has a girth of 102 feet at its base, and weighs more than 1,385 tons.

  As we trekked through Sequoia National Park, my eyes were wide, trying to absorb every iota of magnificence. A steep climb brought us to Crabtree Meadows and a junction with the John Muir Trail (JMT), leading to 14,491-foot Mount Whitney. We hadn’t planned or provisioned for this side trip, but as we stood looking up at Whitney we realized that we couldn’t walk past the highest peak in the contiguous U.S. without climbing it first. The detour would mean that we wouldn’t be able to get to Vermilion Valley Resort without heading out of the mountains to re-supply nearly 100 miles early, in Independence. But given that we’d already gotten lost and that our food supply was rapidly dwindling, an early exit was probably inevitable anyway.

  Following the John Muir Trail, we hiked to Guitar Lake, five miles below Whitney’s summit. It was midafternoon and although there was plenty of daylight left, we didn’t dare make an evening assault of the mountain. Whitney, while not a technical climb, is still a powerful peak, with a tendency to attract equally powerful afternoon thunderstorms.

  For safety’s sake we camped early. Nestled in an ice-carved canyon, Guitar Lake’s still waters were surrounded by a sea of sparkling snow patches and boulders, home to both pink rockfringe flowers and mischievous marmots. About the size of raccoons and the largest members of the squirrel family, marmots seemed as common in the High Sierra as pigeons in the city. They paused their grazing only long enough to glance quizzically at us and let out an occasional whistle.

  As we set up our tent, a stiff, cold breeze came down off the mountain, bringing large pellets of rain. The storm quickly intensified and the rain transformed into grape-size balls of hail. We hid in our tent and in the distance watched a string of six people descending switchbacks cut into the mountain’s face. They were running, and even though they were still far away we urged them on. This was no time to be on the exposed flanks of Whitney and definitely no time to be exposing one’s own flanks. But that wasn’t stopping Fish, Ryan, Pansy Ass, Madame Butterfly, Improv, and Amigo from celebrating “Naked Hiker Day.” As each red, birthday suit-clad hiker rushed by our tent, we handed them a spoonful of hot mashed potatoes and wished them luck. The storm was getting worse and they needed to get to shelter (and into some clothing), fast.

  Just as we handed out our last spoonful of spuds, thunder began to crash directly above us. They were the loudest, deepest, most teeth-chattering claps of thunder I’d ever heard. The mountain’s wrath was descending upon our tent in its entirety. Black clouds transformed the afternoon into the pitch of night, but only temporarily. Soon, the darkness was splintered by a strobe light-like flash of lightning, and then another. The bolts were coming down around us like raindrops. Lightning storms, I’d read, reach a high degree of savagery on mountaintops—a savagery which we were now witnessing and which has been known to kill at least one hiker per year on top of Whitney. We weren’t at Whitney’s apex, but we were close enough to be scared, and the fact that Duffy was now busy reading “Chapter 6: Lightning Injuries” in his wilderness medicine book didn’t help.

  “Although the chances of being struck by lightning are minimal,” he recited, “two-hundred to four-hundred persons die of strikes in the United States each year. Lightning is the electrical discharge associated with thunderstorms, and an initial stroke can measure thirty million volts.”

  “Is this supposed to make me feel better?” I asked. “How about something useful? Like where are we supposed to be during a lightning storm?”

  “Anywhere but in a tent, which attracts lightning,” he replied. “Really, we should be out there.” He gestured toward the boulder field now being pelted by rain, sleet, and hail. “But then we risk getting cold and wet. Just stay away from the tent’s poles.” Reflexively, I curled my toes toward the soles of my feet and pulled my knees toward my chest. “There’s only a short interval between the thunder and lightning,” Duffy continued, “which means the storm’s right above us. Hopefully it’ll pass soon.”

  We cowered in the center of our tent for the next few minutes while thunder, lightning, and precipitation waged war outside. I hugged Duffy close. If we were going to be struck, I figured we might as well do it together. Finally, the thunder peals softened and the flashes of electricity became less frequent. Peeking outside, we saw the sky brighten and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Inspired by the previous evening’s vicious display, we got up at sunrise to start our ascent of the nine long switchbacks that wind up Whitney’s rocky slopes. For speed’s sake we left our tent and other nonessentials behind. Cold wind blasted our faces. The only sound was the gritty churning of our trekking poles. Soon, the crunch of snow underfoot and our labored breaths were added to the orchestra. The path ahead was largely gray and white except for smal
l patches of blue flowers tucked into rocky crannies.

  Atop Whitney, at 14,491 feet, the world seemed like an ocean of granite and snowy peaks. Layers and layers of mountains spread into the horizon. And the air, in the words of Mark Twain, “the air up there . . . is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn’t it be? It is the same the angels breathe.”

  The photographs we have from that day are among my favorites. Grinning from ear to ear, Duffy and I stand with our arms wrapped around one another on the precipice of the earth. Behind, like a timeline, sprawls the crest we’d already traversed. Bright-eyed, we look onward—to Canada.

  To celebrate the moment, Duffy pulled our Nerf football out of his pack. We were going to play the highest game of catch in the continental U.S. For the past 761 miles, we’d received some funny looks whenever we brought out that football. It was a luxury, but in the words of a four-year-old (quoted in Backpacker magazine after completing a hike in the Grand Canyon), “If you don’t bring toys, all you’ll have to play with is rocks and sticks.” After a few passes, however, our recess was cut short by the sight of clouds looming over Mount Russell (a nearby 14,000-foot peak). Not wanting to risk getting caught in lightning, we began a rapid five-mile descent. As the sky turned black we bumped into Just Mike, still on his way up and determined to reach the summit no matter what.

  “That your blue tent down there?” He asked in curt military fashion.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “There’re marmots clambering all over it. Sure hope you didn’t leave any food in there. Those critters’ll chew through cement.”

  “Yeah, one of ‘em already got a strap on my pack.” I’d left my pack a thousand feet from the summit at the junction with the Mount Whitney Trail. When we descended from the peak, I found my sternum strap gnawed in half. A fat, white-whiskered marmot sat on a nearby rock looking pleased with himself. Marmots often chew hikers’ clothing and backpacks because they like the salt left by perspiration. As we hurried down the mountain, I worried about all the trail sweat we’d brought into our tent.

  Thankfully, we made it back to Guitar Lake before the foul weather caught us and in time to save our gear from sharp marmot teeth. We packed up quickly and scurried back to the PCT.

  Our next mission was to conquer 13,180-foot Forester Pass, the highest point on the trail. After spending the night at Tyndall Creek (which was the first of many formidable and frigid fords), we approached Forester in the morning, when the snow was still firm. Ahead of us, a wall of granite jutted toward the sky. Somehow the trail would lead us up and over it. We reached switchbacks, chiseled into the rock, which led to the pass—a small notch in an otherwise solid gray fortress. Laboring and lumbering, we ultimately reached the PCT’s apex. We took the requisite photos and began a tradition of eating a snack in every major mountain pass. I quickly discovered that Snickers are particularly delicious when eaten while looking back on a successfully completed 4,000-foot climb and ahead into a lake-speckled valley.

  After successfully going up and over Forester, we set our sights on the town of Independence for food, fuel, and a rest. Reaching Independence required branching onto a trail that led nine miles over Kearsarge Pass and down to the Onion Valley trailhead. From there we caught a ride down to the hot valley floor, where we found hiker-friendly lodging at the Independence Courthouse Motel. Fish and Ryan were already there, hosting Chris and Stacey (who’d set up camp in a nearby park) for the afternoon. Fish had purchased a Wiffle bat at the local market, and it wasn’t long before we’d started up a spirited game in the motel parking lot. After I struck out for about the tenth time, I called it quits and jogged over to the post office.

  Even though Independence wasn’t a planned re-supply stop, I hoped to find a card from my mother. At each of our re-supply points (planned and otherwise) thus far, I’d found her cards waiting for me—colorful cards with pretty French sentiments printed on the front. And inside, in her neat script, were inspiring, encouraging notes from my mom. Given the tension prior to my departure, these nurturing messages meant a lot to me. Even though she didn’t agree with what I was doing, the cards showed that my mother was reaching out, giving me support. But there was no mail for us, just Meadow Ed, checking up on who’d signed the trail register.

  “No mail, huh?” he said.

  “Nope, not today. But we hadn’t planned on stopping here, so I shouldn’t really have been expecting anything,” I responded, feeling a little stupid.

  “Lotsa folks think they can get from Kennedy Meadows to Vermilion in one shot, but not many do. It’s a shame; now you’ll have to make the climb back up to Kearsarge.”

  The steep climb over Kearsarge Pass to rejoin the PCT was just as difficult as Meadow Ed had predicted. But our radios were getting clear signals, so we passed the time and miles by yelling station numbers to each other and singing along to the songs, which included the appropriately titled “Higher,” by Creed.

  With Whitney and Forester behind us, we felt quite accomplished, but really we’d only just begun, We had five more high passes to go before our next re-supply. That day we tackled the rocky flanks of Glen Pass and camped at the emerald-green Rae Lakes with Fish and Ryan. The mosquitoes were swarming, and despite slathering ourselves with the potent (and potentially toxic) repellent DEET, they engulfed us, flying in our ears, up our noses, and even deep into our throats. Duffy swatted himself mercilessly, yelling “Yes!” whenever he killed one of the “blood-sucking bastards.” In desperation, I put on my rain pants, jacket, and mosquito-netting hood. I sweated profusely as a result but at least was able to stall the buggy onslaught. Duffy tried another tactic. While Fish, Ryan, and I were cooking dinner, we heard hollers and then a large splash.

  “He didn’t just do that,” Ryan said, incredulous.

  “That’s one crazy son-of-a-bitch.” Fish looked out into the darkness toward the lakes.

  The water in Rae Lakes was fresh from the snowy peaks and the coldest thing this side of the North Pole. Duffy’s evening swim did ward off the mosquitoes temporarily, but its more lasting effect was to leave him shivering like an outboard motor for most of the night.

  The next morning we were back at it again, continuing our new routine—climb up to a high pass all morning and then embark on a long afternoon descent. Interspersed were numerous icy stream crossings that were both nerve-wracking and aggravating. The mosquitoes seemed to take our slow crossings (via logs or rocks, and sometimes wading) as invitations to snack.

  While the mosquitoes tested our patience and all of the high passes tested our endurance, Muir Pass, with its elusive summit and snow-covered trail, taxed us the most—both mentally and physically. It took us six hours to cover six miles, and I think I can remember every labored movement. With each step, my foot crashed through crusty ice, crystals scrapping and burning my bare legs, then I’d wobble to the left and wobble to the right before submerging a trekking pole into the snow to catch my balance. When we reached snow-free ground on the other side of Muir Pass, we dropped to our knees and lay on our packs, unable to find even enough energy to eat an energy bar. But the endurance test wasn’t yet complete. We still had Selden Pass to tackle before the much-anticipated Vermilion Valley.

  Targeting this 10,900-foot pass, we charged ahead, with five miles ahead of us to reach the top and then thirteen miles to Edison Lake and the ferry across to Vermilion. We’d have to move quickly if we wanted to be there in time for the boat’s final afternoon trip.

  At first we made good progress, but in midmorning we were abruptly blocked by a wide, swift expanse of frigid water—Bear Creek. Fear washed over me like snowmelt over rock. The memory of our difficult crossing of Evolution Creek just the day before was still unnervingly fresh in my mind.

  When we’d arrived at Evolution early the previous afternoon, we found a note left by another hiker. “BE CAREFUL,” we read. “Water chest-high. Current strong. Find a better crossing.” Heeding the advice, we headed upstream to loo
k for shallower water. A quarter of a mile up we thought we found a good spot and began to ford arm in arm. The bed of the stream was a solid sheet of slippery rock, but we located a long crack and, step by step, wedged our feet into it. The water wrapped around my ankles and thighs and tugged like an army of small hands. While deliberately sliding my feet along the crack, I tried to ignore the mosquitoes that were feasting on my arms. I didn’t dare let go of Duffy to slap at them. If I fell, I’d either break my ankle or be washed downstream toward the rapids. We made painstaking progress through the bitterly cold water until, at last, we were safely on the opposite shore. Creek fords can be the most dangerous aspect of hiking through the Sierra.

  Now we were faced with another, deeper and scarier, creek ford. After some discussion, Duffy decided to go across the creek first without his pack, in an attempt to gauge its depth and find a safe route. The floor of Bear Creek was a tangled mess of slick rocks, and as Duffy crossed he stumbled like a college kid leaving a keg party. Once safely on the other side, he crossed back over, grabbed his pack and my arm, and we stepped into the torrent together. The water reached up to my waist and sent its freezing fingers through my entire body. My hands rapidly turned white-blue and my feet felt wooden. Within seconds I was having one of the most severe Raynaud’s attacks of my life. Given the depth of the water, we’d decided that I should cross the stream packless, hoping that without its extra weight I’d be able to fight the strong current. This meant that Duffy would have to cross for a third time. When we made it ashore, I jumped around to warm up while Duffy strode back into the creek to retrieve my pack from the other side. While I watched him wobble his way across Bear Creek for the final time, I realized that I wouldn’t have been able to safely cross without him. He wasn’t always the most attentive boyfriend, but challenges like Bear Creek seemed to bring out the protective and valorous side of him. I envied his strength, but more importantly, I loved him for it.