The weather in Weldon was chilly and damp, with drizzle and the occasional rumble of thunder. What would it be like up in the mountains? Soon we would know.
*More information can be found on the Desert Explorer website - http://www.dustyway.com/2007/09/pioneer-frederick-butterbredt.html
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 a
reas 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 alpi
ne 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.
Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles Page 5