All that was lacking were animals and birds but that was due to the time of year. Wildlife sightings were uncommon because most creatures would be down in the forest below the snowline where there was food and warmth. We did see many yellow-bellied marmots basking on rocks. These large bulky rodents were a common sight around rock fields and scree slopes and would stand on their hind legs and whistle loudly on seeing us before diving for cover in holes between the boulders.
We approached the High Sierra over the mostly snow free Mulkey Pass and Trail Pass. Mount Langley, the southernmost of the twelve peaks over 14,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada, came into view. From the climb to Cottonwood Pass, regarded as the start of the High Sierra, the views were stupendous. Beyond the pass we camped at Chicken Spring Lake at 11,242 feet, the highest camp I’d ever had. So far the altitude hadn’t affected me and I was hoping this would continue as there were higher passes to come. The way the PCT unfolds helps with acclimatising to altitude as the height only gradually increases and the first sections above 10,000 feet are only short. By the time I reached the High Sierra I had been high enough often enough that my body was starting to acclimatise. In fact the altitude didn’t affect me noticeably at all.
This camp was also the finest of the trip so far. A curving ridge with a cornice, cliffs and scree hung above the lake, which was frozen solid. I felt in the heart of the mountains, remote from the world below with snowy peaks all around.
Now we were mostly in the snow the trail was invisible, with only tree blazes and other signs indicating its presence. At first we still tried to follow it but often it traversed steep slopes that were difficult in the snow, especially when it was icy. On the day out from Chicken Spring Lake we looked down to the flat plain called Siberian Outpost and decided to cross that rather than stick with the trail which ran through steep woods. After this, whilst we stayed close to the line of the trail, we took what looked like the easiest route in the snow, which often meant crossing meadows and valley bottoms - sometimes across the middle of frozen lakes - rather than traversing slopes. During the day we entered the southernmost of the High Sierra’s national parks, Sequoia, which was created in part to protect the magnificent Giant Sequoia trees that grow on the western edge of the High Sierra. These are far from the PCT and I didn’t have time to make a diversion to see them. Many years later I came back and did a 500 mile circular walk from Yosemite Valley to see the Giant Sequoias and other places I’d missed on the PCT including King’s Canyon and Yosemite Valley itself. One of the few restrictions on a long walk is the need to stick to the route most of the time. I knew I had to reach Canada before the first snows of the next winter made the going dangerous and maybe impassable (and also before my six-month Visa ran out). Giant Forest where the big Sequoias grow was just too far away to visit.
Down in the forest the creeks were mostly open, making for some cold though not usually hazardous fords, though there was occasionally a snowbridge still strong enough to bear our weight. When I was wearing them I sometimes waded across in my snowshoes - one of the few advantages they had over skis. They were also easier to carry in the trees as they didn’t stick out high above my head but otherwise the skis were clearly the better way to travel. If our boots were still dry - mine were usually soaked by the end of the day and still damp in the morning - we wore running shoes for creek crossings. This nearly resulted in a disaster at Rock Creek below Siberian Outpost when Dave dropped one of his ski boots into the water and it was rapidly washed away. We searched along the banks and eventually I spotted it trapped against a log jam and managed to retrieve it after a slimy and slippery crawl out on a thin branch. We were many days from a road and hiking in running shoes would not have been easy or pleasant in the snow. After that incident I made sure I tied my boots to the pack rather than carried them in my hand. That night we camped by the creek at 9400 feet, which already felt quite low.
We were now only seven miles from Crabtree Meadows, a starting point for the ascent of Mount Whitney. We all wanted to climb this mountain and had agreed to take a day off from the trail for this. This was one diversion I wasn’t going to miss. Although not on the Pacific Crest Trail Whitney is the southern terminus of the John Muir Trail. As with all highest mountains in a region or country (even Mount Everest these days) it is popular and in the summer there is a permit system and numbers are strictly regulated - a few weeks after our ascent we heard that the mountain was already fully booked for the coming summer. We would avoid all of this. When we’d asked a ranger about the need for permits for the national parks in the High Sierra and about camping restrictions he’d just told us the parks were closed and that we could go if we wanted but there were no rangers and no support. We’d be on our own, which was fine with us.
At Crabtree Meadows, which we reached at lunchtime, we found a good site on snow free ground under some lodgepole pines with a view across the meadows to the soaring spires of Mount Young, Mount Hitchcock and the serrated Mount Whitney Pinnacles. A white snowshoe hare darted across the open meadows as we watched the mountains. ‘A superb site, perhaps the best yet’, I wrote in my journal. There were to be many more contenders for this in the High Sierra.
Mount Whitney would be a long and steep climb. I was familiar with using ice axe and crampons and had done a little snow and ice mountaineering as had Scott and Dave. Larry hadn’t however so as he was determined to come on the climb I spent a few hours at Crabtree Meadows teaching him the rudiments of ice axe use. This was hardly an adequate preparation for an ascent of a remote high wilderness mountain but it was all that was possible. Scott and Dave skied round the meadows, free to speed along gracefully without their heavy packs. Watching them convinced me I had to learn how to ski.
Late in the afternoon there was a sudden build-up of dark massive cumulo-nimbus clouds over the main Sierra crest. Soon the threatened thunderstorm began though no rain fell on our camp. It raged for the next three hours, a dramatic sight, before fading away as the sun set, leaving the last clouds to turn pink. This storm convinced us we needed a very early start for Mount Whitney as the thought of being up high in such weather was terrifying so we were awake at the ghastly hour of 4.30 a.m. and off by six on the 18-mile round trip. More significant than the distance was the ascent though, which was over 4,000 feet.
A walk up a narrow canyon under glaciated rock walls led to a traverse of steep icy slopes where crampons were needed. Next came a series of switchbacks that were only partially snow-covered and which led to the main ridge at Trail Crest. We were now in the heart of alpine wildness far above the forest. All around were superb glaciated cirques laced with snow gullies and topped by rock ridges and pinnacles. Ignoring the partially hidden trail we made a direct ascent on scree to Trail Crest. Back on the trail we now followed the crest towards the summit, winding between sharp pinnacles above the granite-lined cirques and with, far below, the tiny circles of frozen lakes and the dark spread of the forest. Between the pinnacles there were dizzying views straight down to Owens Valley. The narrow path was often snow covered and precarious, especially where it was steeply banked up with snow round the bulging sides of the buttresses. Here we could teeter round on our crampons, facing inwards and clinging perilously to the rock. In a few places I’d have felt much safer with a rope and a belay. This felt like real mountaineering.
Eventually the crest widened out to a vast snowfield that lead easily to the summit. The view was huge. The High Sierra was spread out around us with the sharp rock ridges and peaks of endless snow-spattered mountains rising above vast snow-filled basins. To the east the mountain fell away precipitately to the shimmering pale desert. Away to the west a big thunderstorm was raging.
We spent an hour on the summit taking in the view and recovering from the climb. The altitude had affected me less than I thought it might and I only felt slightly breathless but even so a rest was welcome. Also, this was the highest mountain I’d ever climbed. I didn’t want to dash away, especially with such a stupendous v
iew. This was wilderness! At this time of year anyway as there were signs of the summer - a toilet shed and a concrete ice-filled shelter - which I did my best to ignore. A brass USGS benchmark disk marked the height as 14, 494 feet (current measurements make it 14,505 feet). There’s nothing higher in the USA outside Alaska.
On approaching the mountain we’d noticed several snow-filled gullies running down from the west face of the mountain. To speed up the descent and avoid the scary traverse below the pinnacles we decided to descend one of these. First we dropped down the summit snowfield and then a long slope of bare talus that led to the top of the narrow, twisting gullies. From above we couldn’t see all the way down any of them. Finally we selected one that looked reasonably safe for a sitting glissade - sliding down the snow on our backsides with the ice axe ready to use as a brake. We went one at a time to avoid crashing into each other. Dave first, soon followed by Scott, both of them reappearing on the wide snow slope at the bottom. Then Larry set off. I watched as he picked up speed rather too rapidly and then vanished round the first kink in the gully in a cloud of flying snow and stones. There was a loud yell then silence. There was no sign of Larry where the others had appeared. I waited, shocked. Thoughts raced through my mind. Was Larry injured? Was he even still alive? Finally, after what seemed an age though was probably only a minute or so, I heard a faint cry - ‘I’ve lost my ice axe!’ Unable to see where Larry was and not wanting to collide with him I scrambled carefully down the loose rock beside the gully. Where he’d lost control there were stones sticking out of the snow. Not far to the side I found his ice axe wedged between two rocks. Below Larry lay spread-eagled on his back in the middle of the slope. I called out to him, asking if he could move to the side of the gully so I wouldn’t crash into him if I glissaded down. He started to move but immediately slipped and lay still again. Rather than risk a collision I climbed down, kicking steps in the hard snow and using the two ice axes as daggers to support myself. I could have done with crampons but they were strapped on the back of Larry’s pack - we’d only taken pack between us as we hadn’t much to carry. In fact the two pairs of crampons on the pack were probably what had stopped Larry’s slide.
When I reached Larry I found him shaken but without injury other than a grazed hand. He didn’t want to glissade anymore though so we slowly descended kicking steps and using the ice axes for security until the angle eased off and he felt able to slide the last few hundred feet. Finally and with great relief we reached Scott and Dave who had been watching from below and wondering what was going on. We’d been very lucky. A serious accident days away from any help could have had unthinkable consequences. We plodded back to camp, arriving tired but pleased after a thirteen hour day.
Back in camp we found a note from two PCT hikers, Phil and Andy, who’d passed by on skis. Perhaps, we thought, we might have tracks to follow until the sun obliterated them, at least for a few days. Our morning tracks had already softened though and would soon be gone. Even on the top of Mount Whitney the snow was thawing. We weren’t too surprised when Phil and Andy’s tracks were barely visible the next day. After the long arduous day on Mount Whitney we were happy to have a somewhat easier day though we were still in snow virtually the whole time. We were also mostly in dense trees and for once snowshoes were more manoeuvrable than skis and for the first and only time Larry and I had to wait an hour for Scott and Dave to catch up on a wooded saddle. The day was most memorable for the view from the vast open space of the Bighorn Plateau, which was ringed by wonderfully rugged and ragged rock peaks. Looking back we could see Mount Whitney soaring steeply into the sky. It was hard to believe we had stood on top just the day before. To the west lay another impressive wall of granite peaks, the Great Western Divide, which runs parallel to the main Sierra crest. Ahead the Kings-Kern Divide, so-called because it is the watershed between the Kings and Kern rivers, linked the two. Tomorrow we would cross this great rock ridge via the highest pass on the PCT, 13,180 foot Forester Pass. This is the first in a series of high passes crossed by the PCT in quick succession. Remembering the thunderstorm we planned to be over each of them in the mornings, which meant more really early starts.
The day on Forester Pass was helped by camping at almost 11,000 feet the night before. This left half the amount of ascent we’d had on the climb of Mount Whitney. Against that we were carrying full packs. Awake before dawn at 5 a.m. the day began with Scott and Dave setting their stove ablaze. We were all using white gas stoves that required priming by lighting liquid fuel to get them going. Still half-asleep Scott and Dave had failed to close the fuel tank on their stove so when they lit the priming fuel the flame quickly spread to the tank and the whole stove went up in a ball of fire. All they could do was sit and watch a tankful of fuel burn away. The stove wasn’t damaged though and no-one was hurt. It woke us all up too! This event was soon forgotten as the day unfolded, a day I was to describe as ‘another epic day’ in my journal.
The approach to Forester Pass was through barren snowy and rocky ground past frozen lakes. Ahead the Kings-Kern Divide was a solid rock wall that looked impassable. In fact there is a trail that was blasted into the rock in 1930. Initially steep crampon work led up frozen snow to the start of the switchbacks up the rock face. These were snow free and made for easy walking until the trail crossed a snow-filled gully not far from the top of the pass. Half the gully was in sunlight, half in shadow. The snow in the sun was fairly soft, that in the shadow rock hard. Dave and Scott crossed the gully and continued up the switchbacks, here quite snowy, to the top. I’d noticed that when they crossed the sunny section Dave and Scott had set off little snow slides, which made me concerned about the possibility of an avalanche. That still doesn’t explain my stupidity however. For some reason when I reached the edge of the sunny section I decided to try and climb straight up the gully on the front points of my crampons. It was only about forty feet but trying to climb that distance up very steep hard snow at 13,000 feet with one ice axe, bendy boots and a pack weighing around 70lbs is not sensible. I managed though until a final corniced vertical section of soft snow stopped me. I could make no progress up this, sliding back as my footholds collapsed. I was stuck. Rescue came from above. Dave lowered down his ice axe on the 5mm line Scott was carrying, mostly for river crossings. I tied the cord round my waist and was belayed from above. With Dave and Scott heaving on the rope and by pulling up on the two ice axes thrust into the snow above me I managed to plough my way up to the cornice. A helping hand enabled me to squirm inelegantly onto the pass where I lay panting and very relieved. Larry, waiting patiently below, wisely decided to follow Scott and Dave and take the sensible route.
Forester Pass is a narrow notch on a rocky crest that is the border between Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. We were now in the heartland of the High Sierra. Rock and snow peaks rolled away before and behind us. Thankfully the descent was easy, just a tramp down snowfields on snowshoes to roaring Bubbs Creek with excellent views of a series of rock spires called the Kearsage Pinnacles. We camped in the woods beside the creek on the edge of Vidette Meadows with another superb view, this time of East Vidette, a massive triangular rock peak that reminded me of Buachaille Etive Mor, one of the most distinctive and impressive mountains in the Scottish Highlands.
The next few days would give me an opportunity to experience the High Sierra in solitude. Scott and Dave had cached supplies in Onion Valley on the east side of the mountains and were planning on going out to collect them the next day and spend a night down below. As there was a store there Larry was going with them. I didn’t want to leave the mountains and break their spell so I agreed to look after the tents and other gear so they could travel light. I handed Larry a shopping list, mostly of day snacks as, despite the huge load I’d carried from Kennedy Meadows, I’d run out. From Vidette Meadows we clambered over avalanche debris below the Kearsage Pinnacles and followed a stream to mostly frozen Bullfrog Lake where we found Phil and Andy just packing up. They too were goi
ng down to Onion Valley. By mid-morning I was alone.
Bullfrog Lake was in a beautiful situation at timberline with a few gnarled whitebark and lodgepole pines half-buried in the snow dotted around and mountains rising in every direction. Clark’s nutcrackers, rosy finches and mountain chickadees flitted through the trees. The snow was deep but thawing fast. Whilst walking we’d not really been aware of just how quickly it was going but now it became very apparent. Larry had pitched his tent to store all their gear so I had two tents to look after. And they did need looking after as every few hours they began to sag as the snow round them melted and the pegs pulled out. Soon they were sitting on platforms several inches thick as the snow under them didn’t melt. I lay outside on my insulating mat reading and writing my journal some of the time but mostly just watching the mountains and the trees and the sky and the snow. I relished this time alone and without any pressure to move on. I could just relax and be here in the wilderness.
Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles Page 6