A small ski and outdoor town Mammoth Lakes was an ideal place for such a long layover. Surrounded by forests and mountains I didn’t feel I’d really left the wilds, more that I was resting on the edge. Not so big as to seem truly urban and city-like Mammoth Lakes was large enough to have outdoor stores and supermarkets so I was able to replenish my supplies and buy some necessary odds and ends such as new socks, mine all being in holes, a candle lantern (an unnecessary but tempting purchase – it wasn’t actually much use) and 60 feet of 7mm rope. Larry bought a new pack to replace his broken one while Dave was lucky enough to meet a rep for The North Face who gave him a pack when he heard what he was doing. I sent my snowshoes to Warren Rogers – they were too big to mail home. I’d been carrying them much of the last few days and could do without the weight. My crampons, also seeing less use recently, did go home. I reckoned the snow would be soft and patchy enough from here on not to need them.
In Mammoth Lakes we saw Andy and Phil for the last time. They were going their separate ways, Andy to hitch-hike north in search of snowfree areas as he was sick of the snow and Phil to wait here, in his hometown, for the snow to melt. Other than Manuel we’d seen no other PCT hikers since Weldon and all sense of being part of a northbound backpacking community had vanished. Were any other hikers still on the trail? We didn’t know.
Before leaving we weighed our packs in an outdoor store. I was shocked. Mine came in at 92lbs, Larry’s went off the scale, which went up to 100lbs. We’d carried even more from Kennedy Meadows. How I didn’t know but it certainly wasn’t surprising that we’d only averaged 12 miles a day and that I’d eaten so much and still felt hungry.
A day in the woods from Mammoth Lakes saw us at Reds Meadow, a summer resort with various facilities. Now it was still snowbound and everything was closed. Hiking through sombre dark snowbound red fir forest we’d seen little. Tomorrow we’d return to the mountains. I lightened my load a little here as I discovered that my balaclava and long johns had shrunk in the drier at Mammoth Lakes, something I’d managed not to notice at the time. They went into a trash bin and I hoped forthcoming nights wouldn’t be too cold.
Before leaving Reds Meadow we had a look at the Devil’s Postpile, a strange hexagonal columnar basalt rock volcanic formation the same as the ones that make up the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland and Fingal’s Cave on the island of Staffa in the Hebrides. It looked like nothing else we’d seen on the walk.
Beyond Reds Meadow a new difficulty arose. The snow formed suncups - a series of bowls separated by thin ridges. Walking on these was hard-going, especially when they were big enough to be more than a stride apart and deep enough to require a high step to exit. Geometric uniformity seemed the theme of the day with the regular columns of the Devil’s Postpile and now the regular depressions of the suncups.
To make up for the hard work of the day we had a superb camp on a rocky bluff looking at Mount Ritter, Banner Peak and the pinnacles of the Minarets, fine mountains all. The first known ascent of the great rock block of Mount Ritter was by John Muir in 1872.
We were all struggling to adjust to being back in the snow with heavy packs. I think mentally we felt the success of the High Sierra crossing should mean being done with the snow and we were now beginning to resent it. Our third day out from Mammoth Lakes was, in the words of my journal, ‘strange and frustrating’. I was in a daze at first and the others seemed no better off. Concentrating on finding the trail in the snow was beyond us and it took four long postholing, trail losing hours to reach 1000 Islands Lake, a rate of maybe a mile an hour. The only consolation was the superb view along the lake to the mountains. Soon though we were back in dark red fir forest, also known as snow forest as the shade of these giant conifers means the snow lasts longer here than elsewhere. From the lake we straggled up through soft snow to Island Pass then dropped down to a camp beside Rush Creek. We’d progressed just eight miles. So much for easier going on the lower terrain. None of us felt very cheerful.
By the next evening our spirits were much improved. We’d walked seventeen miles and had reached Tuolumne Meadows where the store had opened for the summer just two days before – it had been closed when we were in Mammoth Lakes so we’d made no plans to use it. This meant some fresh snacks that evening. We were also now in Yosemite National Park, pictures of which had been the original inspiration for my walk. Reaching Tuolumne Meadows had begun slowly with more difficult snow to deal with en route to 11,050 feet Donohue Pass, the last high pass on the PCT in the Sierra Nevada. It was on this pass that we entered Yosemite. To our great delight looking down from the pass we could see that long Lyell Canyon, which led to Tuolumne Meadows, was snow free. The last nine miles of the day down this beautiful springtime valley with its meandering creek took just three hours. We hadn’t walked so fast since entering the High Sierra. The only downbeat note to the day was that my telephoto zoom lens had jammed with rust, having got damp on a creek ford. It never worked again.
Any idea that the most difficult and most dangerous part of the PCT was behind us was soon proved wrong in the Yosemite wilderness beyond Tuolumne Meadows. The next six days really were the toughest and most hazardous of the walk. The route here had the reputation for some of the steepest and longest ascents and descents on the PCT because it crosses the grain of the land, climbing over steep ridges and descending into deep canyons again and again, but these weren’t really a problem after the High Sierra passes. However the route was also reputed to have some of the hardest creek crossings even in summer. Arriving at the height of the spring thaw with the creeks overflowing with snowmelt meant these fords would be really dangerous. Deep snow still lay in the high forests and on the passes too, making for much arduous postholing. Even the meadows were hard to cross as each was a mass of suncups, some of them several feet deep and several feet across. And to finish off the severity of Yosemite there were big thunderstorms nearly every afternoon. But it was the creeks I remember most vividly. So many creeks, so much water, so much noise, so much risk. Many years later I returned for a summer backpacking trip and found it hard to believe that the little creeks I could easily paddle or rock hop across were the same ones that had been so savage on the PCT.
From Tuolumne Meadows Larry and I travelled separately from Scott and Dave. This was a mistake. We’d gone through the High Sierra together so we could support each other, both practically and mentally. Now that we thought the going was getting easier we reckoned we didn’t need to do that. In fact this was just the time when being in a group would have been much safer.
Initially we followed a good trail beside the racing Tuolumne River, a wide deep torrent we wouldn’t have considered fording. The amazing glaciated landscape around us was typically Yosemite with smooth rock domes and sharp spires – whale-backed Lembert Dome, the Horned Peaks of Unicorn and Cathedral, the big triangular face of Fairview Dome. Twice we crossed the river on bridges that were partly swamped by meltwater. At one some day-hikers – we met about twenty near Tuolumne Meadows, as many as on the rest of the walk so far put together - had paused and were staring at the water streaming over the bridge. They looked startled and somewhat shocked when we just stomped straight across. We didn’t expect to keep our boots dry anyway. We passed the thunderous waterfall called White Cascade, the biggest we’d seen, before turning up Cold Canyon where we hit the first awful suncupped meadows and then a raging mass of water called McCabe Creek. Water crashed round the trees and surged over snowbanks, making it hard to tell which was creek and which land. Many fallen trees spanned the roaring water. We selected a group that looked secure and crawled gingerly across just inches above the boiling white-water. The noise was deafening and disorientating and the logs slippery and wet with sharp stubs. I found the crossing very frightening and was relieved to reach the sagging snow of the far bank.
Camp was in the forest but the night was still frosty. The air was humid from the melting snow and all this moisture vapour condensed and froze on the trees and
our sleeping bags, turning them white. The rising sun soon dissolved the frost however. The ensuing day was long, hard, hot and slow. There were many creeks to cross. Two of them – Return Creek and Spiller Creek - were waist-deep and we roped up for safety, belaying each other from the bank. Whilst the ropes were psychological aids I doubt they’d have been much use and could even have been a hindrance if one of us had been washed away. But feeling that link with another person, along with using the tension of the rope to help with balance, made using it worthwhile. My sixty feet of rope was barely long enough, Larry’s thirty feet wouldn’t have been so I was glad I’d bought it.
The fords in freezing water left us shaky with cold. A steep arduous climb in soft deep snow soon warmed us up. The cold water seemed to have dulled our minds too as we made some map reading mistakes, lost the route and became completely confused. In the forest there were few landmarks so once we’d mislaid the trail finding it again was difficult. As we considered what to do Scott and Dave appeared, having followed our footsteps in the snow. Looking at the map we could see that Miller Lake, which lay beside the trail, should be easy to identify. Reluctantly we climbed up to a ridge so we could look down at the landscape. Miller Lake appeared below us so back down we went. On the trail again we were soon in spectacular Matterhorn Canyon, a wonderful glaciated valley rimmed with steep walls and laced with sparkling blue lakes and rich green meadows, many sodden but free of snow. Exhausted by the fords and the deep snow we camped after just seven miles. Since Mammoth Lakes I’d been sleeping out every night. Usually I was so tired I slept until dawn but in Matterhorn Canyon I woke in the dark and lay on my back staring up through a circle of trees at the stars shining in the totally clear black sky. I felt relaxed and in the right place. The travails of the day had gone.
More passes, more canyons and more fords marked the following day, along with being unsure of our whereabouts again. The fords were rough but didn’t require roping up. The first pass, Benson, was just on timberline and gave grand views of surrounding peaks. Then it was back into the forest and down to Piute Creek. This stream had overflowed its banks and spread out into the forest. If there was a bridge it wouldn’t span most of the water. The area round the creek had become a swamp with many rotten fallen trees, mud and, a real nuisance for the first time, mosquitoes. The water was mostly slow but deep and we waded several waist-deep overflow channels before crossing the faster flowing main channel with another log crawl. Once out of the flooded forest we climbed through more magnificent glaciated scenery to Seavey Pass or at least somewhere near it. I wasn’t convinced we’d reached the right spot. The next canyon, Kerrick, still lay below however so it didn’t really matter. I just preferred knowing where I was. Scott and Dave decided to camp at the possible pass. Larry and I continued on, traversing steep but soft snow above yet another raging creek to camp about 100 feet above it amongst some red firs. The day again was hot, speeding up the snowmelt and leaving us sweaty but with cold wet feet from the wet snow.
Whenever there were views from passes and meadows we could see steep jagged mountains on the main Sierra Crest. This was the Sawtooth Ridge, the northernmost mountains in the Sierra Nevada over 12,000 feet high. Long before I knew about the PCT or wanted to visit the Sierra Nevada I’d read about these mountains as they appear in Jack Kerouac’s novel The Dharma Bums, which describes his attempt on one of them, Matterhorn Peak, in the company of a group including Japhy Ryder, who is a lightly fictionalised version of the poet Gary Snyder. A real mountaineer and wilderness lover unlike Kerouac, who was really more at home in bars and cars, Snyder wrote several poems featuring this area of Yosemite, one of them called Piute Creek. Inspired by Snyder Kerouac did spend some time in the mountains and became entranced with the idea of backpacking and wild camping, writing in The Dharma Bums ‘I wanted to get me a full pack complete with everything necessary to sleep, shelter, eat, cook, in fact a regular kitchen and bedroom right on my back, and go off somewhere and find perfect solitude’. This didn’t last however, perhaps if it had Kerouac would have had a happier and longer life.
The three days since Tuolumne Meadows had felt dominated by water with much time spent on creek crossings. There was more to come however. My journal entry for the fourth day begins ‘a day of water!’ It started with a crossing of Kerrick Creek. This foaming torrent looked unfordable so we cast around for a logjam. And not far downstream from the trail we found a massive one where the whole forest on both banks had been avalanched with big trees thrown over the creek. We crossed on several solidly jammed logs, again inching along in a maelstrom of foam, surging waves and deafening noise.
Relief from the water and the snow came on an ascent of a rocky trail lined with flowers. Birds sang in the trees and a buck mule deer, his antlers in velvet, watched us from the forest. Soon though we were going down again to the next ford – Stubblefield Canyon Creek. To cross this very deep and fast creek we went upstream to where three creeks merged to form it and forded each one separately. One of these was chest deep and all were strong. We roped up for two of them.
Another snow-free ascent followed. We were becoming used to this pattern now. Up south-facing slopes where the snow had melted to a pass on a spur of the main crest then down in deep snow into a canyon where there were creeks to ford before the next ascent. The next descent took us to nearly ice-free Wilma Lake where we had a knee-deep wade to the bridge over the outlet. Jack Main Canyon Creek was a wide, deep river that we quickly decided was beyond our fording abilities even with the aid of the rope. Instead we would work our way along the bank until we found somewhere it seemed safer to cross. That night we stopped near the creek and had just lit a fire when a huge thunderstorm broke out with torrential hail the size of marbles followed by heavy rain. We pitched the tents extremely quickly but still had much damp gear – though some of this was from the fords. The storm raged through the evening then declined to mist and drizzle. I realised it was the first real storm for two months.
Morning came with cloud and dampness. We spent a whole day slogging up Jack Main Canyon through soft snow and collapsing suncups. I was becoming disenchanted with this section of the trail. The effort required and the frightening fords seemed far in excess of the rewards. There was no choice but to go on anyway so I dismissed these thoughts. I certainly wasn’t going back! My mood improved when the sun appeared and we started to dry out. Then we reached Tilden Creek, the ultimate ford. It took an hour and half. This was because it was so wild and fast and furious that we decided we needed a fixed line across it. Larry crossed first, without his pack but with the rope tied round his waist. Near the far bank the water knocked him over but he managed to scramble out. With the rope tied between two trees and attached to it by a karabiner linked to a belt made by wrapping his bear bagging cord round and round his waist Larry returned, collected his pack and took it to the other side. Then it was my turn. Larry weighed 12 stone and was over six feet tall and found the crossing difficult. At 10 stone and 5 foot eight inches I just swung from the karabiner edging along on my heels, the force of the waist deep water bending me double. We now had the problem of retrieving the rope. Neither of us wanted to cross without it being tied between the trees. Then Larry said he knew a knot that came undone when you pulled the cord attached to it but which was otherwise secure though he hadn’t wanted to use it when carrying the packs. Back over the river he went to tie this knot and come back with the cord. Unfortunately just as he reached the bank he dropped the cord and away it went back to the far side. So Larry had to go back and start again. This time it worked. Larry had now forded Tilden Creek seven times. I was very impressed. Just once had been enough for me.
As if Tilden Creek wasn’t enough shortly after the ford we were crossing big Grace Meadow when a thunderstorm broke above us and lightening cracked all around. We dashed for the trees, amazed at how fast we could run through sloppy snow with heavy packs when we were scared enough. Once secure in the forest we camped, after just seven miles. I’
d felt tired all day and was now exhausted. Yosemite was proving tougher than I’d expected. We left the park the next day though at Dorothy Lake Pass. Looking ahead we were amazed and relieved to see that the mountains were mostly snow free. We were also delighted when we found a bridge over the West Fork of the West Walker River after descending from the pass. Although we didn’t know it the hardest part of the walk from Mammoth Lakes to Echo Lake was over.
Yosemite was hard because of the steep glaciated terrain and the narrow canyons. On leaving the park the landscape changed dramatically. Gone were the steep cliffs and big rocky mountains, here the hills were lower and more rounded. The granite of Yosemite vanished. Here the volcanic rocks had a different colour, texture and form, which made for gentler more open scenery and easier walking. Steady rain that afternoon following another thunderstorm had me walking in my waterproof jacket for the first time on the walk. It had been worth bringing after all!
My appetite had not diminished and despite what had seemed like the enormous amount of food I’d carried from Mammoth Lakes, and which had been topped up at Tuolumne Meadows, I was running out again as was Larry. So when we reached Highway 108, the first since Tuolumne Meadows, we diverted from the trail and walked seven miles to Leavitt Meadows store where we found Scott and Dave who couldn’t resist the thought of food either but who’d managed to hitch a lift. Here I stuffed myself with cheese sandwiches, soft drinks, fruit pies and coffee. It all tasted glorious. I then stocked up on candy bars and fruit pies for the next few days. Despite us spending quite a bit of money the store owner made it clear he didn’t like backpackers and hassled us about packing up the groceries we’d bought outside the store. ‘An unpleasant nasty man’ I wrote in my journal. He stood out as the only person I met on the trail who was like that. His other customers were friendly however and interested in our walk.
Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles Page 8