Our campsite at Seavy Pass was beyond ordinary beauty and once again brought a sense of awe as we ate breakfast while watching the rising sun color the sky and the granite a delicate shade of pink.
We hiked through a granite world. While hanging that food bag, I’d looked down a valley whose name should have been Valley Of Granite. But every canyon and valley was by mountains of granite, sometimes in large rounded pillows, subtly colored with shades of gray, darker gray, white, buff, and yellowish gray. Linda was tired of granite, but Kathy and I were enthralled with its rugged beauty. There is nothing like a hike over difficult terrain to show that you are not as young as you used to be. Of course, I didn’t plan to have an injured knee before starting the hike. My limitations were much more obvious in the Sierra than when I’d hiked 400 miles on the AT in the spring. Yet in spite of the injured knee, we regularly made 12 to 16 miles a day. In spite of my limitations, I did the distance and the beauty around me kept me going.
Down we went to Benson Lake, then up another granite canyon to granite-bound Smedberg Lake. Linda and Kathy pumped water, while I finished lunch and doctored abrasions on my feet caused by little rocks in my shoes, vowing to get those Dirty Girl Gaiters for my next long hike. The granite ledge into the lake on which we sat made me think sittin’ on the dock of the bay but unlike the song, we didn’t waste much time there. We had miles to walk to Matterhorn Canyon to catch up with our schedule.
As we pounded the trail to Glen Aulin, we met a day hiker, who was impressed with three older ladies hiking. He kept saying, “Animals. You are just animals!” which he meant as a big compliment.
Glen Aulin had a beautiful waterfall, water out of a spigot, and a solar toilet – with a seat. I especially appreciated the seat as now both knees were swollen and painful. A sliding semi-fall on small pebbles on a granite shelf on the way to Matterhorn Canyon injured my good knee. (When you have a bad knee you are favoring, the good knee does double duty, putting it in double danger.)
For our short day to Tuolumne Meadows, Kathy said she wanted to get up at the regular time even if we were only going six miles. In the morning, she told me she wanted to hit me when I woke her up at 5:30. Oh well, I said she would have to hit herself as I was only following her instructions.
On Linda's last day on the trail we traveled along the Tuolumne River, watching it swiftly slide over slabs and sheets of granite and many waterfalls. We had a hard time attending to hiking while taking so many pictures. A gentle rain fell on us for the last half mile. Then it rained harder as we reached the general store area, the only rain we had experienced since Donner Pass; it was hard to complain. We enjoyed hamburgers, chicken sandwiches and chili and bought a few needed items at the little store, and Kathy and I picked up our resupply boxes.
“Hikers need a ride to Mammoth”
Checking into a tent cabin gave us the privilege of a shower and a bed for the night. Kathy and I mulled over our next move. My feet had been manageable as long as I took pain meds and short breaks, but we were both tired and both of my knees were swollen. The next day was a scheduled rest day, which then morphed into more. I was hoping the swelling in my knees would go down. Before this hike, the now-swollen left knee had been my bad knee, but my right knee had become my bad knee shortly before this trip. Now my right knee had become my good knee once again, and my left knee was really bad.
Kathy asked, "How can you keep track of which is which?”
The truth was they were both bad. The right knee was a little less swollen, though it would need a doc to look at it when I got back home. The left knee was swollen up like a basketball, well, at least a large grapefruit. I sat in the tent cabin with ice on the elevated left knee, telling it to get better while Kathy was transported by Linda and Gail, Linda’s partner, to do our laundry, longing to get back on the trail. The weather decided to be rainy while we were at Tuolumne Meadows, so it was good to be in the tent cabin. There were four beds and a wood-burning stove in the cabin, with rest rooms and simple showers several feet away. It wasn’t palatial, but it was better than our small tent. We met interesting people at meals in the camp restaurant, a very large tent.
Gail, Linda, Kathy and I sang Holden Evening Prayer by candlelight in Linda and Gail's tent cabin before Linda and Gail headed back to Washington the next day; Kathy and I were still deciding what to do. Our tablemate at dinner was a doc, who thought I might be having trouble with Baker Cysts. I was seeking medical advice wherever I could find it.
Waiting for my knees to improve, we planned to pick up our schedule at Red’s Meadow, close to Mammoth Lakes. To get to Mammoth Lakes we rode a shuttle to the main road followed by two hitches, first to Lee Vining and then to Mammoth. The folks at the Tuolumne Meadows lodge gave us cardboard and a marker to make our “need a ride” sign, and we stood in the rain flashing it to passing cars. Two bedraggled old women standing by the road wearing large packs didn’t look too threatening. Even people going the other way or too full up to give us a ride smiled and waved.
Our first hitch was with young rock climbers, Washington transplants to the Bay area. They kindly gave us a ride to Lee Vining. At the service station, I held up the sign, and a young woman who worked for the Mono Lake Committee said she was going to Mammoth and would take us there. At Mammoth, we stumbled into the Reservation Bureau, and the two women working there found us lodging at the Cinnamon Bear B&B even though the Reservation Bureau only rented condos.
We were graciously helped by so many people, tablemates at dinner, strangers who gave us rides, women at the Reservation Bureau and then people at the B&B. Being in need of assistance, we experienced the kindness of others.
I hoped my knee would respond to ice and rest, but I wasn’t completely crazy. I went to the hospital in Mammoth for medical advice. This hospital was an expert place for knees as it was a ski town. The nurse practitioner said I was doing all the right things for my knees: rest, compression, elevation and ice. She nixed the idea that it had anything to do with Baker Cysts and diagnosed chondromalacia. She said if I felt like I could go on, I could. Just keep taking good care of the knee.
The problem was, I didn’t even have 90 degrees in range of motion, and it didn’t seem reasonable to go on. Kathy phoned to see if we could get tickets home, and I took the bus to Reds Meadow to pick up our resupply boxes. That bus ride was just what the doctor ordered. By the time I returned with the resupply boxes, my range of motion had increased, and I told Kathy I wanted to try going on. We un-planned the tickets home and re-planned the rest of the hike. Crazy? Maybe.
Months later Kathy told me she was pretty upset with all those changes but I hadn’t known that at the time. She sucked it up with a smile on her face and a great deal of skepticism that I would last longer than a day more on the trail. HA.
“There’s a bear on the trail.”
Wow. Wow. Wow. That summed up the next day. I was deliriously happy to be back on the trail and determined to take care of my knees, setting our pace at a slow and steady stroll. Any mileage at all for the first day from Red’s Meadow was a bonus, leaving a day earlier than the original schedule.
Expansive views of high mountain ranges through burned trees gave way to living trees. Smooth trail with a gentle uphill grade was just what I needed. We climbed 2,200 feet so gradually we were never really tired or winded.
We scraped a place to camp on a small shelf hidden above the trail with an absolutely gorgeous view of the Silver Divide, one of the two most scenic campsites on the whole hike. I knew that the morrow would be a big test of my knees with some significant downhill, but the day leaving Reds Meadow was sheer gift, going at least two miles farther than anticipated. I was incredibly thankful for trails, mountains, and my hiking partner, who put up with my changing plans.
Our trail went past Duck Lake Creek, Purple Lake, Virginia Lake, and down to Tully Hole and Fish Creek. All were beautiful, towering peaks beside us or in the distance. Kathy and I especially liked Fish Creek’s merry waterfalls.<
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Going down to Tully Hole, I saw a bear. A ways behind Kathy, picking my way slowly downhill, I could see the trail below us through the trees and a bear gallumphing up the trail. I yelled to Kathy, “There’s a bear on the trail”
She replied, “What?”
The second time I yelled at the top of my lungs causing the bear to leave the trail and go straight up the mountain. I didn’t get a picture, but was glad the bear left the trail.
Two days out of Red’s Meadow we passed Squaw Lake, Lake of the Lone Indian, and other high tarns set in the midst of rugged rock, winding our way through lakes and rocks to the top of Silver Pass, 10,900 feet.
Headed down from Silver Pass, we passed more beautiful lakes through meadows by pretty little streams through more kingdoms of granite. Descending switchbacks, every turn brought new views of granite slabs and distant rugged peaks.
My poor knees hiked down 3,000 feet, but held up pretty well. We lunched by a beautiful creek that can be a dangerous ford earlier in the year. Then we climbed back up nearly 2,000 feet to Bear Ridge where we camped for the night, tired but happy.
The morning brought more climbing. Uphill was my favorite, but not Kathy’s. She was having trouble with her feet, back, and shoulder.
Beauty surrounded us. Marie Lake charmed us both. The mountains north of Marie Lake looked like pyramids transplanted from Egypt to the Sierra. Passing picturesque Seldon Pass, not far past Marie Lake, we descended a pretty winding trail to Heart Lake where we stopped for dinner. We had developed a pattern of eating, then clipping off a few more miles after dinner. Theoretically, that left attractive food smells behind with less chance of drawing bears. Stopping in a meadow below Sally Keyes Lakes, we placed our bear cans, with food and smellables enclosed, a good distance from our tent.
My alarm went off three or four times the next morning, but we stayed in bed until 6:00. It had become too dark and cold to get up at 5:00, frost in the meadow and ice at the edge of a shallow stream. Arriving at Muir Trail ranch about 11:00, we picked up our buckets of food drop.
Solo
Sadly, Kathy and I then went in different directions. Her feet were really hurting. She headed down a trail for five miles toward a ferry ride, and she hoped, a hitch back to civilization on the west side of the mountains, planning to rent a car and drive to the east side of the mountains to meet me after Kearsarge Pass in six or seven days. Kathy took the Tyvek groundsheet, and I took the tent.
Yes, I was going on by myself. This section of trail, concurrent with the John Muir Trail, was well populated. The knees seemed to be slowly getting better, and I felt comfortable with my decision. We hugged and told each other to be careful.
The trail followed the San Joaquin River with its entertaining rapids and waterfalls. Crossing Piute Creek, I wet down my shirt to keep cool as the day had turned hot. Dinner was at a bridge crossing, and I took advantage of the water to clean up. The last of the day was a steep switchbacking climb by Evolution Creek along a series of plunging waterfalls.
I found my campsite just before dark, hurriedly did camp chores, and prepared for bed. It was strange to be only one in a three-person tent. I was glad it was a light-weight tent, as I went to sleep, listening to the music of the river as it tumbled past my campsite, I missed Kathy and hoped she’d made her boat connection and was somewhere back in the civilized world.
Fording the creek in the morning was no problem at all in September. Past the ford, the gentle uphill grade gave way to some serious switchbacks. Past Evolution Lake, the scrubby trees were left behind, and the rest of the day was lake after high-altitude lake set in valleys and nooks of rock, fed and emptied by streams and waterfalls. Oh, and did I mention, there was uphill? Lots and lots of uphill, until I finally staggered to the top of Muir Pass, 11,955 feet. I took pictures of the Muir Trail hut on the pass and rugged mountains in all directions. It was 5:00 when I left Muir Pass to descend to a lower altitude on a rough, rocky trail.
As I made my way down the trail, two young women from Holland passed me, also looking for a camping spot. We camped together at the edge of tree line in a beautiful small meadow with towering peaks all around. I was grateful to Karin and Rose for finding the spot.
My knees were holding up pretty well although they were glad to stop. The swelling in my left lower leg was gone, and I took no painkillers until night when the knees were aching again.
The following day, I woke up above a high-elevation lake at 10,000 feet and went to sleep at a high-elevation lake, 10,613 feet. In between I had gone down to 8,020 feet. That summed up the day, except for the beauty. It was hard to keep coming up with adjectives to describe the glorious scenery.
At noon I sat on a big rock at the edge of a river in Grouse Meadow, towering mountains of granite surrounding me, completely alone. I was in awe, soaking in the splendor all by myself on a perfect day, the wilderness my private domain.
Well, not absolutely private. Earlier that day, I’d passed a few late-rising hikers in the morning, and a woman took my picture to show her husband proof that a woman could hike alone in the Sierra. I didn’t feel particularly special, just another hiker on the trail, and a slow one at that. But it was fun to have someone else think I was special.
The end of the day was very difficult. I just barely had enough time to climb up the Golden Staircase before dark. It was often a staircase built for giants, or at least men with much longer legs than mine, steps climbing beside Palisade Creek. The Golden Staircase nearly did me in. Finally reaching Lower Palisade Lake (10,611 feet) just before 8:00, I barely had enough light to put up my tent and get water before darkness settled in. I sat in the dark on a rock beside my tent, thankful to be there looking at the stars while I ate my dinner.
Chivalry Wasn’t Dead
I met Tom, Michael, and Jeff on Mather Pass. They’d started off as solo hikers but had become sort of a group by the time I met them. After he learned my trail name, Tom asked for a prayer before he descended from the pass. I was happy to oblige and glad for my trail name. That night I camped with Tom, Michael, and Jeff at Lake Marjorie.
The morning at Lake Marjorie was cold. Stuffing a tent covered with ice crystals into its tiny bag with my bare hands wasn’t fun. That done, I headed up 12,130-foot Pinchot Pass. Michael passed me on the way up, and Tom and Jeff were soon there, too. Then came a long, long downhill to 8,492-foot Woods Hole and more uphill to Rae Lakes.
Rae Lakes (10,597 feet) is a beautiful gem. I approached the lakes by a lovely high mountain stream wending through a pretty green meadow. The Painted Lady was striking, colored bands running through her rocky face. I’d seen so many beautiful vistas on this trip. As I came to each spot of spectacular beauty, I was always sure it must be the best. They were all beautiful.
I didn’t pull into Rae Lakes until 7:15. The three guys had been there since 5:00. Chivalry wasn’t dead. Tom and Michael took my pot and pumped water for me. I called Kathy on Tom's satellite phone telling her voicemail I was coming and hoped she got the message. Tom told me I could pay for the phone call by giving him a $2.00 blessing, so I sang God's Family for them. I also sang an old Girl Scout song for the guys as a bedtime serenade when they were in their tents, and I was still up. They all laughed when I ended it with "Good night, Scouts.”
I felt very tired that last day to Onion Valley. An accumulation of long days, early rise times and walking until late had taken its toll. A zero day was coming, and I really needed the break. At the top of 11,978-foot Glen Pass, our little group of the three guys and me rested, said our goodbyes, and had a prayer together as I knew they would all pass me somewhere on the downhill. I would take the turnoff to Kearsarge Pass, and they would go on to Whitney. Amazing how attached you can get to a hiking group even in two and a half days. They were a nice trail family when I needed one, and Michael, from Virginia, offered to be a trail angel for me on the AT. Sweet.
At lunch on Kearsarge Pass, I looked past Bullfrog and Kearsarge Lakes, watching a storm build in
the far mountain ranges. Walking slowly downhill, I reached Onion Valley by 5:00 to find Kathy and Jerry, a guy she’d found to be a shuttle driver. It was so good to see her. We chattered on the way to Independence, went to eat, and I took my heavenly shower, falling at last into a real bed. ZZZZ…
“One step at a time, silly boys. One step at a time.”
We had two rest days in Independence. Yay!
Kathy decided to hire a horse packer to carry our packs over Kearsarge Pass. It was exorbitantly expensive and something I would never have done by myself. But since she was determined to do so, and pay the stiff fee, I too was the beneficiary. It was the most expensive slack pack ever, but it made the first day of our last stretch of hiking much more enjoyable. We had a total of 3,800-feet elevation gain for that day, but since 2,800 feet were without packs, it just didn’t seem that much.
When we picked up our packs from the horse packer, they felt like lead with seven days’ food inside. Ridding our packs of a little weight, we had dinner a quarter mile before our campsite in the Central Basin. With slightly less food and smellables in the bear box a hundred feet from our tent, we snuggled down into our bags with a pretty view down the valley, asleep before dark.
In the morning my water bottle in the bear box was well on the way to being frozen, not solid, but with ice crystals throughout. We had breakfast, packed up in the cold, and started up the trail, climbing 2,800 feet. And it wasn’t just 2,800 feet, but 2,800 to the top of 13,200-foot Forrester Pass. It took us old ladies until almost 1:00 to summit the pass. The impressive switchbacks cut into nearly vertical rock on the south side of the pass seemed like the Kendal Cat Walk near Snoqualmie Pass times 10.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 7
