On an extended trip in the backcountry, the smallest incident
can jeopardize an entire trip. The narrow distance between comfort
and peril is part of the excitement of visiting the wilderness.
On an extended trip in the backcountry, the smallest incident can jeopardize an entire trip. The narrow distance between comfort and peril is part of the excitement of visiting the wilderness. Today, Drew and I learned first-hand what the cost can be.
We camped last night in a sublime spot. I wish the people I cared about could be with me when I am in a place like this. How can I really share it with a picture or words? We rolled out our sleeping bags in a little short-grass meadow near Bubbs Creek that tumbles down this broad U-shaped glacial valley. The rain that has plagued us for 14 of the last 20 days has finally given way to normal summer Sierra weather. The sky is blue and the air is still and warm. After a bath in a calm eddy, I sat in exhausted comfort and watched the alpenglow ripen on Kearsarge Pinnacles. Pure peace.
This morning, we began our walk up a raging Bubbs Creek. We walked six miles and climbed 3,000 feet tracing the withering creek past its barely-trickling source. We were at Forester Pass, at 13,200 feet, the highest point on the John Muir Trail after Mt. Whitney. Drew and I both feel a sense of pride and accomplishment at the strength that the 200-mile, high-altitude roller coaster-walk of the past three weeks has built in us.
After a snack and some pictures, we descended Forester Pass and entered Sequoia National Park. I am amazed that someone once looked at the south side of Forester Pass and thought a trail could be built there. It is chipped, back and forth into a sheer cliff.
A thousand feet down, we stopped at the first in a series of high altitude lakes to enjoy a hot lunch. My stove had been performing poorly for more than a week, reluctant to generate a powerful flame. I had been able to cajole it to limp along, but now it just quit. No effort could revive it.
Now what? Our plans were to take a short side trip to the base of Mt. Tyndall, layover a day and climb the mountain before moving on. But our bear canisters are filled with sealed meals with instructions like, “Boil 2 cups of water, add contents and simmer for 10 minutes.” Without a stove, those meals are useless. Are we reduced to nuts, cheese and dried apricots? What should we do?
During the persistent rain and hail earlier in the trip, we had grown accustomed to sorting through lousy alternatives. Instantly, the Mt. Tyndall side trip was out. Damnit. There is a backcountry ranger cabin at Crabtree Meadow. Would the ranger have some way – parts, a loaner stove – to help us? But that is 14 miles away and at this hour, beyond our reach today.
We didn’t know exactly what would happen, but we knew that, if we pushed, we could reach the end of the trail in two days. It was an unpleasant prospect, but we could get by on cold food for that long. The best course of action was to pack up and walk like crazy. So we did.
Since that fateful mid-afternoon lunch stop, we walked an additional ten miles – 14* for the day including the pass – to our campsite here on Wallace Creek. Bill and Irene Vogt from Reno are camped here. They are trail companions with whom we have played leapfrog over the past several days. They start each day early and pass us. We’re a little faster so we tend to catch and pass them. And so on. I offered to trade some fuel in exchange for the use of their stove. They agreed.
We are full of warm pasta and soup – fat and happy. Bill and Irene saved the day. And we will be able to hook up with them tomorrow night, the last night of this trip. Another crisis and a lucky solution.
Time to rest. Tomorrow, Mt. Whitney.
