Swimming and Sunbathing in the High Sierra: Yosemite to Tahoe

Whereas the previous week of hiking (before my detour to Yosemite Valley) was defined by high snowy passes, river crossings were the dominate feature between Tuolumne Meadows and Sonora Pass.  Dirtmongerer had bequeathed the coil of rope that our previous group had never used before we parted ways, so I hit the trail with an extra safety item that I was more than eager to deploy (and leave).  The first day out brought spectacular scenery as we crossed over the flooded Tuolumne River past waterfalls and (shock!) dry trail as well as our first major crossing.  One of the more feared crossings on the PCT-L/guidebooks was Return Creek (dubbed by some as "No-Return Creek").  Although it wasn't deep, the water was fairly turbulent and packed quite a punch.  A little hesitant after my encounter with the Kings River, I slowly worked my way from shore and could tell that I was on very loose footing from being knocked over.  With a little help from Thumper, I made it across Return Creek and a few other raging tributaries before we continued on.  After crossing the creek, we hit more snow and my shin splint came back with a vengeance.  To be honest, I probably would've turned back at that point to see a doctor if it wasn't for the fact that I was locked in by the creeks.  So I limped on until we reached the snow-packed Matterhorn Canyon.  Since the trail was completely obscured, we had to descend down the steep canyon wall without the aid of switchbacks.  At one point I lost sight of the group since they were descending faster than I could manage, but I didn't yell out for them to wait like I should've (it always embarrasses me if I end up the weak link that needs to be waited on).  By the time I decided that I really should stick with them, they had already hooked to the right (whereas I kept going straight down) such that the terrain blocked our yells/whistles.  Realizing that they would probably wait for me at the river crossing below, and that the side of a shear canyon is NOT a desirable place to be, I pulled out my map and compass to chart my own path back to the trail. 

I must've taken the scenic way down since by the time I finally caught up with the group, they were on the other side of the river pitching camp and really worried about me.  Feeling a bit down and more than a little wet, I limped around to gather stones for a fire ring.  A little more searching brought some firewood, and I tried to repay the delay by getting a good fire going for everyone.  After watching Wired hang some of her clothes over the fire with a trekking pole as if she were roasting marshmallows, I copied the idea and managed to dry out my shirt and a pair of socks before hitting the hay.

The trip got progressively better from there on out.  My shin splint never went away, but it got progressively better as we hit easier terrain and I took better care of it.  Between icing in creeks and a strong regimen of Vitamin I (Ibuprofen), I was able to decline the offers of Vicodin from a few of the other hikers.  After crossing chest-deep Piutte Creek and going over Benson Pass, we unexpectedly encountered one of the sketchiest snow traverse that I have done on the trip.  Rather than be a short section of snow above a steep drop-off near a pass, this traverse was 1-2 miles long and ran directly above the raging Kerrick Creek!  The snow was soft enough that a self-arrest with trekking poles would've been doable - but the prospect of plunging into the water below definitely kept our heart rates up!  Thankfully we all made it with the aid of our microspikes and a cautious pace.

The third day out was a record for distance covered in a full day of hiking.  The whopping distance covered by all of us by the time we pitched camp was an astonishing 11.8 miles!  It was a record for the lowest mileage, by the way.  In our defense, we had to take a bit of time to enjoy the wonderful swimming and sunbathing opportunities that the Sierras have to offer.  The first crossing was Kerrick Creek, the raging river that was most-feared by the PCT-L chatter.  However, this crossing was not too bad since there was a fallen tree 200 yards downstream of the trail that we could walk across.  For added safety (and to get the weight out of my pack), we used my rope to set up a hand-line which was left for hikers behind us.  The only person to fall into the river was Wired.  Wired gets her name from the multitude of electronics that she carries and for her emotional attachment to said electronics (ESPECIALLY if she has phone/3G reception).  She happened to have her camera out when she fell in, and I have never seen an individual get themselves (with the camera being the first priority) back out of the water so quickly!  After Kerrick, we reached the gentle but deep Stubblefield Canyon Creek.  We scouted up and down for a shallow crossing to no avail.  Eventually we concluded that the shorter of us would be swimming.  So we stripped down to our underwear and shoes (in hindsight, I should've taken my shoes off before doing an outright swim), secured/waterproofed our packs as best as possible, and swam across.  Swimming with a fully-loaded pack, in freezing water (snow-melt), with shoes on was not as easy as I had anticipated.  Although ending up 10-20 feet downstream of where I had aimed, I pulled myself onto shore and quickly moved to the sunlight where I could warm up.  The others followed, Thumper paddling across on his Thermarest Neo-air (blow-up air matress) and Balls crossing not once but six times (with his pack, with his daughter Sunshine's pack, and finally with Sunshine).  We took our first 90 minute break of the day to thaw out in the sun.

I forget the name of the next major crossing that we hit, but it nearly required swimming.  It was stomach to chest deep on me for most of the way and had a surprising amount of force to it.  I kept calm and hopped on my toes a bit so as to maintain my progress towards the far bank.  Despite being pushed downstream a bit, the crossing was cold but not difficult.  Wired, being the shortest of us, was the only one who had to make an outright swim.  Once everyone was across, we took another 90 minute break on a sunny rock to dry ourselves and our gear.  Immediately hitting snow after the crossing didn't do much to boost our motivation, and we decided to make camp at the first suitable clearing.  This was fortunate since we needed the extra time to erect a stone memorial for Skippy.  Skippy was a jar of peanut butter, a dear friend to all thru-hikers, that had been carried in the side-pocket of Snowblind's pack.  Unfortunately, Skippy had a bad habit of falling from the pack - and this ultimately proved his downfall at Stubblefield Canyon.  We tried to yell to "him" with cries of "Skippy! Nooo!" as he bobbed helplessly downstream - but it was useless.  There was nothing we could do to save him.  The last we saw of him was a blank stare in response to 11-year-old Sunshine's shrieks of "SKIPPPYYY!!!" before he bobbed around a bend in the river, never to be seen again.  The stone memorial next to the trail read:

"R.I.P SKIPPY, PCT 2011, YOSEMITE CREEK"

The remainder of the hike to Sonora Pass was fairly uneventful.  In addition to naming ourselves "Team Skippy" in honor of our fallen comrade, we also bestowed a trail name on Erik the Black's PCT Atlas.  This is the pricey guidebook/"map" set that a number of us hikers chose to purchase before the trip instead of printing the 400+ topo-maps that Halfmile has provided for free online.  Although the PCT Atlas is very convenient as a guidebook when all you need is mileage between water/campsites/landmarks and a rough map to determine which trail to take at a junction, it is very misleading to market the maps it contains as topographical.  As a result of its indistinguishable and inconsistent contour lines (as well as a handful of outright errors), the PCT Atlas was renamed "The Book of Lies".  

Our group also passed the 1,000 mile mark for our journey!  Being that whatever marker is normally on the trail was buried in snow, we wrote out "1,000" with our bodies for a few pictures.  It was disheartening to look to the east and see bone-dry mountains as we continued north towards snow-plastered peaks, but were motivated by how close we were to Sonora Pass.  Our final morning before Kennedy Meadows Pack Station (not to be confused with the Kennedy Meadows at the south end of the Sierras) was a fairly straight hike up a snowfield, followed by a dry ridge, and concluded with a LONG glissade down to Highway 108.

 Kennedy Meadows was simply a near-0 for us where we grabbed some burgers, restocked our trail food, and headed back to the pass as quick as possible.  We had originally planed on camping at the pass, but had to camp down by the road since traffic was too light to pick up a hitch.  I don't think the drivers around there were familiar with PCT hikers.  One older man in a truck pulled up and was about to give Wired a hitch, but then she of all people scarred him off (I guess I would've been weirded out too if someone came up to me for a ride and then asked if I had room for four more hikers while saying "We're all normal people, I swear!").  We were content to spend the night at a lower (i.e., warmer) elevation and catch a ride the next morning.

The section from Sonora Pass to Tahoe was noteworthy for two reasons.  First, we finally started to transition to thinner and patchier snow.  Where there was solid snow pack, we could tell that it was only three to five feet deep.  Elsewhere, the snow was patchy with a good number of breaks with clear trail.  This was an immense relief since we were able to pick up speed and reach Tahoe a day earlier than we had planned.  Secondly, I finally began to recognize things.  I had worked for GE in Minden, NV (Carson Valley, adjacent to Lake Tahoe) in 2008 and was thus familiar with a lot of the area.  I felt like I was approaching "home" as I could look out on the horizon and distinguish the Carson Valley where I had lived, the canyon near Carson Pass where I had road biked, and especially when we crossed Highway 4 at Ebbitts Pass (one of my all-time favorite cycling routes).

Once we made it to Echo Lake Resort and picked up our packages from the store (not the most hiker-friendly establishment I must mention, they asked us and the other hikers to move away from the storefront right after we had just purchased snacks and milkshakes), we rented a car in South Lake Tahoe.  Although South Lake Tahoe is a great town for resupplying, each of us had errands that would be better served in Reno.  I needed a pair of compression sleeves for my shin splints that could only be found at a specialty running shop.  Balls needed special batteries for his GPS.  Sunshine needed breadsticks at The Olive Garden.  Wired absolutely needed to see the final Harry Potter movie.  It's also worth noting that Reno has an REI, a temptation that few thru-hikers could resist. 

 

  

So we made the drive to Reno, accomplished most of our goals, and made it back ready to hit the trail.  Although my shin splint had been feeling a lot better, it was still having issues and I didn't want to have a repeat of what happened at Donahue Pass.  I figured that if I could take a few more days off to heal it, I would be much happier and faster once I hit the trail.  I also knew people in Minden that I wanted to visit and one of my friends offered a place to stay.  As a result, I have spent the past few days in Minden resting up, printing maps for the last snow-covered sections ahead, getting my phone's GPS to work with Halfmile's waypoints (and without cell service), and awaiting a shipment of REI gear (switching to a lighter pack and tent).  Hopefully I'll be on the trail again before the end of the week, and at least I finally caught up with a month's worth of blogging!

Mammoth to Yosemite Valley

Unlike our stop at Bishop, Mammoth proved to be a much more refreshing zero.  In addition to not having to catch a 45 minute bus ride back and forth once we arrived, we also decided to stay two nights so that we would have a full day in town.  This worked out well since it meant I could enjoy a dinner not consisting of instant mashed potatoes and tuna for my birthday, and we could sit out an ongoing storm from the comfort of a motel room.  I'm sure my time will come when I get caught out in a torrential downpour, but so far I have had remarkable luck with timing my zero-days.  Earlier on I missed a torrent of freezing rain that blasted Fuller Ridge above Idyllwild, and this time I was able to sample the local brews while watching storm clouds sweep into the mountains that my group had just "escaped".  A number of hikers at the Motel 6 had been there for days (either skipping around sections, or taking some extra time off), but my group was feeling rested enough to strike out for the trail the next day after the storm had passed.

The ascent out from Mammoth/Red Meadow had a lot less snow that what we had just been through, but the trail was still a far cry from being clear.  Although last week had been amazing, everyone was starting to get a little tired of snow - Easy Strider in particular.  Despite thru-hiking the AT with little difficulty, the snow really seemed to bother him the most out of anyone in our group (which was somewhat surprising as he was usually the quickest member and always in the lead).  As we were packing up from lunch at a campground that had a side-trail back to the road, he called it quits (for the time-being) and went back to Mammoth.  It was disappointing to lose another member of our group, but I'll confess that his disdain/negative attitude towards the way most of us on the trail were more cautious about river crossings and carried extra gear such as microspikes and ice axes damped my sympathies.  Sure we had to cough up extra money and carry the weight, but microspikes and two trekking poles (instead of the ultra-light approach of only carrying a single pole) definitely made snow travel more enjoyable.

Anyhow, we continued our push towards Donahue Pass and camped at Thousand Island Lakes.  I had seen a picture of the area from a hiker's memoir "Zero-Days" at the Saufley's, but the towering Banner Peak was the only recognizable feature.  Unlike in 2004/2005, the lake was still frozen over with pockets of water just beginning to open up.  There was also a mysterious plethora of trash and Marmot-torn food bags strewn about the south end of the lake.  From talking with some campers who had been there the previous night, we gathered that a boy scout troop had been up there for a weekend trip when the storm hit.  Rather than stay calm and sit the storm out from the safety of their tents, the troop had "bugged-out" as fast as they could.  Shame on them for giving the Scouts a bad name in my opinion.  Although we had to camp above snowline on a rocky outcropping again, we had enough space to pitch our tents this time and were able to cover our shoes so that they didn't freeze.

Unfortunately, an injury that I had been paying little heed to for the past week decided to flare up the next day.  I've been a runner for most of my life, yet I have never before encountered the dreaded shin splint.  Shin splints are really more of a symptom that can be caused by a number of underlying problems (inflammation, stress fracture, etc.), but suffice to say that they absolutely suck.  I suppose that I've never had problems running since I generally hold good form, but the biomechanics of hiking - especially on snow - are different.  I had started to develop pain in my left shin during the long descent from Muir Pass and was actually limping a bit by the time I got to Mammoth, but I figured the zero would've healed anything.  Something about walking down steep downhills in the snow really aggravates my injury, and by the time I made it down the north face of Donahue Pass (boundary of Yosemite National Park) I was in one big world of hurt.  It's definitely not the worst pain I've ever been in (dislocating a knee cap and tearing a ligament skiing takes the cake for that one), it's the most pain that I've ever had to push through hiking/running.  Fortunately there were a number of snow-melt creeks that I could ice it in once I reached Lyell Canyon at the base of the pass.  The trail also flattened out, but I still had over 10 miles of hiking left before Tuolumne Meadows (road crossing within the park).  So with more than a little bit of wincing, I made it to Highway 120 and caught the first hitch that I could down into Yosemite Valley.

I hate having to take time off for injuries, but I recognized that it was bad enough that it would not be smart or pleasant to head back up into the High Sierras when I could barely walk.  So I swallowed my pride and took five days off at the Backpacker's Campground where I iced and rested my shin as much as possible.  The scenery in Yosemite Valley (Yosemite Falls, Half Dome, El Capitan) is incredible, but there's something embarrassing about witnessing it through the windows of a shuttle bus.  There's not much else to report on Yosemite.  I stocked up on calories, read up on some Californian history, and tried not to laugh as tourists plastered themselves with DEET (you could smell it from 10' away, and the number of mosquitoes was NOTHING compared to what I've seen on really bad days in the Sierras).  I also saw my only two bears of the trip so far - both of which were near public campgrounds where I suppose they were accustomed to humans (and their unattended food).

Although I was still limping a bit on the fifth day, I had taken about as much time off as I could stand.  So I packed up my tent and caught the evening shuttle back to Tuoloumne Meadows.  I was a bit nervous about the upcoming section since it was known to have the worst river crossings and I didn't know how quickly I'd be able to meet other hikers to group with.  Fortunately I ran into a large group at the campground that was leaving the next morning (Balls, Sunshine, Snowblind, Thumper, Bottle Rocket, and Wired) - so everything was set for the passage to Sonora Pass.

Walking in a Winter Wonder Land: Kearsarge to Mammoth

After making a quick resupply in Bishop, our group picked up the team name "Jacob & Co." (later changed to "Daybreaker & Co.") before heading back out into the Sierras via Kearsarge Pass.  Uber-Bitch bestowed the named "Jacob & Co." on us since Jacob was the only one who had not yet received a trail name; thus his name stood out enough to be memorable to her apparently.  Although we had only been off of Kearsarge for a day and a half, it was amazing how much difference that time made on trail conditions.  The local weather had been typically hot for June (and sunny as always), and Kearsarge had a fairly thin snowpack on it to begin with, so a good bit of trail had cleared up while we were in town.  Despite climbing some three to four thousand feet up the Kearsarge Pass Trail to get back to the PCT, we ended up making better time than we did during our earlier descent.  Between making good time and being well-fueled from a Chinese All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet, we managed to get two passes in on our first day (Kearsarge and Glen)!  To make matters even better, Buffalo Jump Sly caught up with us after we had pitched camp and finished dinner.  Sly is one of the older, more experienced, and interesting hikers that I have hiked with, and it was good to have him back in our group.  After entering Bishop with us, he had to stay behind about half a day to sort out some resupply package issues with the post office.  In his spare time, he managed to get a large coil of rope for our group since we were concerned about the upcoming river crossings.  Apparently he asked a man in Bishop for recommendations on where he could find a good quality rope for the purpose, and the man just so happened to be the district? hydrologist for the area.  I'm not entirely sure what a hydrologist does, but the guy was nice enough to drive Sly to his house and outright give him a 50' length of rope free-of-charge!

From there, the next few days took on a roller-coaster feel of ups and downs both physically and emotionally.  Primarily, the second day out was just plain rough for everyone - especially for myself.  Although the ascent over Pinchot Pass was accomplished easily enough, the rest of the day was filled with slogging through snowy forests (constantly misdirected and searching for the trail) and crossing one ice-cold creek after another.  We were already tired and fairly damp by the time we reached the South Fork of the Kings River between 4 and 5 PM.  Until then, we had not been concerned about this thin blue line on the map because we had yet to hear any warnings or bad reports on the PCT-L (or elsewhere).  I wouldn't say we came upon a raging river, but it was immediately clear that this would be a difficult crossing.  The water appeared to be at least waist-deep and was moving at a speed just shy of becoming whitewater.  After staring at the creek for a few minutes and scouting up and down the bank for an optimal crossing point, I saw another guy who was just hiking with his girlfriend plunge in to attempt a crossing.  Between being a fairly large guy and having a good amount of skill/experience (which I didn't appreciate at the time), he made the crossing look easy.  So I jumped in up to my waist and attempted to cross immediately after him.  Unfortunately I was not as skilled and/or lucky, and I was shocked at how quickly I pitched forward into the rushing water.  I was still near the bank, so I immediately grabbed hold of something as freezing water rushed past my chest.  Sly offered me a hand back up onto the bank where I realized that I had just lost one of my trekking poles.

A quick side note about trekking poles:  there are two philosophies regarding how to hold your poles that I have seen on the trail.  Some people like to keep their wrists inside the wrist loops of their poles at all times so that they never lose attachment from their poles.  They also claim that when slipping, the fabric loops provide a last minute point of contact with their poles that helps them regain balance.  Other people never hike with their wrists inside the loops.  The logic here is that once you fall, it's best to just jettison your poles so that you can catch yourself on your hands without obstruction.  You also reduce the risk of spraining/breaking a wrist.  I fall into the later category of hikers, and am thus at a greater risk of losing poles.

After this first mishap, we scouted for a better crossing and decided to make a go for it slightly downstream.   Realizing that I was not the most adept at crossing fast water (on my feet, anyhow), I asked Daybreaker if he could help me get across the swiftest section.  We linked arms and slowly proceeded across while facing upstream to brace ourselves against the torrent of water.  Everything seemed to be going well and we had almost made it to shore when suddenly Daybreaker lost his footing on a slippery rocket and went down!  Being as I was linked to him and using him for support, I also plunged straight into some of the coldest water I ever hope to experience!

What happened next couldn't have occupied the span of more than 10-20 seconds, but it felt like eternity.  I was clearly near the bank and almost on shore since I wasn't swept any farther than 10 feet back from where I fell, but this wasn't immediately clear because the rushing water - way too close for comfort to my face - was extremely disorienting.  By the book, there are many good reasons that I was aware of for getting into the "whitewater swimmer's position" and paddling to shore as quickly as possible.  However, instinct took complete control over rationality and I frantically dug my toes into the river bottom to stop myself from being swept further downstream and to push myself to shore.  I reached for anything I could find that was attached to shore with the ominous thought at the back of my mind that I might very well have to abandon my pack.  I don't know what I grabbed on the shore (bush, rock, root, hell if I know), but the second I grasped it I hauled myself and my soaking pack out of the water.  After climbing over the bank and back to the trail, I took stock of my situation.  I lost my other trekking pole.  I had banged my shin quite hard on something that was sharp/rough enough to tear a decent gash (still healing almost a month later, at least the ice water had numbed feeling in my legs at the time).  Most of my gear and clothes were soaked.  Lastly, it was getting late and I was shivering like crazy.  I was not a happy camper.

After taking some time to hop around in the sun to warm up with the few pieces of clothes that I had kept dry (the inside of my pack is lined with a plastic compactor bag), we continued hiking/climbing well into the evening.  We decided to call it quits and camp for the night above snowline at ~10,200'.  We were fortunate to find a large, exposed bolder with a flat top that could fit all of us.  However, there was not enough room for our tents so we simply laid out our sleeping bags to cowboy camp.  It was definitely a cold night, and the heavy condensation quickly froze such that our sleeping bags and packs were coated with a nice layer of frost by daybreak.  I reached over to move one of my shoes when I woke up and knew that we had a problem when the other one came up with it.  They had frozen solidly together!

I have never had my shoes freeze before, and sure enough they were solid as a rock.  There was no way I was going to be able to put them on as rigid as they were, so I held them over my camp stove to make them at least pliable after I had finished making breakfast.  Yet by the time I had finished packing away my gear, they had re-frozen into solid bricks!  Damn it was still cold.  In the end, I wasn't the only one who had frozen shoes, and we waited 45 minutes after the sun came up before we could finally get them on.

Once we got going, we headed towards Mather Pass - one of the more technical passes of the PCT.  Although we had a bit of a detour early on by swinging way too far left as we approached the pass via a snowfield, I managed to borrow a map (I carry Eric the Black's PCT Atlas which is convenient as a guidebook but useless as a true topographical map) and pinpoint both our current location and where we needed to go to hit the pass.  This was one of the biggest advantages of hiking in a group.  We all had turns where we could make bad navigational judgements, but usually there'd be at least one of us who would recognize the correct path.  After being the weak link the day before, it was definitely uplifting to be of use to the group again.  Once we hit the pass, it was a challenging but enjoyable climb.  This was the only pass where I ever felt that I needed my ice ax in case of a fall during the ascent; since then I have only used it as a glissading tool.

Once we got over the pass and down the other side, our spirits were further buoyed as we hit dry trail and descended the "Golden Staircase" (an amazing demonstration of trail/rock work, I hope I can get some pictures from the other hikers) into Le Conte Canyon.  Le Conte Canyon in Kings Canyon National Park was simply amazing between its scenery, clear trail, greenery, and only-knee-deep creek crossings.  The next day also worked out well as we timed our ascent of Muir Pass perfectly.  We went over early in the morning and pushed ourselves to haul ass across the snowfield on the other side so that we could reach dry ground before the snow softened too much.

 

The rest of the trip was challenging but uneventful.  Noteworthy passes/water crossings were: Seldon Pass, Silver Pass, Evolution Creek (crossed at the meadow via the old PCT trail where the water was waist-deep but slow-moving), Bear Creek, and Mono Creek (one guidebook warned "... one slip could be fatal", but we didn't have any problems).  After our previous nights above 10,000', it felt outright warm to spend our last few nights around 8,000'.  We parted ways with Sly at Vermillion Valley Resort since he had to go in to pick up a package, and we pushed on for another long day and a half to take a much needed zero in Mammoth.

Intro to the High Sierras

Seeing as I have just made it through the High Sierras ("No Flips, No Skips!" - i.e., I didn't go further north and southbound nor did I skip any sections to avoid snow/water/other hazards), I figured now would be a good time to post on what I have been up to for the past month.  In short, the past month has been one of the most physically challenging experiences of my life.  I entered the High Sierras from Kennedy Meadows on June 15th, also known as "Ray Day".  In normal years, "Ray Day" is a rough marker for when snow melt finally progresses to the point that patches of clear trail begin to open up.  This was not a normal year.

From talking with friends and locals who live around Bishop, Mammoth, and Tahoe, I have gradually learned that there was some truth to the hype this year.  Yes, it is not uncommon for people on the PCT web forum/list server (PCT-L) to over-rate the difficulty of the conditions year after year.  As Easy Strider put it accurately, "Rule number one of thru-hiking: Don't believe the hype".  There is some truth to this statement.  If every dire prediction made by people on the PCT-L were true (and I use the word "people" instead of "hiker" because many of the postings made were clearly from individuals who are not on the trail), we should all be dead at this point.  To the best of my knowledge, there have yet to be any thru-hiker fatalities this year.  Nevertheless, the general consensus among locals is that it has been a LONG time since anyone has seen this much snow in the Sierras.  As a result, much more of the trail than usual has been covered by snow and this has slowed progress considerably for all of us hikers who decided to push straight through.  Yet the High Sierras are always difficult, always exhausting, and always rewarding for those who brave them.  So I won't fuel the hype by saying that our year was so much worse than past years.

Anyhow, the first leg of the Sierras took me from Kennedy Meadows to Kearsarge Pass (exit point for Independence/Lone Pine/Bishop).  While at Kennedy Meadows, I teamed up with several other hikers that had been keeping roughly the same pace for the past few weeks: Jacob (later re-named to "Day Breaker"), Easy Strider, and Waldo.  We easily covered over 25 miles of perfectly clear trail on the first day as we started our climb up into the high reaches of the mountains.  Over the next couple of days, we were introduced to the various challenges and rewards that would dominate our next month of hiking.  Our second day provided a good lesson in the character of Sierra snow.  Many people have the impression that we're hiking in powder drifts that would be difficult to cross even with snow shoes.  Fortunately this is not the case.  After months of freezing and thawing since the last big snowfall, the snow out here is fairly hard-packed.  In the morning, the top layer of snow is particularly hard/icy and thus is almost as easy to walk on as concrete (microspikes, a cross between Yak-Traks, crampons, and snow chains, are worn by most hikers to provide extra traction).  However, the snow softens up as the sun comes up and gradually becomes more difficult to walk on as the day progresses.  Come afternoon, there is generally a lot of slipping, sliding, and POSTHOLING.  Postholing is the term for when you suddenly break through the thin upper layer of snow and plunge anywhere from ankle to hip deep into softer snow below.  Normally postholing is ankle to shin deep, but sometimes buried objects such as trees and rocks conduct heat to soften up larger pockets of snow.  Throughout the Sierras, I was generally more concerned about breaking an ankle or leg postholing than I was about falling off one of the steep passes.

I was also introduced to the various degrees of lost which range from "Slightly Misdirected" to "Where the F&*K are we!?"  Since snow has covered a large majority of the trail for the past month, it is very common to wander slightly off-course one way, correct heading, hit trail, and then wander off again.  So long as you keep your bearings off landmarks and know where you ultimately need to go, being misdirected is not much of a problem.  On the other end of the spectrum, there were a few cases in which we completely misjudged our location on the map and lost several hours trying to reorient ourselves.  Fortunately we were never completely lost since we always knew our rough whereabouts - but there were some frustrating situations that resulted in more than one late evening of hiking. 

Although the Sierras are remarkably challenging, they also offer spectacular scenery.  I had originally planned to go straight on through without taking any side trips, but my group convinced me to take an extra day before Forester Pass to summit Mt. Whitney (highest point in the contiguous United States).  I had never been above 13,000 feet before, so it was amazing to finally be able to look out over the surrounding snow-blasted peaks from the lofty elevation of 14,494 feet! (Depending on which map datum you trust, more recent estimates place the peak at 14,505'.)  Climbing up to the summit, there was still a large snow chute blocking a large section of the trail switchbacks.  Rather than make countless traverses of this chute, most PCTers opted to rock scramble up until they were past the snow.  On the way back down, I decided to pull out my ice ax and practice the important skills of self-arrest and glissading.  The self-arrest is a potentially life-saving maneuver in which you jam the pick of your ice ax into the side of a snow slope after you lose your footing and slip.  It is not a terribly complicated technique, but it is something you would be wise to practice before you need it since there is not much time/room for error.  The glissade is when you use your ice ax (or trekking poles if the slope is not too steep and/or icy) as a brake while sliding down a snow slope on your butt.  Glissading is often easier, quicker, safer, and more fun than trying to walk down sketchy sections of a slope. 

The day after Whitney, I embarked for the highest point along the Pacific Crest Trail: Forester Pass (~13,100').  The approach to Forester started with a number of creek crossings where we soaked our shoes/boots (again) before starting a long slog across what felt like an endless snowfield.  By the time we hit the snowfield, the snow had softened-up to the point where we were postholing with almost every step.  Fortunately we ran into Buffalo Jump Sly and Dirtmongerer, so there were more of us to take turns leading the "boot pack" (the person in front would posthole, but the rest of us could step on the snow compacted by their footprints without sinking).  I'll give Buffalo Jump Sly credit for doing the majority of the work across the snowfield, but I had my moment leading up the steep section of snow right beneath the pass.  Climbing has always been one of my strengths in cycling and running, and I was glad to see that it had carried over to snow hiking.  Since the trail was completely obscured by snow at the base of the pass, I didn't have much choice but to go straight up (generally easier than trying to walk sideways and switchback across slippery snow).  Although the soaking wet hiking boots felt like bricks on my feet, I was eager to just finish the climb.  About five feet below where the snow transitioned to dry trail (the mountainside was sufficiently steep and windblown that its upper reaches didn't hold a lot of snow), I made my deepest posthole to-date.  The snow right next to the rocks of the trail had softened up so much that I sank right down to my waist and had a hard time extracting myself from the pit.  I floundered around for about five minutes (at one point falling straight backwards; my back sank in and held me so I wasn't in any danger of going downhill), before I managed to gain purchase on some rocks and heave myself onto the trail.  From there, it was pretty clear sailing.  Everyone pulled out their ice axes for photos and an extra sense of security when we traversed the steep snow chute near the top of the pass - but enough people had walked the traverse that the footprints formed a pretty level path.  From there, it was just a series of glissades, a night of camping, and a long hike out Kearsarge Pass before we could take a break in Bishop, CA.

After catching a ride to Independence from Uber-Bitch (actually a really nice woman) and Bristlecone (so named because he's the oldest living thing on the trail), two trail angels who had camped out at Onion Valley Campground to give hikers rides to town (thus saving ~16 miles of road walking), we took a bus to Bishop since it was the nearest town with a full-service grocery store, outfitter, etc.  It wasn't a very restful zero-day, but at least I was able to find my trail running shoes (La Sportiva Wildcats) at the outfitter and mail my hiking boots home.  I figured that if I was going to have soaking wet feet the whole time anyways, I might as well have a shoe that doesn't hold water like a bucket.  With six days of food and a bit of rest, we promptly returned to the trail with Mammoth as our next destination...