Lights in the Desert

I spent much of October training for the Joshua Tree Half Marathon. Didn't feel like repeating the horrors of the Ventura Half earlier this year. No siree. I survived that race only because it was mostly downhill. The same cannot be said for the Joshua Tree Half. Hills, dirt roads, wind, and sand. Lots of sand. It would be like running on the beach in some parts. And, just for the fun of it, the whole thing would take place at night. This ain't the kind of race you can just hop on in and hope for the best. If I was gonna do well, I was gonna have to train. 

I sidelined a lot of excursions into the local wilds in favor of training. Hiking and running do not correlate at all. I've realized this time and time again in the past. So instead of going on hikes, I went on a whole bunch of runs. Got back into the running groove. It's been a while since I've ran consistently. Felt like my old high school days.  

I had ran this very same race five years ago in 2019. I was in much better shape then, coming off of a track season and three years of consistent running. It was my first half marathon and it nearly destroyed me. Swore I'd never run it again. But here I was, five years later, doing it again. Why? Don't know. Five years has a funny way of washing away the memory of certain things. And I've always had this lingering feeling that I could do better if given a second attempt. I guess that was enough motivation for me to sign up. And so I did. 

Race day arrived a lot faster than expected. It always seemed so distant and then—WHAM—it was there. We left on the morning of the 2nd, headed down through the Inland Empire, out through Indio, toward Twentynine Palms, into the middle of the desert. Grace and McKenna were running this race as well. Why they decided to choose this race as their first half is beyond me. Them's must be crazy. Could've ran the Ventura Half, the M2B Half, but no, they chose to run one of the hardest races I know. 

The summit of Mt. San Jacinto was obscured in clouds. It had been cloudy most of the day, but as soon as we entered the desert they disappeared, like they were being held back by a giant invisible forcefield. The clouds on the summit of San Jacinto looked like a gargantuan sombrero. Looking at that mountain rising 10,000ft from the desert floor, I began to wonder if anyone was attempting the summit. If there was any time to attempt the famous cactus-to-clouds death march, November 2nd would've been the day to do it. Cactus on the desert floor. Clouds on the summit. A literal cactus-to-clouds hike. Couldn't have it any other way. 

We arrived at the expo, got our bibs, and then wandered around for a bit, taking in the sights and smells. We had a little less than two hours to kill before the race began, so we took our time soaking in the surroundings. There were hundreds of people afoot, all scurrying around, some stretching, some warming up, some eating pizza, some drinking coffee. There were men wearing ballerina tutu's, women in glitter and glow sticks, people outfitted with various packs and bladders and gear and whatchamacallits. Some people were in the zone. Some were not. All kinds of people were running this race, from the very young to the very old. 

The desert is like a magnet for eccentricity. And this expo was ground zero. There were all these art installations, couches, fires for roasting marshmallows. Wooden huts, fences, alcoves, and big empty structures in the shape of suppositories lined the exterior of the expo, keeping it all together like a funky desert town out of a western novel. We poked around some of these oddly shaped structures, one of them painted with a rainbow, another painted with some constellations on the interior. The stars themselves were actually holes punched through the metal, letting the rays of the setting sun pass right on through. 

After exploring the expo and dealing with some pre-race shizzles, we warmed up together, stretched, and then headed toward the start. It was beginning to dawn on McKenna and Grace that they were about to run 13.1 miles in the dark. Yup, it was happening. It was inevitable. And it was exciting. Spirits seemed to be very high. Any sign of fear or dread were well hidden. The air was electric as people made their way through the corral to the start. Everyone was excited. The race was about to begin. 

It was a waved start, broken up in groups separated by expected finish time. Slower folks in the back, speed demons up front. Grace, McKenna and I walked to our respective groups. The sun had set, casting a fiery glow over the horizon. The wind had picked up, now blowing in steady gusts. It was a cold wind, one that stung the eyes and chilled the soul. People started bouncing around to keep warm. Others darted off into the desert to pee for just one last time. The race directer got on the speaker and said, "Everyone, can I have everyone's attention! Look at the people who are peeing! I want you all to point at the people who are peeing!" Everyone listened to him. We all pointed at the incontinent. They scurried back in shame.

I was positioned near the front of the pack. Fast, lean people with muscular legs and intimidating demeanors surrounded me. I was standing next to this one guy. Dude must have been 6'5". He had long, skinny legs, long skinny arms, long, luscious locks and a mustache that would make Steve Prefontaine proud. I determined there and then that he would win this race. I could just tell. The dude looked legit. He moved up to the front of the group and I never saw him again.

I chatted with this other guy for a bit. He had the physique of a runner, long legs, tall, headband, the whole nine yards. Said this was his first time running this course. I told him all of what I remembered from five years ago, and wished him luck. He too moved to the front. I bounced around, feeling like I had to pee. 

The race would begin any moment now. The race directer informed us in this first wave that if we wanted to make the podium it would be wise to start right up front. The top five spots were based off of gun time, not chip time, so it was best to start as close to the front as possible. I had no plans on being in the top five so I stayed near the middle of the pack. Five minutes later, and the race director counted us down. The crowd lurched forward. And then we were off. 

A surge of thirty to forty people sprinted forward, bounding down one of the only paved sections of the entire course. People were passing me left and right, but I kept it cool, trying to run behind groups to shelter myself from the wind. We made a right and entered the sand, beginning the climb of a mile long hill. We headed directly west, right into the remaining light still clinging to the horizon. 

The hill was not as bad as I remembered it. But it sure wasn't easy, ooh boy. We were running on a single-track dirt road. The sides of the road were all sand. People were running in the ruts, which were also sandy. And in the middle of the road was this especially sandy berm. Nobody was running on that. I picked people off, one by one, catching those who had gone out too fast. We were running into the wind, and the wind was starting to take its toll. I ran behind as many people as I could, drafting off of them. I ran behind this one big muscular guy in red. He ran like an ox, all power. But the wind sucked the life out of him and I soon had to pass him to keep pace. 

I hopped over the berm again and again, passing people left and right. The group had now strung out pretty thin, and I soon found myself running alone in the wind, gazing up the hill, observing the violent orange and red stains of dying sunlight in the sky. There were spectators on a hill, jumping up and down. I could only see their silhouettes; couldn't make out any faces. I turned on my headlamp. Crested the hill. And before I knew it, night had fallen. I could see the faint lights of the runners in front of me, looking like little stars in a sea of black.

I had managed to keep pace but the hill and the wind had really kicked my butt. My heart rate was way higher than it should've been. But I kept at it, running faster and faster each mile. I eventually caught up to headband guy, the one I'd talked to at the start. He told me good job, and then informed me that I was in sixth place. Told me to go catch fifth. I didn't really believe him. There was no way I'd passed almost everyone in that group of 30-40 people that surged in the beginning. But sure man, I'd catch up to "fifth." I could see him off yonder, the light from his headlamp bobbing up and down a good 300ft ahead. I passed headband guy and set off for my next target. 

I ran by aid stations, ran by cars heading down the road. Even ran by a house with goats and chickens and cows and stuff. Couldn't see them. But I could definitely smell them. And they sure made a hell of a lot of noise. But fifth place still kept the distance. He wasn't letting up. Wasn't getting any closer. At one point, I lost all sight of him. Thought he was gone for sure. But I saw his light again, wayyy off in the distance, still bobbing up and down. I didn't think I could catch him. Dude was moving pretty fast. But I kept at my pace, running consistently, trying not to roll my ankle every five seconds as it sunk into a hidden soft spot in the road. 

The next several miles became a game of cat and mouse. We hit the second paved section of the course and I let loose. I ran way faster than I should've, zooming down the pavement, trying to close the gap between me and fifth place. I got it down to about 100ft by the time we hit the sand again. He had noticed my light, had noticed my steps, had probably heard my labored breathing. He would surge forward for a bit, trying to lose me. But I stuck to it, matching his surges. I didn't let him widen the gap. I chased after him like a wolf after a deer, slowly wearing him down. The gap shortened to 75ft, then 70ft. And then he booked it, running at full steam. I couldn't keep up. I let him go. 

But it appeared that he couldn't keep it up either. He started visiting the aid stations, slowing down to grab some electrolytes. Every time he slowed down was an opportunity to close the gap. He was wearing down. His pace was slowing. I closed the gap to 50ft. Then 25ft. And then it stayed like that for a long time, the both of us running the same pace, neither one of us loosing or gaining any ground. 

We hit some more hills. Both of us slowed down. The wind had kicked up even more, blowing in our faces, chilling us to the bone. He started to surge again, running in short sprints to lose me, but I held on. Finally, after a little over seven miles of head games, I caught up to him. We ran side by side. We stumbled in the ruts, trying to keep our respective forms steady. He looked over at me and said "good job." I grunted, too out of breath to reply, and performed a surge of my own. I opened a 10ft gap between us. Then 20ft. I started losing him. I could see strobe lights in the distance, marking the location of the finish line. The stars were shining bright overhead, the constellations in full force. I had a little over a mile and a half to go. We were in the end game now.

The last mile was mostly downhill, all of it in sand. I nearly tumbled head over heels at one point, briefly losing my footing while stumbling down that goofy hill. And to make things even better, that dude I'd just passed was catching up to me. He had something in reserve, a second wind. And he was closing the gap. FAST. I accelerated to mach speed, zooming down the hill, a dull panic overtaking me. Well, well, well. Looks like I was the deer now. 

I rounded a corner, running on the outskirts of the race expo. The finish was close; I was nearly there. All of a sudden I saw another headlamp no more than 25ft in front of me. It was another runner. I started to kick. Used up whatever I had left in the tank. I caught up to the guy right at mile 13, a lean dude in split-leg shorts and a running tank. He managed to squeak out a "good job" as I passed him. Wow. Everyone had been so polite on this course!

I entered the final chute. I heard the race director. Said, "I see someone coming. I see a headlamp bobbing out there. I see TWO headlamps bobbing out there." The guy was right behind me. I wasn't gonna let him pass. I dug deep, found something I didn't know I had, and sprinted down the chute. I wasn't gonna let him catch me. I dashed across the finish line in a haze, barely cogent enough to hear the race directer say something about "fourth place. " Mustache guy was leaning on a fence. I could just tell that he'd won the thing. He had the air of a winner. And as it turns out, I later learned that he not only won the race, but shattered the course record in the process. Told you he was legit. I walked over to him and he gave me a low five and a "good job." That was the fourth "good job" of the night. And then my mom came over and said I'd placed fourth. And not only that, but I'd beaten my previous time by over five minutes. 

Whelp, I guess all that training paid off. Other runners streamed across the finish. McKenna zoomed down the chute, finishing in a very respectable time and medaling in her age group. Grace finished a little later, finishing the race a full 20 minutes faster than she'd expected. We attended the awards ceremony, took some pictures, and then drove all the way back home, stopping at In-N-Out along the way. 

Something must have been in the air that night 'cause all of us did very well. But it came at a cost, at least for me. Sure I beat my time and ran one of the best races of my life, but it came with a price. Got the WORST CHAFING I've ever had in my ENTIRE LIFE. And I'll leave it at that; I will spare the details. Never gonna run in those shorts again, I can tell you that much!

Lockwood Peak and San Guillermo Mountain

Lockwood Valley road is still closed. Very unfortunate. Had to drive the long way. Zoomed across the 126, dashed up the I-5, took the exit and coasted along Frazier Mountain road all the way through Frazier Park, Lake of the Woods, and into Lockwood Valley. The marine layer had disappeared, leaving nothing but clear skies and a harsh sun. Very dry country up there, the air so crisp and sharp it could cut diamonds. 

I made a left on forest route 7N03. The gate was open. Nobody was on the road. In fact, I didn't see anybody anywhere. I seemingly had the whole place to myself; couldn't have been further from the truth but more on that later. I made another left on another road and drove towards Piano Box, windows down, dust flying out behind me, a light breeze shaking the pines. Somebody was camped at Piano Box, just a truck and a tent. I didn't see anyone around. Where could they be? Who knows. I didn't think about it too much. 

I followed the road until it reached a dead end at the Yellowjacket OHV trail. I ain't never been on this trail before and was excited to see what it had in store. I began walking just after 11:30am, bound for Lockwood Peak, the sun shining bright overhead, my nostrils bombarded with the smell of dust, dirt, and ever-present vanilla scent of the pines. 

Start of the Yellowjacket Trail

I followed these big ol' dirt bike tracks for a ways, walking along the trail as it meandered down and then up some small hills. Tall, desiccated pines shaded a good portion of the trail, its sides lined with crispy and crunchy grass ready to burn at a moment's notice. It was dead quite. Not a peaceful kind of dead quite, but an eerie, unsettling quite that put me on edge. Felt like I was being watched. But I shook that thought aside and kept on truckin', enjoying the beautiful scenery.

Before long the trail turned into a single lane dirt road. The dirt bike tracks disappeared and were replaced with what appeared to be the tracks of a souped-up off-road vehicle. As I walked along the road I read the story of the tracks; I could see where they spun out, where they gunned it, where they drifted and slid, where they got out and walked around in their Vans and flip-flops. Seemed like whoever was driving that thing had a grand ol' time. 

The road miles passed beneath my feet, the scenery changing with each step. I now found myself in an even drier and crispier environment than before. No more pines, no more shade. Just scratchy, pokey, prickly chaparral, rabbit brush, and dead grass. Good thing it was cool. This road walk would be absolutely miserable during a heat wave. 

Road miles

I hadn't really read any beta on Lockwood Peak, something that was now causing me much regret. The peak requires some brief off-trail navigation to reach the summit. I knew I had to climb a gully of sorts, but wasn't entirely sure where this gully was, what it looked like, or how brushy it would be. And from what I'd been seeing, eyeing the mountain to my right, it was lookin' to be a hell of brushy ascent. Shorts were not the best idea for today, but oh well. I saw a gully, figured that it was the right one, and promptly ditched the road and entered the brush. The climb was on!

The gully

My legs immediately became covered with light scratches. I stuck to the open areas as much as I could, but there were some sections that I just had to bust through. I climbed over deadfall, ducked under branches, shimmied through buckthorn. Finally, after about three minutes of my off-trail wandering, I stumbled upon a cairn. That was a good sign. Figured that meant I was going the right way. I continued through the brush, following an animal trail, hopping over more deadfall. I saw another cairn, then another, and before I knew it I found myself on a well-worn use trail. My troubles were over! I'd follow this thing the rest of the way up the gully.

A good sign

This path I had stumbled upon turned out to be the most well-marked use trail I'd ever seen. There were cairns placed every fifty feet or so; navigation wasn't difficult at all. What was difficult was the gully. It's a steep little thing, equipped with crumbly loose sections that get the heart rate going and the sweat pouring. By the time I made it to the top of the gully my back was soaked in a nice layer of sweat. 

The top of the gully

Near the summit

I took a little breather at the top of the gully, drank some warm water, and then continued to follow the use trail to the summit. The path lead to a small forest of miscellaneous chaparral, a place where it became obvious that I'd have to "choose my own adventure." There were many paths all going in different directions, but it was obvious where to go so I just tried to find the path of least resistance. I noticed that someone had recently cut some of the foliage away, offering a nice respite from the prickliness. There were a few cairns placed hear and there, but I found them a tad unnecessary. I reached the summit without much difficulty, took off my pack and aired out my drenched back. 

Mt. Pinos and such

Lockwood Valley (Frazier Mtn right)

The views from the summit turned out to be better than I expected, offering panoramic views of the surrounding country. I could make out most of the major peaks, including Mt Pinos, Frazier Mtn, Alamo Mtn, San Rafael Peak, Thorn Point, and Reyes Peak. I could even see the majority of the Topa Topa ridge with Hines Peak jutting up into the sky. I could see where the marine layer was waging its war with the dry climate, slowly encroaching upon Hungry Valley in the east, spilling into the Sespe beneath Topa Topa Peak in the west. I bet those two sections would meet later in the evening, covering everything except the highest peaks in a thick blanket of fog. 

The register was in good condition, placed in June of 2015. The last entry was from October 12th of this year. I spent a few minutes at the summit, soaking up the ultraviolets, massaging my scratched up legs. I could see my next destination, San Guillermo Mountain, to the west. I took in the views one last time, signed my name in the register, and then set off down the mountain. 

As per usual, I found a much easier way on my way back down the mountain than on my way up. What was strange, however, was how the use trail completely disappeared near the bottom of the gully. I was back to square one, busting through brush, climbing over deadfall. No cairns, no footprints, no trampled grass, no nothing. You'd think that there'd be a good use trail the whole way from base to summit, but this is not the case. Climbing that peak is a lot like how you gotta eat your vegetables before you can eat dessert. You gotta brave the mild brush in the beginning before you're rewarded with that nice clean use trail. But no matter. I eventually made it back to the road, pulled out some stickers hitchhiking in my socks, and made my way back to the trailhead.

There was a dust cloud forming at the trailhead. It was an off-road vehicle, operated by two old dudes wearing long sleeve shirts and baggy jeans. I decided to eat lunch at the trailhead, finding a stump situated in the shade. As I was munching down on a samich, I noticed the two old guys pointing into the woods and talking a good deal about who knows what. Then they got back into their vehicle and drove off. They were the first people I'd seen all day. And they sure as hell weren't the last. 

It didn't immediately occur to me what they were talking about. But as I was driving over to Pine Springs camp, the realization hit me like a bolt of lightning. Along the way, I drove past a guy walking down the road, all dressed in camouflage and a bright orange vest, carrying a long rifle and a pack laden with ammunition and supplies. Farther along, in the campground, I saw men chatting around their tents, cleaning their weapons, looking at maps, all of them wearing camo and orange. Oh man. How could I forget? It was hunting season. This place was crawling with hunters. And my goofy ahh was out there walking off-trail like a complete dingus. No wonder I felt like I was being watched!

I considered saving San Guillermo for another time, what with the hunters being there and all, but I was wearing a blue shirt and I didn't plan on making any deer noises so I decided to go for it anyway. Not a very bright decision, but I've been known to make those from time to time. I parked near the pit toilets, grabbed my pack, and then set off in a westerly direction. 

Into the woods

 

San Guillermo left

I went straight into the woods. No trail or anything, just plain ol' cross-country travel. It wasn't long before I picked up the remnants of a pretty good use trail which I used to gain the summit ridge. I was moving fast, my eyes and ears on alert, not wanting to startle any hunters lurking in the woods. 

The use trail weaved up a steady incline, interrupted here and there with some minor brush. I found it to be much easier than the gully up to Lockwood Peak. I made it to the summit ridge fairly quickly, immediately gifted with expansive views of the Cuyama badlands to the west. A steady wind was ripping over the ridge, wicking away the sweat that had accumulated on my face. The summit was in full view now and it was a very straightforward (yet steep) walk to the summit. 

San Guillermo Mtn

The summit of San Guillermo was mostly bald, windy, and quiet. The register had been tipped over, but the contents inside remained undamaged. Placed in October of 2022, it didn't have a lot of entires. The last one was from October 12 of this year, signed by the same person who had climbed Lockwood Peak. In fact, after reading a few more entries, it appeared that a lot people seem to climb these two peaks together in the same day. Not sure of this is some kind of challenge, tradition, or what, but I was now part of that club, whether I wanted to be or not. 

The views from San Guillermo are much better than those on Lockwood Peak. The last time I was up there was in April of 2020, and the views were just as good as I remembered them. The pleasant weather was holding up, the day being mostly clear and the visibility excellent. I could see far and wide, entranced by the rugged terrain of the badlands to the west. I spent a little longer on this summit, making sure to fully absorb the serenity of the spectacular views that surrounded me. 

The Badlands

I said my goodbyes and then trotted off the summit, picking up some trash on the way down. Going down went much smoother than the way up, but I still hand't let my guard down. I knew them hunters were still out there, and the last thing I wanted to do was be mistaken for a woodland creature. So I started humming a tune, whistled a bit, and trotted my way down the use trail. I found myself back in the woods, deciding to take a slightly different way to get back to the campground. I remained low, finding a dry creek. There were some cairns on the side of the creek, so I assumed this was the place to be. 

I briefly followed the creek before exiting and resuming easy-going cross-country travel. I made it back to the camp in one piece, started the car, and then drove on out of there. It had been a quality day, lots of sun, lots of pretty country. That whole area is my favorite in the entire Los Padres. From Pine Springs to Johnston Ridge and everything in between, it's beautiful sight after beautiful sight. Hadn't been up there in over a year and was glad to be back. I just hope the hunters can forgive my stupidity...

Mt. Rixford

09/26/24

It was a restless night in the Onion Valley parking lot. Tossing and turning, moving from the driver's seat to the back seats trying to get comfortable. Finally, at around 3:00am, I gave up with the tossing and turning and decided to put the seats down and spread out. Why didn't I do this earlier? I'd forgotten to bring a pad. And them's seats is hard on their back sides. My hips and back would pay for it later. But I didn't care. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my head filled with hazy dreams and thoughts of the coming trek. 

The sun began to tease its inevitable appearance at around 6:00am. Hidden far below the horizon, its light washed the morning sky with this deep red color. That meant it was time to go. I gathered my measly belongings, payed a quick visit to the freezing pit toilet, and then set off on the trail.

The sun took its sweet time climbing over the horizon. Though it was only late September, the surrounding temperatures shivered my timbers a good deal. I walked fast, hoping that strenuous exercise would warm me up quick. A faint pink alpenglow illuminated the summits of the surrounding peaks. University Peak was particularly stunning. Its north face was still covered in a thick dusting of snow, courtesy of the storm that blew in last week. This was the storm that made me chicken out of that JMT section hike. Looking at that lingering snow while I was hiking up the trail reaffirmed my decision in not going. Looked like it was a cold, cold storm. Glad I avoided it. 

University Peak

The current weather, so far, was holding up great. Early morning alpenglow gave way to a golden hour of gleaming light. The sun had crested the horizon, bathing the surrounding peaks and trees and rocks and flowers in a warm, golden shower of light. No clouds, no wind. It was looking to be a fantastic day. I pressed on, stopping near Gilbert Lake for a quick breakfast. 

I continued up the trail, passing the junction that goes to Flower and Matlock Lakes. I hadn't seen a single person so far, a rare feat given the popularity of the trail. Surely there'd be people at the pass. It was finally starting to warm up now, so I took off the ol' jacket and stuffed it in the pack. I wouldn't need it for the rest of the day. 

I went up a series of switchbacks and then got my first view of Kearsarge Pass and Mt. Gould. The pass looked to be devoid of people. Very interesting. I'd never seen the pass empty. I walked up to the pass, the altitude starting to make its presence felt. I'd driven to the trailhead directly from sea level just twelve hours prior. Going from sea level to 11,709ft isn't the best idea. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, but I haven't. That's because there's no lesson to be learned. You see, I've found that the best way to deal with altitude is to just suck it up and keep trekkin'. And by suck it up I mean air. Lots of it. Big ol' heaping gulps. That usually does the trick. 

I stopped at the pass and admired the view. I had it all to myself, save for a little pika that scurried in and out of sight. There wasn't a single person up there, nor were there any down on the trail on either side of the pass. Where was everyone? Who knows. I savored this moment of rare solitude, enjoying the views of University Peak and the Owens Valley. But I spent most of my time staring at my destination to the west, Mt. Rixford, planning out a route that would require the least effort. It was lookin' like I'd take the south face, zig-zag up some loose talus for the majority of the climb, hit the ridge, and then traverse the ridge to the summit. Grace had climbed this peak back in 2016 and said it was very difficult. I'd see about that soon enough. 

I left the pass, realizing almost immediately that it was a lot steeper on its western side. Oh well. That was gonna be a fun climb on the way back. I zoomed down the switchbacks, my mind only thinking of how I'd have to climb back up them in a few hours. The trail continued to move down, down, down, going deeper into the valley. Just before I reached the junction with the Kearsarge Lakes trail I saw the first person I'd seen all day. Dude was wearing baggy pants, a sun hoody, and had this backpack that looked like it only had enough room for a Gatorade bottle. The guy must have been a trail runner of some kind. He nodded and continued up to the pass. I stuck to the right, heading towards Charlotte Lake and the JMT. 

The trail continued to move in a downward fashion, so much so that I began to worry that I'd lose too much elevation and have to climb extra. I could see the south face of Mt. Rixford from the trail. Without much thought or care, I left the trail at a random point and made my way towards the mountain. I weaved through the short pines without much difficulty. Bushwhacking was not on the menu that morning. Ahh, the joys of high altitude...

Off trail

I hit the bottom of the south face and began the climb. At first it was mostly solid, my feet sliding out from under me only occasionally. And then I hit this super sandy section and my pace slowed dramatically. After surpassing this obstacle, all that was left was a 1,000ft+ slog through loose talus. Nothing scary. Nothing precarious. Just a long, long, long slog up a steep slope with no relief. Just as I predicted earlier that day, I spent the majority of the morning zig-zagging up this steep slope of loose talus, careful not to roll my ankle or break a trekking pole. It was slow and exhausting work. 

"Falcor Peak"

I crested the south face, reaching the ridge in a huff and a wheeze. My heart was beating out my chest, my head dizzy and heavy. That was one sucky talus slog. Made for a hell of a morning workout. Luckily, that slog was the hardest part of the day. I could see the summit from my vantage point on the ridge. Looked like some fun scrambling stood between me and my destination. I rested a bit, catching my breath and observing the tremendous views to the south. After a good five minutes of just sittin' there, I gathered my things and started the awesome ridge traverse.

Mt. Rixford

The ridge proved to be very fun. Even saw a tiny little bristlecone nestled in some rocks. How it got up there I do not know. But it looked healthy and that's all that matters. I found the ridge to be mostly class 1-2, with one easy class 3 section near the base of the summit. This section could likely be avoided, but I didn't feel like looking around for an easier route. I surpassed this obstacle without much difficulty, dropping my pack in the shade of a large boulder. I pushed through the last few hundred feet to the summit, scrambling and hopping and having a jolly good time. This was much better than the slog up the south face. 

I reached the summit in no time. It was surprisingly flat and open, offering expansive 360° views of the surrounding area. I found the register (placed in 2012) and signed my name, noticing that the previous entry was from five days prior. Skimming the pages, I found Grace's entry from 2016. I'll stand by her assertion that Rixford is a difficult summit. It certainly ain't no walk in the park. In terms of route-finding and scrambling it's pretty easy. But it sure is one hell of a slog. This mountain is a stair master on steroids.

West

Rae Lakes (view north)

South

East

It was dead silent on the summit. No wind, no clouds, no weather of any kind. It was surreal. Could almost hear the blood coursing through my veins. I sat and took it all in, trying to associate all those pointy bumps and spires and bodies of water with names on the map. To the north sat Rae Lakes. I could make out Fin Dome, Mt. Cotter, Mt. Clarence King, Diamond Peak, and wayy off in the distance: the formidable Palisades. It was so clear I could even make out the southwest chutes on Mt. Sill. 

Looking east I could see Dragon Peak, Mt. Gould and Kearsarge Pass. Looking in a southern direction gifted me with what I considered the most scenic view: University Peak to the southeast, the sparkling blue jewel of Kearsarge Lake, the numerous, snow dusted Kearsarge Pinnacles, Mt. Keith and Center Peak, East Vidette and Bubbs Creek. Off in the distance, covered in a dusting of snow and looking foreboding and intimidating sat Junction Peak, Deerhorn Mountain and Mt. Brewer. And to the west sat the expanse of King's Canyon. I could even make out the road that winds down into the canyon itself, a tiny brown line etched in an expanse of grayish green. 

I spent a little over twenty minutes on the summit. And then it was time to say goodbye. I took one last 360° sweep and then started down the mountain. It was a lot easier going down than going up. I zoomed down the ridge in what seemed like seconds, finding my pack and making my way to the talus-covered south face. A tedious, slow-moving, ankle-killing descent awaited me. 

A fun class 3 obstacle

I ate it on the way down. Lost my footing, tripped up on my feet, and fell face-first on the sharp talus. I was a lot more careful after that little set back. I skied what I could ski, I slid down what I could slid, but for the most part it was slow work stepping down loose rock after loose rock. My quads were cooked by the time I made it off the south face. I needed to eat something. Take a long rest. So I found this sweet spot by this big ol' rock face and rehydrated me a freeze-dried meal. I took off my shoes, shook out all the rocks and dust, and took a nice long lunch break. 

University Peak and Kearsarge Pinnacles

After lunch, I trucked on back to the trail and made my way back to Kearsarge Pass. Folks were out and about now, the crowds mostly consisting of backpackers. I passed several people on my way to the pass, the solitude of the morning long gone. I trucked on up the switchbacks, which turned out to be much easier than I thought they'd be. I noticed a large congregation of people hanging out at the pass. I reached it, still not stopping, and continued on my way back to the parking lot. I'd found my stride. I was in the zone. I'd bang out these last few miles in no time. 

Gilbert Lake

Fall colors beneath Independence Peak

It was an uneventful walk back to the parking lot. The trail was back to its regular quantity of human traffic. I saw rangers, trail runners, day hikers, backpackers. Even saw some people working on the trail, hauling up tools, digging up rocks, putting in steps. Looked like a gnarly job. As I was walking down the trail, I notice that most of the deciduous foliage was beginning to turn yellow. Fall colors were sprouting in the hills, with little rivers of gold and orange carving through the evergreens. 

I made it back to the parking lot, the whole trek taking a little over eight hours. It had been a fantastic day. The weather couldn't have been any better. No wind, no clouds, crystal clear conditions. And the peak turned out to be pretty cool too. Had some of the best views I've ever seen on a mountain summit. It was a good way to end my season in the Sierra, that is, if I stand by that claim. I told myself that this would be the last Sierra peak I'd bag this year. But those blasted mountains have a way of dragging me back. It'll be hard to resist to call.