Sometimes you do stuff that doesn't turn out the way that you pictured in your mind's eye. Sittin' around daydreamin' an' such, thinkin' and idealizing a certain occurence or goal or project or somethin' like that. You spend a good long time thinkin' about this thing, plannin' it, lookin' forward to it, and then—BOOM: reality. No matter how much you plan, no matter how well you think it's going to turn out, reality will take over and do with your plan whatever it damn well pleases. When you actually go out into the real world and set that plan into motion whatever is going to happen is going to happen. You can have goals yes, you can have expectations and wants/desires/needs that you can plan and prepare for—but whatever's gonna happen is gonna happen. Sometimes the goal is realized, sometimes it's not. This is a story of not.
Me n' the sister had planned on tackling the JMT this summer, starting at Horseshoe Meadows and ending at Happy Isles in Yosemite National Park. Northbound. Two hundred and fifty miles and change. We planned for this trip, prepped for it, bought all the food n' such, secured the permits and whatnot and drove up to Lone Pine where we stayed the night and ate our last nice meal and slept in nice comfy beds. In the morning we got up, double checked our stuffs, and then drove up to the trailhead to begin our monumental trek through the exquisite wilderness.
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| The Trailhead |
We meandered our way up to our first hindrance of the day: Cottonwood Pass. We took it slow and went with the flow, stopping often and takin' breathers here and there in order to adjust to the altitude. Once we got to the top we took in the views and munched on a few fruit snacks. Its elevation of 11,200ft easily made its presence felt in our lungs. Full breaths that didn't feel full. Elevated heart rates even though we were sittin' down and doing nothin' in particular. But the view distracted us from these symptoms and we felt a wave of accomplishment upon tackling this first of many obstacles.
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| Cottonwood Pass |
We arrived at our destination, Chicken Spring Lake, shortly thereafter. At an even higher elevation than the pass, our goal was to acclimate here overnight so as to make the rest of the trek easy peasy lemon squeezy. This goal was never realized.
To make a long story short we ended up turning around the next day after hikin' four or so miles west of Chicken Spring Lake, a little ways past the junction to Solder Lakes inside the Sequoia National Park boundary. The sis had developed symptoms of altitude sickness overnight that never fully dissipated throughout the following day. There was a long discussion with lots of ideas thrown around but we finally decided that the best course of action was gettin' the frick outta them mountains. It was the right thing to do.
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| Camp |
There ain't no reason to be voluntarily miserable. Could we have gone on? Yes. Would it have sucked? Yes. Would the symptoms have disappeared in the following days? Who knows. You never really wanna gamble in the mountains. And judging from my track record in Vegas I wasn't too keen to try.
Our original goal of doing the entire trail was never reached. Our attempt—a complete failure. From a statistical standpoint we only ended up hikin' around 16 miles. That's 6.4% of the entire trail. According to my professors a 6.4% ain't exactly a passin' grade. And, funny enough, we never actually set foot on the JMT. Going northbound, we wouldn't of started hikin' the actual fabled path until after we'd hiked 20 miles of the PCT first. And to top it all off we only spent one night on the trail. One night. A spectacular failure indeed.
Looking at this trip from a statistical standpoint reveals a lugubrious letdown. A whimsical washout. A fiasco. A flop. A dead duck. A boat full of holes and a balloon made of lead. Something to remember with contempt and disdain. An embarrassment. Something that makes you never wanna try it again because it was such an ignominious humiliation to the ego. But whatever was gonna happen was gonna happen. And going into this trip with that mindset greatly eased the sting of failure; in fact, it nearly erased all evidence of one even occurring.
Going to the woods is many different things to many different people. There are those who wish to conquer them, to make their mark, to stand upon the mountain and scream, "Yes! I have done it! Look at what I have done!" They walk through the woods to prove to themselves that they can do it, to prove to others that they can do it. Then there are those who seek solitude in the woods, to escape from reality and let their minds wander into oblivion whilst listening to the gurgling streams and the wind in the trees. They go to get away from it all, to decompress, to do some soul searchin' or somethin' like that. There are those who go to get fit. There are those who go to marvel and gape and gawk at natural beauty. There are those who go for recreation, for relaxation, for education. And then there are those who go to just go. To go 'cause they're there. To go and walk through the woods and take it all in as the day progresses. To live in the present for a little bit. To appreciate what they're seein' firsthand and knowin' that they're the first and last people to see it that way before the moment is gone and locked away in the recesses of their memories.
Slowin' down and takin' in everything really helped pad the runtime of this trip. Even though we were only on the trail for two days it felt much, much longer than that. There were tons of people on the trail, all doing there own thing, all going to different places and seeing different things. There was the elderly couple who had camped up at Chicken Spring Lake the night before we arrived. They had to hike back to the parkin' lot, having to escort one of their elderly friends back down to Lone Pine after this friend suffered a bout of altitude sickness. They hiked back in the cold, cold night under the pale light of the moon. And then, just the next day, they hiked all the way back up to Chicken Spring. Left their gear up there. Hopefully it was still there.
And then there was the young couple, zoomin' their way down the trail. They were plannin' on doing the entire JMT (plus the additional 20 miles of PCT) in just 15 days. They had ultralight packs with ultralight gear and ultralight shoes and ultra tight clothes. And they were runnin' out of water. And they looked tired.
And then there were the countless other people hikin' solo. Some had monstrously big packs, the kind that would make Norman Clyde proud, while others barely had anything aside from a bag and a bear canister. Some of these people were old, some young, some fit, some fat, some that looked like they knew what they were doing, some looking completely out of their elements.
And whisking past hither and thither were the lightning fast day hikers. Some were dressed casually, wearing city clothes and the like, hikin' only a few hundred feet into the woods while holdin' their toddlers or water bottles or sunscreen. And then there were the ones with their Salomon packs and their trekkin' poles and their Hoka trail shoes and Patagonia visors steamrollin' their way 20 miles deep into the backcountry.
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| Look! Horsies! |
And at Chicken Spring Lake there were all sorts of folks. Some had been there two days and were just now leaving, kissing this alpine paradise goodbye. Others were just comin' in, much like ourselves. And people just kept tricklin' in as the day went on; some stayed, some stayed for a little bit and left, and others just breezed right on through. For those that stayed there were a great many variety of shelters. Walmart tents, Coleman Tents, no tents at all. Lookin' around at the scenery would not only reveal the rugged alpine moonscape of gnarled bark and granite, but also the neon green and red and yellow reflecting off all those NEMO and MARMOT and MSR and SIERRA DESIGNS tents that everyone bought at their local REI. Their were a few ultralight tents that caught my eye, some that looked paper thin, supported only by a pair of trekking poles and looked as if they would instantly collapse if the slightest of breezes were to perk up at any given moment.
And each of these groups were their own little microcosm and they were each separated from one another and they all did their own thing in their own respective little bubbles. The sounds of their conversations echoed off the walls surrounding the lake along with their laughter and chuckling and, later on, their snoring. And they all cooked dinner at around the same time and they all took turns walkin' around the lake and all but a few remained outside to watch the afternoon thunderstorms roll over the mountains.
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| Big cloud |
And from noon to about 5:00pm it rained off and on and the raindrops made big wet sploshes on the placid surface of the lake and the ducks took shelter and the lighting lit up the angry clouds and the thunder boomed and banged and clanged and shook the sky and it sounded like a bass boosted bellyache coming from God Himself. And everything was fresh and alive and the rain was heavy in plops and it would pour one moment and disappear the next and the chipmunks sat on the rocks watchin' you with their beady little eyes just waiting for you to drop some jerky or M&M's or something like that.
And while the rain subsided and the clouds became less angry the sun would shine through and play tricks on the mind as it cast Instagram filter after Instagram filter upon the ever changing color of the slate gray granite cliffs. Shadows flickered and danced and the rocks possessed this piercing and vivid and bright shine as the sun filtered it's light through the cottonball clouds. And the wind died down so much so that the surface of the lake became a perfect reflecting pool; a mirror of the sky, a portal into the heavens. And then the rain would come back and muddle it all up again and we sat and watched it all go down. And eventually the clouds disappeared altogether, the afternoon temper tantrum in the sky was complete, and the alpenglow began and night fell and the whole area became illuminated in cold gray light.
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| Reflection Pool |
And in the morning everything was calm and the sound of stoves and boiling water surrounded the area and the inhabitants ate instant oat meal washed it down with instant coffee. And the hike out revealed nothing new, just the same timeless beauty of the Sierra only this time in different locations. The clouds still danced up in the sky. The lighting, still surreal. And the gnarled pines weren't going nowhere and the mountains were still tall and people came and went and it was all very good.
On our way back, while we were walking around Chicken Spring Lake, I came to a sudden realization that I had decided to do this trip for the wrong reasons. I wasn't in the right mindset. I thought that I wanted to do it to prove to myself that I could. To be able to see things that I wouldn't normally be able to see. But I lacked the discipline. I didn't feel like wakin' up every morning, wolfin' down a cliff bar, hikin' all day long and then settin' up camp and then eatin' dinner and then going to bed and then doing the same thing again and again for 22 days. At least as of now, through hikin' really ain't my thing. I'd rather hike a few miles and set up a basecamp somewheres and then climb a bunch of mountains and then head on back.
In either case, you'll still see the same ol' beauty of the land. Some will say that seeing certain things that are isolated feel better because they're earned or that hardly anyone has seen them. Whatevs. Scenery is scenery. Drivin' up to see the General Sherman Tree is just as fantastic as climbin' up thousands of feet to see a view of the Great Western Divide. They're both good experiences. I guess that some don't like the fact that one of those places is a lot more touristy than the other. But that's part of the experience. People watchin' can be quite fun at times. You just gotta sit back, relax, and take it all in.
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| View South from PCT |
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| View East from Cottonwood Pass |
While our trip was cut embarrassingly short we still got to see some truly breathtaking country. Being up high in those elevations is really something special, no matter how close of how far away they are from civilization. Alpine is alpine, just like how desert is desert, rainforest is rainforest, chaparral is chaparral. If you take it as it is and enjoy it for what it is your in for a good time no matter what happens. And one of these days I'll take another stab at the ol' JMT. When I'm in the right headspace you know? But the sis says she's done with elevation. Told me she ain't ever going back up to the Sierras for a long, long time. I don't blame her.
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| Owens Valley |
