A typical campsite. I loved my Durston X-Mid Pro, my Fire Maple stove and heat exchanger pot, and my expensive Bearikade bear canister.
By my third week heading north on the John Muir Trail, the trail had become its own little universe. I no longer counted miles; He was recounting weather windows, conversations, and countless little wonders. And honestly, I was counting the days until I could take a shower.
Bears, boats and bluegrass
Vermilion Valley Resort was everything I expected: a hot shower, a laundry room with borrowed clothes, authentic food, and human noise after so many quiet nights. I had pitched my tent at the resort’s “Mushroom City” campsite. At 2:30 a.m., a mother bear and her two cubs were rattling around nearby trash cans, but even that felt like part of the VVR experience.
That night I sang and played guitar, harmonizing a John Denver tune with a little girl. Moments like that are the unexpected gifts of the road: ordinary, joyful and fleeting.
Climbing back to the high country
The ferry to and from VVR was captained by a man named Paint, who looked like Santa crossed with ZZ Top. (Tragically, Paint died of a heart attack just days after I had been at VVR). From VVR, the climb to Virginia Lake and Duck Creek was long, hot and dusty. My umbrella once again saved my sanity. I hiked much of the way with my old trail buddy Lara and a new mutual friend named Cindy; Lara was struggling with stomach problems, but carried on with quiet determination.
Lara and Cindy (with me on the left)
We found a small campsite that somehow fit our three tents, just barely. The view from our cozy little site was magnificent, as we looked out for miles and miles of glacier-carved valleys and pinnacles. Nights like that feel communal in a way you don’t expect: three hikers, three shelters, a shared exhaustion.
One morning I thought I had lost my wonderful bone conduction headphones, but after tearing into my backpack I finally found them folded inside the fabric of my tent. I wrapped neon-colored tape around almost every small item I carried with me (batteries, cables, headphones, and my phone) and found the practice very helpful.
Thunderstorms or their threat
Garmin warned of storms. The sky hinted at them. But the Sierras were timid and offered nothing but clouds that never fully committed.
As a hiker in my 60s, I feel more cautious than ever about the weather: more aware of the consequences, more respectful of the moods of the mountains. But I’m also more grateful for every hour of blue sky than I was when I was 25.
Thousand Islands Lake
Garnet Lake and Thousand Island Lake were masterpieces: calm waters, pale granite, islands scattered across them like jewels. I could have stayed at each of those lovely spots for days, but few tent sites and too many (relatively speaking) other campers pushed me toward a quieter, more remote spot near the lazy, misnamed Rush Creek.
Storms form on the way
At Rush Creek I met Savannah and her family; I initially met Savannah and her mother Terri in Guitar Lake, before Mt. Whitney; They had made a lot of side trips and that’s why I was able to catch up with them. Camping with these good people and Lara was very pleasant. I have always loved making new friends on my hikes.
Fear rears its ugly head again
Donohue Pass was one of the last high thresholds on the John Muir Trail. With rain and thunder now definitely threatening, I moved forward at a good pace, umbrella held high and legs steady. On the descent into Lyell Canyon, approaching Tuolomne Meadows, the weather finally decided to take revenge for its previous threats: cold, heavy rain, then hail, then more torrential rain, and all the while thunder and lightning exploded everywhere.
Rain turns trail into stream south of Tuolomne Meadows
As I walked under my umbrella, with my jacket closed, my brain told me I was pretty safe, walking through a wooded valley with only a few meadows to cross. However, every time I reached a meadow, I ran across it, my shoulders hunched for fear of being struck by lightning. At one point, I waited a long while, standing under my umbrella, until another northbound hiker approached and I asked if I could join him. Misery loves company and was seriously thinking that it would be safer to have at least one other hiker nearby in case lightning struck one of us.
When I arrived at the cold, waterlogged campground at Tuolomne Meadows, I saw a text from my friend Steve saying he was back in California, ready to pick me up in a couple of days. In lightning-induced fear, I wrote to him asking if he could pick me up the next morning at Tuolomne Meadows. After all, I reasoned, on my first Sierra hike in 1987 I had left the Mono Valley roads at Tuolomne, so I had technically already hiked north from Tuolomne. But Steve replied that he was not available, and I suppressed my fears, realizing that I had no choice but to continue walking despite the bad weather.
I was angry with myself for having been overcome by fear: it was as I had written in my chapter of Jared Champion’s book «More Than Hope: Lessons from the Colorado Trail»: It is very easy for irrational fear to take over us and push us to make bad decisions.
The beautiful trail north of Tuolomne Meadows
In fact, the next day the weather eased until mid-afternoon, giving me time to cross the last unprotected high grasslands of the JMT. As soon as I crossed those meadows, the storms started up in force again, pelting me with rain and hail as I approached the incredibly beautiful Half Dome.
The final miles
My last morning on the trail was quiet and contemplative, and I was almost reluctant to finish my trip. I walked miles through relatively soft forest into Yosemite Valley and emerged into Happy Isles dusty, sweaty, smelly, and content.
Me near the end of the trail, before the final descent to Happy Isles.
And there was Steve: smiling, healthy enough to meet me, although not ready to walk yet. Our meeting was like sewing the final seam of a garment I had been piecing together for three weeks: wonderful people, exciting weather, beauty, fear, strength and memories. My 240 mile northbound JMT trip was over.
The end of the road! 240 miles of challenge, beauty and joy.
I felt strong and my equipment and food had worked well for me. (My gear list is at Lighterpack.com.) I was especially pleased with the performance of my Durston backpack and tent, my Montbell Versa raincoat, my Fire Maple stove and heat exchanger pot, my Black Diamond carbon Z-shaped trekking poles, and my Altra Lone Pine 9 Plus trekking shoes with their incredibly grippy Vibram soles.
I can’t forget to praise the FarOut app, with its excellent updates on water sources and trail conditions. My LMNT electrolyte packs really helped me stay hydrated effectively. And my Kindle mini loaded with Elizabeth Wenk’s incredibly detailed and beautifully written guide was very helpful and educational.
Epilogue
For me, the John Muir Trail was the culmination of a journey through the High Sierra that I began almost 40 years ago. It is a stunningly beautiful route, but there are many logistical challenges to completing it. I hope to return to this region for shorter, more manageable trips to some of the most beautiful terrain in the United States. I’ve told several of my friends, including Steve, that if they ever want to do the JMT, I’d be happy to be their chariot, meeting them with resupply boxes and taking shorter, quieter trips to camp next to clear alpine lakes.
What’s next?
What’s next? (Because there’s always something next.) For me, I’m seriously considering the new thing. Road from Santa Fe to Taosas well as South Dakota’s Centennial Trail, Utah’s Uinta Highline Trail, the Tahoe Rim Trail, and those parts of the Continental Divide Trail within Colorado that I have not yet hiked as part of the Colorado Trail. None of them will involve as many logistical challenges as the John Muir Trail, and none of them will be as classically alpine on all of their routes.
