Mount Whitney illuminated by the full moon
It has taken me quite a while since completing my northbound solo hike (“NOBO”) on the John Muir Trail to decompress and get my thoughts in order. I’m now publishing three blog posts, each covering about a week of my nearly three-week trip and each focusing on a few things I learned from JMT.
You might notice I said «alone.» This was not intended to be a one-man excursion. Instead, my good friend Steve and I made the long two-day drive from Colorado to Lone Pine, California, where we intended to park my car at Horseshoe Meadows and take buses and hitchhikes back from Happy Isles in Yosemite National Park once we were done with our hike. Unfortunately things didn’t turn out that way.
Steve seemed unusually calm during the trip, and after arriving in Lone Pine he said he was not feeling well and needed to visit a medical clinic. He was told he had a serious bacterial infection called campylobacter, something you can get from poorly prepared poultry, and that backpacking was out of the question for at least two or three weeks. I was heartbroken for him and sad for me: I would miss his good humor and unflappable attitude on this trip.
Steve and I had previously agreed that if one of us got sick or injured during the trip, we would both abandon the trail together. What we hadn’t discussed was: what would happen if one of us became incapacitated before the trip even began? But the answer to that question seemed clear to both of us: Steve would recover in Lone Pine and then take my car back to Colorado, and I would just fly back to Colorado when I was done. Except Steve insisted he would drive to California to pick me up. He still hoped to recover faster than the doctor had anticipated and perhaps he would be able to accompany me for the last week.
So Steve took a fellow NOBO’er – Lara from Oregon – and me to Horseshoe Meadows the night before we both started our trips. Lara was taking the Cottonwood Pass route while I hiked Cottonwood Lakes: each is a roughly 30-mile “trail to trail” to join the JMT below Mount Whitney. (Lara, Steve and I met because we had connected through a Facebook page to share a mule resupply later on the trail.)
The Cottonwood Lakes Trail offers a beautiful approach
I began my hike filled with the usual pre-trail jitters, summed up in the faint buzz of «What the hell am I doing here when I’m over 60?» I’ve become accustomed to the combined feeling of anticipation, excitement, and anxiety at the beginning of every backpacking trip, regardless of whether it’s a weekend or a month-long hike. But I felt good. I had tested all my gear and, unlike previous hikes where I was confident I would get in better shape just by walking, this time I knew that the imminent arrival of Mount Whitney required me to be in better shape and acclimatized from the start. I had been working hard to get in shape before this trip: from a peak weight of 214 pounds, I had lost almost 20 pounds to 185 pounds on my 5’10» frame at the beginning of the trip. By the end of the trip, I had lost 15 more pounds.
There were still many lessons the trail could teach me. My first new lesson came very quickly: trust the path He will give me. Knowing that I had about 10 days left before I could recharge my batteries at Muir Trail Ranch, and knowing that the JMT is usually quite sunny, I decided to bring a lightweight solar panel on this trip. (These panels work quite well for recharging batteries, but due to power fluctuations it is not recommended that you connect your phone directly to them; instead, you should connect your battery to the panel and then recharge your phone and other electronic devices with the battery.) But before I even started walking, I managed to break the USB port on my solar panel almost in half: I had forgotten to disconnect the panel cable, and just the usual push from my backpack was enough to destroy the panel cable connection.
Don’t worry: thanks to Steve’s kindness I had a backup plan. He drove to Horseshoe Meadows from Lone Pine to give me the battery I no longer needed. Crisis averted!
It was only after Steve left and I was on the road that I realized a small problem: Steve’s big, heavy battery had a USB-Micro connection and my cables were all USB-C. So there was no way for me to use Steve’s drums. Would I have enough power for my FarOut app (let alone all the photos I wanted to take and music I wanted to listen to) to make it to the MTR ten days?
Steve’s useless 9-ounce brick weighed heavily on my back and psyche. But then the time came when the trail produced a miracle. Hours later, as if by magic, a couple walking south stopped to chat. I mentioned my problem with the cable and they both lit up: «We’re almost done with our hike; we have an extra cable that will work for you.» Thus, Steve’s drums went from useless to invaluable. I could literally feel the anxiety leaving my body.
Walking through memory
The Cottonwood Lakes access to the official start of the JMT is lovely, and after hearing numerous Cottonwood Pass hikers complain about the dusty, sandy trail at that access, I can wholeheartedly recommend Cottonwood Lakes as the best way for NOBO’ers to hike the JMT.
As I walked through the Cottonwood Lakes drainage, it hit me with surprising force: I had actually been here 38 years earlier, when my knees were much newer and my ambitions much bigger. I couldn’t remember specific landmarks, but I could feel like I’d been here before. This time, I hiked toward New Army Pass alongside a new trail friend, Norm, an experienced local hiker who had decades of stomping through the Sierra in his wake. Once I reached New Army Pass, I detoured onto Old Army Pass, standing in the same spot as when I was 29 years old. The landscape had not changed. He had, deeply.
Guitar Lake, a fat groundhog and Whitney at dawn
Walking up towards Guitar Lake was like the moment my body really remembered what hiking was and where I had been almost 40 years earlier. I dove into cold Guitar Lake to rinse off the dust, washed my clothes, and laid everything out on sun-warmed granite. A fat groundhog patrolled the shoreline as if he owned the place. Maybe he did.
Camping below Mount Whitney at Guitar Lake
I camped that night with three great women: Lara, Terri, and Terri’s daughter Savannah. It turns out that Savannah has a PhD in aeronautical engineering and wants to be an astronaut; I have a strong feeling that he will achieve that goal. It’s funny how easily good conversations flow at 11,000 feet over rehydrated dinners.
At midnight I lay down in my cozy Durston When you travel to NOBO, you arrive very early at the highest point in the continental United States, Mount Whitney. Nearly four decades ago, my hike to Mount Whitney had been a slow, painful slog. I had to count 50 steps, then stop to catch my breath for 2 minutes, then walk 50 more. Can I reach the top now, at 67 years old?
Moonlit Trail to Mount Whitney
This is where training and living at altitude paid big dividends. The moonlit hike up Mount Whitney was strenuous but manageable, and I reached the top just minutes before the sun crested the eastern horizon. The trail and surroundings were incredibly beautiful. I met Savannah at the top and we took photos.
Sunrise at the top of Mount Whitney
Up and over more high places
After Mt. Whitney, the people around me changed, but the generosity did not. I met hikers from France, the Czech Republic, and a seventy-year-old father hiking the High Sierra Trail with his adult son.
The trail to Forester Pass
And then came Forester Pass: one of the most infamous passages on the JMT and PCT (and the highest point on the PCT). The climb was long, hot and slow, and the descent even longer. The endless slope made me wonder who had lifted (or broken on the spot) all those rocks I was tripping over. The southern approach to the pass was very steep, and I marveled at the bravery of the PCT hikers who crossed Forester Pass in the steep snow several months earlier.
Charlotte Lake and a lesson in being the biggest bear
The days passed in a steady series of sparse, warm forests and cathedrals of glaciated granite above the timber line. The stark gray-white of the Sierra highlands reminded me of a freshly cleaned Gothic cathedral: sober and sobering.
After four days I was approaching my first resupply, at the JMT junction with Charlotte Lake. Charlotte Lake is about a mile from the trail itself, but it’s well worth the detour: It’s such a peaceful place it feels like living in a watercolor painting. I bathed, washed my clothes, laughed with friends like Lara, whom I was beginning to consider my little accidental trail family, and read a note from the local park ranger explaining the rules of what to do if you encounter a black bear:
«Chase the bears. Be the biggest bear.»
Easier said than done in your sixties, but the advice stuck. I have seen a few black bears on previous backpacking trips and they have always gotten away from me. I think that advice is fundamentally sound.
Heading north from Forester Pass
Although I had experienced this before, I once again did not expect how quickly the trail would feel like home: how easily friendships are formed when your world is reduced to earth, sky, and whoever is walking at your pace that day. One benefit of hiking alone is that it makes it easier to connect with other hikers on the trail.
Resupply at Kearsage Pass did not go as well as planned. Lara and I met two other hikers at the meeting point to resupply our mule, and the mule driver arrived just in time. Unfortunately, despite clear instructions, your company did not provide more fuel as requested (and paid in advance). My food was suitable for cold soaking, as was Lara’s, so we donated the rest of our nearly empty fuel cans to the other two hikers who really needed fuel for cooking. Those two hikers ended up having to hike on half a ration all the way to Muir Trail Ranch. The moral of the story is to remind the mule refuelers several times if you need them to get fuel for you.
By the end of the first week, my legs learned to trust the climb, my mind learned to trust the weather, and my heart learned to trust the trail. Thirty-eight years ago, I had skipped hiking in the Sierras between Mount Whitney and Tuolomne Meadows and chose to hike dusty Highway 395. Now I had begun to “connect the dots” throughout the High Sierras. For the first time I really felt headed north.
Next: Week two.
