Sierra has a way of giving you exactly what you need. Sometimes, after a long climb, it is an alpine lake with crystal clear waters. Sometimes it’s a perfect weather window over a high pass. And sometimes it’s a lesson you didn’t ask for.
The stretch between Mather Pass and Mammoth was one of the most beautiful hikes I’ve experienced on the Pacific Crest Trail so far. There were turquoise lakes, endless granite, meadows filled with wildflowers, and enough snow to remind us that the mountains still demanded respect. But when I look back at those miles, that’s not what I remember most.
I remember a baby groundhog.
Mather Pass and an alpine baptism
We woke up just below Mather Pass knowing we had another great day in the Sierra ahead of us. The plan was simple: get up early, overcome the pass before the snow softened and enjoy what the mountain decided to give us.
The climb itself was easy. Snowfields started to appear around 11,000 feet, but compared to some of the previous passes, Mather felt manageable. We reached the summit around 8:15 in the morning and spent a few minutes taking in the views before beginning the descent.
Mather Pass provided another morning of granite, snow and endless views of the Sierra.
The real reward came further down.
Upper Palisade Lake seemed too perfect to pass by a third time.
For years I passed Upper Palisade Lake and told myself I should stop for a swim. He had overlooked it twice. This time I wasn’t making that mistake. The water was cold enough to take your breath away and clear enough to see every detail beneath the surface. Standing waist deep in that alpine lake under the blue Sierra sky felt almost spiritual. I joked that I felt baptized. Maybe he wasn’t entirely joking.
After years of walking around Upper Palisade Lake, I finally stopped to swim.
For thirty minutes the only thing that mattered was the sun, the water and the mountains that surrounded us. It was one of those perfect Sierra moments that you wish you could bottle and save for later.
the groundhog
The rest of the day unfolded exactly as days in the Sierra usually do. We descended the Golden Staircase, crossed roaring rivers, climbed through meadows and watched waterfalls tumble from all directions.
The Golden Staircase is one of the most impressive pieces of trail engineering on the entire PCT.
In the afternoon we found a beautiful campsite in a meadow below Muir Pass. We were struggling to set up camp before dark when we heard it.
A little cry.
At first I thought it was a pika. Then a small groundhog emerged from the undergrowth. It couldn’t have been more than six inches long. It was immediately obvious that something was not right. He wandered around crying, looking for something. Or someone.
We were waiting for his mother to show up.
She never did.
The groundhog finally approached us. We didn’t know what to do. Every instinct told us not to interfere. Every other instinct told us we couldn’t just ignore it. When we picked him up, he immediately curled up in my hands for warmth. Seeking comfort. Looking for his mother. The reality of the situation hit hard. We knew his chances weren’t good. Still, we did what we could.
Small, vulnerable and completely unexpected.
We found a hat and made a little nest out of a pair of soft shorts. We activate a Hot Hands pack and carefully place it nearby to warm up. We collected grass. We try to offer food. We were waiting. Most of all, we hoped. When darkness fell over the camp, none of us wanted to admit what we already knew. Nature can be beautiful. Nature can also be relentless. That night I found myself crying over a baby groundhog that I had known for only a few hours. I wanted to save him. I couldn’t. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Muir Pass
The next morning came too early. We packed in silence. Before I left, I checked on the groundhog one last time. He was still alive. But he hadn’t eaten. It hadn’t improved. None of us wanted to face what that probably meant. With tears in my eyes, I built one last nest with pine and grass. We put the little groundhog inside as gently as we could.
Then we walked away.
Part of me wanted to turn around. Part of me wanted to take him with us. But I knew I couldn’t. The first hour towards Muir Pass was calm.
The climb to Muir Pass demanded our attention. One step, then another through miles of snow.
Our hearts were heavy. It wasn’t something we had done. It was something that had happened to us. Finally, the climb demanded our attention. Snowfields stretched along the upper mountain and before long we were traversing nearly six miles of snow. The effort of climbing forced us to return to the present. One step. Then another.
Six miles of snow separated us from Evolution Lake on the other side of Muir Pass.
Muir Pass itself felt beautiful and familiar. Compared to my 2023 trip through the Sierra during the heavy snow year, conditions this time were much friendlier. The stone cabin stood against a backdrop of snow-covered peaks, and despite the effort it took to get there, reaching the pass filled me with excitement. Another pass completed. Another challenge behind us.
The stone cabin at Muir Pass remains one of the most iconic landmarks in the Sierra.
The best reward came shortly after. We descended to Evolution Lake and immediately went swimming.
The icy waters of Upper Evolution Lake took the fatigue out of Muir Pass.
The cold water brought life back to my system. The groundhog was still on my mind, but for the first time all day I felt my shoulders relax. The Sierra has a way of healing things, even if it is temporarily.
Cold enough to shake the body. Beautiful enough to stop time.
Evolution Valley and Selden Pass
The following days were like a return to the pleasure of hiking. Evolution Valley lived up to every part of its reputation.
Evolution Valley somehow exceeds expectations.
The meadows stretched endlessly beneath the towering peaks. The rivers ran cold and clear. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes were also running in full force.
The climb up Selden Pass was surprisingly enjoyable compared to previous years. Maybe it was the cooler temperatures in the morning. It was perhaps the lightest bear can. Maybe it was simply being stronger than he had been before. At the top we made a last minute decision. Instead of continuing directly toward Mammoth, we were going to detour toward Vermilion Valley Resort. Sometimes the best decisions on the trail involve food.
One more step down. One step closer to Mammoth.
VVR
The timing couldn’t have been better. Dark clouds gathered over the mountains as we descended toward Vermilion Valley Resort. We knew that hikers who stayed on the main trail would likely get soaked. We received only a few minutes of rain. Sometimes luck is on your side. That night brought everything a hiker dreams of. Spaghetti and meatballs, fresh salad and cold drinks. A campfire. Stories shared with other hikers as darkness took over the mountains. After days of snow, mosquitoes, stream crossings, and overpasses, it felt good to just sit still for a while.
Mile 900
The next morning we left via Goodale Pass and rejoined the Pacific Crest Trail.
The detour added miles, but no one complained.
The Sierra was beginning to change. Not physically, emotionally. For weeks I had been walking through places I already knew. Poplar Pass. Crabtree. Whitney. Ranger. Muir. Selden. Places that seemed familiar to me. Places linked to previous adventures. As mile 900 approached, I realized that was about to change. Soon we would reach Mammoth and then Tuolumne Meadows. And after that, much of the trail would be new again. That realization was liberating. For the first time in a long time, the unknown was waiting around the corner.
On June 16, exactly two months after leaving Campo, we crossed mile 900 and walked toward Mammoth. The timing seemed perfect. Nine hundred miles. Two months of follow-up. A town I had never visited before. The excitement of seeing something new again filled me with energy.
Nine hundred miles. Two months. Still heading north.
However, even as Mammoth greeted us with burgers, beer, and comfy beds, part of my mind returned to that meadow below Muir Pass.
Mile 900 deserved a proper celebration: a burger, a beer, and the promise of a soft bed in Mammoth.
I still think about that groundhog. Part of me knows how that story probably ended. But another part of me still believes he survived. Maybe that’s nonsense. Maybe it’s hope.
Either way, sometimes all we can do is worry, do our best, and accept the things that are out of our control.
We did what we could.
