Date: | Aug 26, '13 |
Location: | Yosemite NP |
Hike: | Ireland Lake (elevation ± 4,000 ft) |
Today’s miles: | 17 |
Planned Trip: | 18 |
We are waiting for breakfast. On my right is a widow from Virginia. Her deceased husband designed the machine that cranks out a million Lipton Tea Bags a day. Something I'd never know except I had too much coffee and ordered tea. She has papery skin, bony hands and silver hair. Her sister sits next to her. The sister is robust, square shouldered, and ruddy complected. She introduces herself with a velvety southern drawl.
On my left is an intense 13-year-old who is infatuated with the Mars Rovers. He has just learned I worked at Solar System Labs.
"So how big is it?" he wants to know.
I hold my hand as high as the seats of our chairs. "The wheels are that big." I raise my hand a foot over the table, "The body is that high," I stretch out my arms, "and as long as our table."
"Cool!" says the boy.
His mom listening in. She looks at me and nods expectantly. His dad and sister are engrossed in their camera as they relive yesterday's hike. Lilalee sits across the table with Ann and the rest of our group. They are in a lively exchange about some tidbit of English history related to Dowton Abbey. I'm not usually a big fan of Dowton Abbey, but right now it's sounding mighty interesting.
That's how it is at Tuolumne. Family dinning. If you want breakfast (or dinner for that matter) here's how it works: First you sign in with a very business-like hostess who, despite her youth, has mastered the craft of deflecting demands from even the most insistent Lodge guest. While you wait, you mill about a crowded lobby, smiling agreeably. The time passes slowly in polite talk which mostly concerns the weather and hiking the same dozen nearby hikes. Eventually your party is called and you are escorted to your table. There you will find the other guests that fate has chosen to fill out your table's quota. It's a contrived-but-cordial arrangement since you will probably never lay eyes on these people again. Maybe they should call it eat-with-a-stranger dining.
In the past we have met some interesting people. Not this morning.
Our friend Ann catches a snippet of my exchange with the boy. Somehow she retains an honest enthusiasm for the work that NASA does and loves inspiring kids. I fail on both counts. She holds up a penny and says, "There's a rare penny on the Rover. They use it to set up the cameras."
"Why?" asks the boy.
"Because that's what geologists do." She should know. She worked with the scientists during her stint at Space Systems. I was a mere software manager.
"Why?" asks the boy.
I experience an intense desire to be sitting at another table.
"Because," answers Ann, "that way they can tell how big the rocks are." She says this as if she has just let him in on one of the universe's great mysteries.
That gets him thinking. At least I think he's thinking; he's quiet.
"Don't chew your nails," reprimands his mom pulling his hand away from his mouth. "He wants to be an astronaut," she explains. "He's good in math."
Calling them nails is kind. They hardly qualify as quicks. His fingers look like something that needs a prosthetic. This kid wouldn't have a fig of a chance of getting past the shrinks. I was going to recommend they feed him a strict regimen of valium to improve his chances, but figured they get the wrong impression.
The food arrives. We dish out eggs, bacon and potatoes. I am chewing my first morsel of bacon when the boy's family starts reciting grace. As if it was prearranged, everyone else puts down their utensils and looks down in reverence. I resent the imposition, but try to chew my bacon quietly to avoid any appearance of disrespect.
"We always came every year." interjects the widow after the prayer. It is as if we had been in the middle a conversation. "It was our tradition. Now it's just me and Nell," she says referring to her sister. "The kids are grown."
"What do they do?"
While the widow is drones on about her kids in the lovely lilt of the old Dominion, it dawns on me that Yosemite is one of the most traditional places on earth. People come here year after year. They do the same things year after year. The eat the same food year after year. They wear the same thing year after year. Where else is the Montana-peaked campaign hat still the very height of fashion? It's like the effort to preserve the wilderness has migrated to the human culture that inhabits it.
After breakfast, we make lunches with the groceries we picked up in Oakhurst. Ann and and her friends decide to hike down the Tuolumne on the fisherman's trail. We're headed for Lyell Canyon. Lilalee will hike part of the way, then I'll head out for Ireland Lake.
It's mid morning before we get out. The first leg is wide, dusty and busy. We pass a slow-moving, middle-aged laboring under big packs. They are headed up Rafferty Creek to Voglesang. I give the a 50-50 chance of succeeding. We are passed by a fast moving solo female with a pink daypack. We pass a mom shepherding two kids who are draped in big towels and kicking up dust with flip flops.
We cross the bridges at the Dana Fork. Three sets of parents sun on the rocks while the kids splash in the cold water. A group of backpackers are gathered nearby. They have just finished the High Sierra Camp Loop and are waiting for the rest of their party. They are smelly, tired and laughing.
We merge onto the JMT proper and a couple of vigorous millennials blast past us at a rate that could get them to Thousand Island Lake before dark. No long after, we stand aside for a Vogelsang-bound pack train which stirs up a generous portion of Yosemite trail dust. Then we fall in step with two muscular guys, seemingly father and son, with big-'ol, external-frame packs and fishing gear.
"We're ya'll heading?" asks the older guy.
"Just up Lyell Fork for lunch," I say.
"You?" asks Lilalee.
"On up to MacClure Lake. Hope to catch and eat some Brook Trout."
"And we're gonna grab Mount Maclure. He just don't know it yet." adds the younger man with an earnest nod.
"It may not look like it, but I'm a lot heavier than that pack," warns the older man. "I'm gonna be a lot for you to carry." With that, the older man gives the younger man a jolly bump and scampers up the trail. The younger man chases ahead bidding his ados.
"Looks like their gonna enjoy themselves," she says.
Not long after the Rafferty Creek Junction, Lilalee stops to re-tie her shoe. "So is this the trail you would hike?"
"Yea. But for a long way."
She takes my hand and gives me a close examining look. "I think I'm starting to understand."
The next stretch of the trail undulates through open forest and small, sun-lit meadows. We stop to watch a group of Bushtits flitter through the buckeyes. The trail splits into several deeply-rutted, sandy tracks as it bends south where the canyon opens up. The Lyell Fork comes into view weaving gracefully down the canyon through limpid ponds and across broad outcrops of the granite pluton.
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| Lyell Fork of the Tuolumne River |
I head over to the river and walk upstream about 50 yards. A couple of backpackers are filtering water into their hydration bladders. They look like people with jobs. He's a bit paunchy and bald. She's long-legged, muscular and wears her black hair in a neat ponytail. They have the latest light-weight gear: ULA packs. Cork-handled sticks. Oakley sunglasses. He returns my wave with warm smile.
"Where ya'll headed?"
"Mount Whitney," he says.
"The JMT?"
"It's our second time," she says. "It's amazing."
"Great gear. How much you're carrying?"
"Base weight of about 18. Could be lighter."
"She's the real thru-hiker," he says. "Leaves me in the dust."
"Speaking of which," she says pulling on her pack. "We want to make Lyell Forks."
I hardly know these people, but I can't help but wish they'd been at breakfast. "By the way, do you have trail names?"
"She's Ms Peabody; I'm Sherman. That what I get for marrying a scientist."
"You guys keep a blog?"
"Nah." She says. "Not this time. I did when I hiked the PCT."
A 'true-thru' I think. We say farewells and they traipse back to the trail resume their march south. I imagine I might soon be down the same track. I resolve to try to find her blog.
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| Lilalee's sketch of the Lyell Fork |
"Just met a couple of JMTers."
"Really? she says staying focused on the drawing. "You missed 3 groups of backpackers. There's a lot of people on the trail."
"I'm gonna head on up to Ireland Lake. You'll be OK?"
"Don't worry. Have fun." She says and looks up with a squint. "Be safe and give me a kiss."
I promise I'd be back for dinner, hoist my day pack and start down the tail.
The day was getting along. I have a round trip of 15 miles and a couple thousand feet to cover. Dusk is in 6 hours, but the 9-mile return is downhill and flat. Doable if I keep a good pace.
For the first time all day, I have the trail to myself. The day is warm. There's a gentle breeze off the River. The view up toward Donahue pass pulls me along. I salute two groups of backpackers taking a breather at the Ireland Lake Junction/JMT junction and start up hill. It's an easy ascent. The trail switchbacks up a comfortable grade through open forests. I pass a meadow. A pair ruminating white tail deer watch me pass with hardly a care.
It takes longer than I expected to make the 5 miles to the Vogelsang Pass Junction. The lake is still a mile and I'm only 15 minutes from my turnaround time. I hump it about half-way down the Ireland Lake cut-off and my conscious gets the better of me. I promised to get back for dinner. If I'm too late, they'll worry.
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| Donahue Pass in the distance |
I take a 5 minutes pause to gobble down a Hammer Bar. A friendly father-daughter pair pass. They are doing the JMT for the second time. I watch them head off for points south. I head north. One day I'll be hiking in that direction.
About 4 miles out, I become fatigued. For the first time in weeks, I my left foot feels wonky. No time to dally. I lean harder on my sticks to keep pace. I can stand anything for 4 miles. They could be waiting around ready to eat worrying about me. I'm pretty sure I can make it just before dark.
The last stretch from the Rafferty Creek Junction is a slog. The light is fading quickly. The mountain air is quickly cooling. I press on.
I pull up to the tent cabin just as dusk fades. To my relief, I hear laughter. It's a merry scene inside. The wine uncorked, snacks spread, candles lit.
"We were starting to worry," says Ann cheerily.
"Worried that we would get hungry." adds Lilalee to everyone's delight.
They sent me off to get cleaned up. The great thing about the Lodge is the shower. It's cramped. It's communal. It's rife with disease. But it's HOT! Nothing like it. When I'm done, we all pile into my car and drive to Tioga Lodge. The food is delicious! Nothing like the Tuolumne Lodge jailhouse faire.
On the way back to the Lodge Lilalee leans over and says, "I see what you mean about the hike. I don't know what I was worried about. I'm completely behind your decision."
"Want to go?"
"Me? Hell no. You know better. My pack carrying days are over. I'm no mule."
The coast is clear. Nothing holds me back but my own misgivings. Pride alone will take care of that. There's a lot to do. And, I need to get more strength in my left leg.