I'm jumpy with anticipation. I gobble down breakfast. The morning is bright and blue. The Stellar Jays are swooping above, eager for us to leave. It's our last full day in the park. Tomorrow we will be hiking in the Ansel Adams Wilderness.
We decide to pick up the JMT where it intersects the Tioga highway and avoid getting lost again in the campground. On the way out we check all the sites for Sherry and Randy. Apparently they camped somewhere back by Cathedral Lakes. Hopefully we'll see them again when we zero at Reds.
We pick up the trail near the pack station on a shadeless, trampled meadow. The track has been ground to a slippery sand and blended with horse droppings. It's very popular with the local horse flies.
After a sweaty slog, we get to a stand of cool piney woods. The trees echo with the chatter of hidden voices from the breakfast serving at Tuolumne Lodge. Further on, the trail merges with the path from the Lodge. We fall in with a half-dozen groups of day hikers. Their attire is as colorful as the REI catalog. I can smell their deodorant and shampoo. We march in the crowd over the twin bridges at the Lyell Fork. The day hikers stop mid bridge in clots to take photos of the depleted creek. Just up stream, a pair of pretty moms watch their kids climb on rust-stained boulders and a dad shows two boys how to push a nightcrawler on a hook. One pinches his face in disgust.
By the time we cross the Rafferty Creek bridge, we are no longer in a crowd. Bushtits are fluttering along with us. The woods open up on desiccated meadows. We catch an occasional glimpse of Lyell creek. And then the trail bends south. And the canyon opens up before us.
We pick up our pace. My legs feel strong. I carry a full resupply, enough for the next three days, but I hardly notice my pack except for the feeling of independence it gives me. Food, shelter, bedding, protection against the cold and insects, water purification, light for darkness, clean underwear and a plenty of extras that would surly earn the scorn of John Muir not to mention the light weight backpacking crowd.
We break for lunch under a tree near a wide and shallow bend in the the creek. Every 10 minutes or so a group passes. I can tell by their packs that most are JMTers. We will likely see many down the trail.
After lunch, Duane takes a snooze. I walk over to the creek to filter a liter. The water is translucent and ripples gently around algae covered rocks. Ten feet away, a fish the size of a dinner roll nibbles at a rock just out of reach. He seems to stare at me. He must know I would sooner eat quinoa or kale than fish.
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Our hour of leisure is over too soon. We hoist our packs. I'm a bit bonked after eating. The day has turned hot. I lapse into a mindless march. I don't know what I'm thinking except of the patch of dirt 3 feet in front of me. Duane pulls out a few hundred yards ahead. I feel no need to hurry.
Just before we come to the Evelyn Creek junction, a Nobo hiker heads towards us at a quick clip. He stops Duane. They are talking. I hurry to join. It's a park ranger. He is not friendly. "Let me see your permit," he says. I am prepared. I drop my pack and pull the permit from the top pocket of my Mariposa. The ranger examines it and hands it back. "Very good," he says and returns the permit. We watch him hike away.
"Friendly sort," I say sarcastically.
Duane nods. "He was in a hurry. There's a fire near Half-Dome. They are rescuing people with helicopters."
We were just there. Not two days ago. I look up. There's not a trace of smoke. Just a few fast moving puffy clouds.
"Do you think we looked suspicious?"
"Nah," replies Duane. "He wasn't looking to catch anyone. He was looking not to. If we don't look legal, who does?"
I look back. The ranger is just a dot down the canyon. He must be a man of principle. I worry at the power of principle. They can make a good person do evil or an evil person do good. Still, it is worse to be unprincipled and be a slave to slightest whiff on an idea. How can a soul be certain?
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| Approaching the south end of Lyell Canyon |
We gain a couple hundred feet as we approach the south end of the canyon. The meadows are golden brown and rimmed with dark green pines. Snowy peaks are just ahead. We start our only climb of the day; an 800 foot ascent up a set of switchbacks paved with high cobblestone steps. My breath is short; I tire quickly. Before pressing on, I look back on the creek as it winds through the last meadow and regret I had not done more training.
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| Lyell Fork winds through Lyell Canyon |
We cross the Lyell Creek Bridge and drop our packs in a well-establish spot. I think we may be too close to the creek, but I'm too tired to care. Duane sets up his tarp. I decide to go to the creek, for water and a wipe down.
I squat on the bank and start filtering. My foot slips. The boot fills with water. It is shockingly cold. I find a flat rock and sit to steady myself. I filter a liter. Then another. Then I drop a bottle cap in the creek. It is gone in a flash. Thankfully I have an extra. I fill my 2-liter Platypus and carelessly knock it over. I start over again.
Back at our site I pull my tent from the stuff sacks. I can't get the poles or stakes right. It takes me four tries and half an hour. I feel woozy. I wonder if it is yesterday's french fries.
I decide to walk around a bit. I head back down the trail to get a view of the canyon. Smoke from the fire has drifted in from the west. I'm glad we up here. Camping in the canyon won't be pleasant.
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| Smoke from the Meadow fire drifts into Lyell Canyon |
I return to the campground and climb up to check some the sites on the opposite shore. I meet a father and son who are planning to spend a few days fishing in McClure lake. The dad plans to summit Mt. Lyell. I leave feeling defeated by their plans.
The day is fading quickly. Clouds are moving in. The light is yellow. The creek turns the color of orange sherbet. Maybe eating with improve things.
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| Lyell Fork about 2 miles below the Donahue Pass. |
Duane has dumped all his gear on his ground cloth. "You won't believe this," he says.
"What?"
"I've lost my spork!"
I can see he expecting me to laugh, but there is no laugh in me. I just reply, "I don't have an extra. We can share."
"Are you OK?" he asks.
"I just need something to eat."
I grab my bear canister and my cookset and sit on the smooth log that stretches between our tents. I squeeze the canister between my knees and exhaust myself trying to open it.
"Want me to do that?" he offers.
"I'm all thumbs," I explain.
He sits next to me and has the lid off in seconds. I hand him the spork. I dig around in the canister for dinner options: 'Ham-bits, Cabbage and Potatoes,' Chicken Noodle' or 'Beef Stew.' None of it seems appetizing. I decide on stew. The first bite triggers a gag reflex.
Duane is watching me carefully.
"I can't eat this," I say. "Is it OK to bury it?"
"You really should carry it out," says Duane.
I know he is right, but the thought of putting the watery slush in my bear canister with my other food is reviling. My best option seems to be to choke it down. I do.
The light fades and a chill presses in. Overhead the clouds thicken. I feel very cold. It's not yet dark, but I decide to crawl in my bag early and get warm. I must feel better tomorrow. Our day starts with a 1,500 foot ascent over the Pass.
Campsite: Lyell Forks: 9,670
Elevation: +1,663, -693
Today: 9 mi
Total trip: 38.4