The Log Bridge at Washburn Lake
Once again, I was out and about – solo, as usual – my all time favorite way to explore the Sierra Nevada – on another of my backpacking adventures. Some, my wife especially, firmly hold onto the adage that solo backpacking is foolish and quite precarious…what do they know. Obviously, there are certain dangers, stuff happens, but I cannot seem to find anyone else who has the same damn-fool inclination to go when and where I want to go; anyway, the adventures always seem better when I start out alone. This particular day I was visiting Washburn Lake, one of my favorite places to visit in all of Yosemite National Park. Located just off the main trail, Washburn Lake is as close to perfect as Sierra lakes get; well over one good day’s hike in, campfires are legal, it does not see the crowds, and the scenery is fantastic. Oh, in case I failed to mention it, the fishing there, fifteen miles in, can be quite satisfying. There is an abundance of 10 – 12 inchers, occasionally bigger, but the evening rise can be glorious… ‘nuff said.
The Merced River, a major Sierra artery, restarts there (again), at the exit of Washburn Lake, next to a granite beach, a soot-covered cave, and alongside a well-used trail – dramatic; it exits the lake silently through a 20-foot wide, deep stone, moss-covered channel. This narrow conduit begins crystal clear…first flowing easily, skirting around rocks – deep and tranquil, then tumbling over boulders – meandering… finally exploding down, rushing away towards Merced Lake and its HSC - 3 miles downriver. Staring across Washburn Lake, the far side straight over – the south side untouched, that part deep, now hidden in the morning shadows, there hides the big trout. Fishing rod in hand, I head to the exit channel, the shortest way across, just 20 - 25 feet wide at its narrowest point; it is “swimable” - I know it, provided you can handle the piercing cold – both ways, there and back. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
My brilliantly concocted fishing strategy consisted first of breaking down and wrapping my gear: my Eagle claw 4-piece, my Penn 420, my Perrine fly box, my Nalgene bottle, my clothes, and my lunch; - all strapped down and padded up safe in a blue ensolite pad. The next step was chucking it firmly all across, over the exit channel, hopefully safe onto the smooth, pine cone-covered granite slabs. The final step, diving after my equipment, into the glacier-fed current…well let us say that this plan still had a few subtle flaws. First, the cold shockwave wakes you up quickly…the current takes you instantly 30 feet downstream, then, just when you start to shiver uncontrollably, it thankfully releases you, allowing you to exit, shivering … eagerly prostrating yourself over on the sun-baked granite, trying desperately to get your breath back. Yes, in June, this early in the season, the Merced can be just a bit too cold.
The far side of Washburn Lake holds coves of deep and un-tapped pools, talus cliffs, a few nice flat sitting-boulders … and lunkers – Browns, Brooks, and ‘Bows. I always try, if ever possible, to do my afternoon fishing over there, back along the protected and shaded, Lupine-covered shoreline. Today, late afternoon, coming back after spending successful hours across, (where does the time go?) the return trip always becomes more treacherous than the morning plunge – now late in the afternoon, due to the shade, there was little in the way of recovery relief offered…no convenient granite slabs warmed all day by the sun. I finally concluded, after recovering, after thawing myself out, again, that while the fishing at the far side was worth it, there had to be another way, an easier way to get across besides the continued re-freezing of my valued cajones.
I first looked further downstream, discovering little opportunity besides a good patch of wild onion and spectacular blazes of Indian Paintbrush. The sheer water volume mixed with the dismal odds of possible success… jumping across 5-foot high frothy granite gaps, over waterfalls, and then landing safely atop slick granite boulders, well it quickly lost any appeal, particularly when considering the angle of the rich green, slick, moss-covered boulders jutting out menacingly just below the surface. Searching for any alternate approach…it might be possible, just maybe, to cross over above the lake, at the entrance, up the trail a good half mile away. I hiked up to the far side of the lake – past the entry …a remarkable cache of emerging Snow Plants, then encountering a deep soft-bottomed marsh, bugs aplenty, entwining Manzanita, and finally rich swaths of Lupine hiding more talus-covered cliffs. This way sucked… the obstacle course here confirmed my original swimming venue as the only real viable alternative to crossing over to the far side.
Well, I refused to give up, and I had plenty of time until the evening rise. I should also tell you that about a ¼ mile upstream above Washburn Lake hides a remarkable extravagance – a hidden treasure; an Ester William-ish pool, about 15-feet wide, 5-feet deep, and possessing a nicely formed rock ledge that extends out into and just below a 10-foot waterfall. The water dynamics here, sheeting over and down upon the ledge… an enticing granite and moss covered display. If you ever visit Washburn, find it; use it, it is indeed a magic place, especially later in the season after the river warms.
It was there, just above the pool, (still looking for any way across), when I met him – (for the life of me, I cannot now remember his name.) I do recall though that he seemed born out of the typical, solo-hiker, Sierra mold – long strides, a bit mangy looking, good equipment… brand name gear; he had that confident and experienced air about him, and covered in that clean Sierra dirt mantle that only appears after a week of backcountry travel. (He said he had just come over the ridge from Bench Canyon, another great trip BTW, and was thinking of spending the night down at the lake below, after a quick dip here.)
With a loud roar, he realized (much like I did earlier) - almost immediately I might add, that it was still much too cold to bathe comfortably. He dried off his foot, laced up his Vasques, dropped on his Bora 80 backpack, me grabbing my fishing gear, and we both proceeded to walk back down the lakeshore trail. After setting up camp on the beach near my campfire, we both dined, (it was something with pasta), and then headed down towards the exit channel - to measure the time by the gold Alpenglow bouncing off Mount Lyell in the distance, and to fish off the beach – my kind of evening. I remember mentioning to him something about my morning ordeal, the chilly crossing, and making a point of pointing out the fast-flowing but relatively narrow waterway. We were both silent for a spell, casting out simultaneously among the hundreds of expanding boils. Staring intently at the German Browns lining up deep in the channel flow, he said he had a great idea – a solution to the problem - for tomorrow.
The next day, after the sun raised high over the ridge and hit upon the water, signaling the end to the early-morning rise, we both put away our rods and headed up the lake. There, alongside of the lagoon, near the river entrance, five or six large fallen trees – pines…logs – floating freely – (like boats docked)… giant slabs of relatively clean wood, mostly devoid of any cluttering side branches. We each selected one – mine a good 30-feet long, fat – his maybe even longer but a bit skinnier – and with the help of ropes, we floated them slowly, down, along the shoreline, wading - taking the next few hours to float them down closer to the aforementioned channel exit.
At the exit, we worked as a team, me securely tying a rope around one end, trying to anchor one side securely to a tree on this side of the channel, and him wading out and coaxing his free end out and into the steady current. I remember holding my end tightly, and watching as the force caught his end, swinging it out and over – him jumping on and riding – yelling like a cowboy – the log arcing slowly across the watery chasm. As the current caught, he rode laughing – then, quickly jumping off as it then wedged itself - tightly I might add too - against the granite slabs marking the far side. The unseen current, pushing mightily against the log, locked it in place – creaking…raising it slightly up, driving it a bit further out of the water. He crossed back tentatively…wood wet and slick, legs in the water, testing our newly erected bridge, and then announced it was my turn. Reversing roles, he tethered my floating log into place next to the other. He looped his rope tightly around the same tree, and now it was my turn to ride, across again to the far end - my log, like the slow-motion movement of a watch, a giant secondhand made of pine, ticking purposefully across the channel.
The next day, and probably for the rest of that summer, our natural bridge remained fixed, the force of the stream, then the water level falling; the end result leaving our efforts anchored securely in place. We stayed and fished the far side for a few more days, catch and releasing mostly 10 – 12 inchers, but snagging a few two-pounders too – good eating. When I returned, the next year or maybe it was the year after; our bridge was gone – obviously washed away by the explosive Sierra spring thaw. However, I am sure that there are still more trees floating at the far left lagoon - the lake entrance, waiting for more adventurous souls willing to engineer another summer bridge – the log bridge at Washburn Lake.
Another solo – backing story…by markskor