Meeting people in the backcountry

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markskor
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Post by markskor »

Wilderness, 1/8th Mile: 1/27/2006

A wise mountain guru once told me over a dancing campfire that in Yosemite National Park, 98% of all the park visitors either remain in the Valley - always, and they never get more than 1/8 mile away from any of the many roads that traverse throughout the magnificent park. Out of that adventurous remaining 2%, less than 1% of these souls ever dare to get more than 1/8 mile away from any of YNP’s 500+ miles of well-established trails. This story, (and this entire treatise in fact) is dedicated to that 1/50 of 1%, maybe 1000 individuals a year – probably less, backpackers all… us.

A past discussion here talked of wilderness, the wilderness that lives that one-step beyond how far a backpacker can hike in a day toting a full backpack. Past that arbitrary line, etched not only by distance, but also by altitude and terrain, one does not worry about thievery; everyone values their own gear, has their own bag to haul, and their own personal agenda to keep. Wilderness calls for necessary self-sufficiency, a powerful overall attitude, anybody requiring aid or assistance, the person just venturing out to help, most assuredly, also enduring a major ordeal just getting there.

In the true wilderness state, there are recognizable absences. No artsy-crafty designer toilets are necessary to handle the human accrual, quotas are not so rigidly enforced; if you happen to stay over one day extra, nobody fines you for merely enjoying yourself, (or for just forgetting what day it is), schedules do not matter, time is relative, and pace individualistic. Wilderness is a place where rangers are interruptions; they are the exception, the uninvited, and not necessarily the rule. Wilderness is majestic, wild, open, and untamed; it is unsullied and unspoiled by mortals. Common sense dictates behavior, pride actually matters, and personal ethics count more than some capricious set of laws dictated by unseen bureaucrats - never actually being present. It is a place of freedom, a state of mind inviting serendipity, whimsy, and occasionally, even profound thought. Wilderness is unblemished land, pristine waters, and multitudes of countless stars, a synchronization of lights, and a midnight symphony drowned out by a nocturnal silent cacophony. It is a hard place to define, difficult to put one's finger on, but I know it when I see it.

In Yosemite, one such arbitrary wilderness boundary begins just past Little Yosemite Valley (LYV), approximately 2 miles above Nevada Falls. LYV, just the thought of it, a crossroads situated along the Merced - a few miles above a substantial wood-beamed bridge, just those initials are enough to bring back a flood of memories amassed by countless visits. Back when I first made that first trip, in the late 60’s, (yes, there were still dinosaurs alive), it was legal then to camp overnight at the rock slabs just above Nevada falls. Fortunately, someone was thinking; managing the area around Nevada Falls has undergone repeated evolutions in response to the growing number of users to the high country. Sometime, not long after that first visit, somebody became enlightened, bureaucratically designating a specific area a bit farther upriver for the future camping needs. The same master plan (They were smarter back ten) called for setting up a ranger complex in the same vicinity, and providing future “guests” those blue “porta-sans” – those three blue outhouses we all so fondly remember. Yes, for about 25 years or so, the old campground at LYV was more than a wilderness boundary; it was an event, a greenhorn extravaganza, a Boy Scout Jamboree, a Grateful Dead Concert, a safe haven of insanity and anarchy, all located alongside a lazy stretch of the Merced River. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25

Of course, there were some rules, the rangers in their little enclosed little compound with their flagpole and bulletin board mentality, well meaning and driven, they came out regularly, early evening, checking wilderness permits, kicking asses and taking names. Those with good attitude but without wilderness permits, busted – a slap on the wrist - immediately relegated to some menial janitorial chore. The rangers saved up apropos assignments, like cleaning campfire circles, empting bear boxes, or picking up two bags of trash/each; these became the payment for not having the required legal authorization to stay overnight. Others, those with a different, more serious attitude, those ornery individuals who just always seem to piss everyone off naturally (We all know who they are.) zealous rangers escorted some entirely off the mountain – in handcuffs. The bears, the bears knew this campsite better than anyone did, making regular nightly visits, some even coming at scheduled times. I could relate many stories about bears and this famous campsite; far too many of my adventures required passing through here. After a while, it got so crazy there that on outgoing trips, I prefer to camp instead at another site, an extra mile upriver – the one at the Moraine Water Slide, but that is for another time.

One memorable night during a typical warm August, a group of Boy Scouts came through, up for the weekend via the longer Muir trail – I suppose they were saving the Mist for the way down. There were perhaps 15 of them, uniform shirts, badges up the kazoo, yellow bandanas, and backpacks with frames: young, spunky, kids – maybe 13-years-old – who can really tell at that age. Unfortunately, there was accompanying them someone who I only can describe as a complete *******; he led this troop of kids; I do not know how he became a leader, maybe by default, but this individual had a serious attitude, complaining about anything and everything the kids tried to do while backpacking. Have you ever known someone who had a voice that just hearing the sound, it made you cringe, and worse yet, that person would never shut up? Add to that a generally negative attitude and the fact that he was a short fat person – possessing some sort of Napoleon complex, and you have an accurate picture of the scout’s designated leader.

In LYV, there were perhaps fifty camping sites available, more or less, the leader carefully selected his pick for his minions - just across a small grove of trees; I could hear every frigging word - others could too. The camp at LYV had its own defined and unique ethic; it self- governed. After listening to the leader harangue yet another kid… someone else equally offended… from across the way they started making catcalls…”Leave the kids alone”…that sort of thing; we all felt sorry for the kids.

The night progressed and campfires died out. A small group of us, a campfire nearby, passed the evening drinking single malt - Oban, listening to everything, eventually deciding we should do something – take advantage of this unique opportunity. We created a bear magnet. Starting out with an old sock, we took general donations: sweets, melted marshmallow, chocolate, candy, freeze dried fruit, honey, kool-aid, anything sticky, sweet, and aromatic went into that sock. A knot at the end, some holes in the sock for strategic leakage, a few yards of fifty-pound monofilament, the moon disappearing behind the ridge…we were ready. Creeping silently over to the leader’s tent, a few quick knots around a tent pole, pull a few stakes… all we had to do now was sit back and wait. Right on time, 2 AM, the feisty cinnamon cub – the one with the green 6 stapled to his left ear - started his regular disruptive rounds; the ranger previously warned us during her evening six o’clock permit check, just before the scouts arrived. The pompous scout leader, always in charge and hearing outside commotion, came roaring out of his sleeping bag, waving his arms, jumping, ostentatiously ready to yell at someone, anyone - again, only to turn around to discover his tent leaving without him, moving upstream, following the cub. I can still hear the laughter of fifteen scouts as their leader, barefoot and thermals, swore a blue streak, his language not found in my Eagle Scout manual.

Then, about 10 years ago or more, someone in Yosemite’s new front office, someone powerful, declared this specific campsite and its unique ecosystem untenable, moving the entire complex 1/8th mile north, up and off the river to today’s location, engineering the famous two-story crapper in the process, and signaling an end to another famous chapter in Yosemite’s backcountry lore. That old campsite remains as a pleasant memory for many of us today; we happily and proudly chronicle its past glory in stories such as this.

LYV, for some, this very site itself often initiating backpacking’s version of a baptism – Yosemite - just far enough out, logical, a place to try out a new dream – new gear, then afterwards, over a Curry pizza below, realization. Many, dividing the arduous 11-mile march up to Half Dome, plan an overnight hiatus here, temporarily abandoning expensive gear, glad only to pick it all up again after experiencing the thrill of cables and poles. Then there are the hikers that come down from Glacier Point, designating the bridge at Nevada Falls a natural and logical waypoint, a scheduled pause in a multi-day family adventure. Finally, there are the few others like me who used this camp as a buffer zone, the relatively large camp population here acting as a much-needed re-initiation back into the bustles and insanities of civilization – tomorrow, four miles distant. These are the kinds of users who spent days and miles hiking far and above, hiking the trails leading to who-knows-where, one famous corridor coming from Mt. Whitney itself, 211 miles distant. All trails seem to pass through Little Yosemite Valley.

After a few months, no make that after quite a few years, of Yosemite’s influence, one develops an air, a Sierra attitude, maybe it is more like a swagger – movements elongated and defined, akin to the way a giant cat glides along, moving slow and easy, minimum effort, maximum efficiency. That morning I had just come down the Merced, starting that morning 15 miles upriver - solo, now finished for the day, dropping my pack next to a bear box, a site located near the river’s edge in the peripherals of the campground at LYV. Leaning back against a fallen tree and half-way studying the camp’s demographics, John emerged from the far side somewhere, he had that recognized swagger too, well-worn Marmot windbreaker, Vasque boots, Chicago Cubs baseball cap, beard and long black hair; he carried a faded Gregory Denali. Even though we had never met, there is something rather accepted - an unspoken recognition that draws similar species together – it happens all too often to deny – he crossed the flats, long shadows swaying underneath tall pines, and threw down his pack over next to mine.

For the first fifteen moments, there was not a single word spoken – packs opened - small stuff sacks found, rolling papers – the sharing of a typical Sierra repast, - respect - the “old-school” greeting. Finally, conversation – starting out new as fast friends –seemingly continuing a conversation started years ago, not missing a beat, birds of a feather again reunited. It turns out that John worked for some government agency, forestry, or maybe it was transportation, (Who really cares – He told me but I cannot now recall exactly.); he was just finishing his weekend, a big party down below and was only a bit late getting back to his job. John’s summer work was temporary. It consisted of re-drilling the holes going up that cable-spanned granite monolith known as Half Dome. More specifically, John’s job was the operation of an ancient pneumatic drill, the chattering incessant… the noise, the widening and deepening of the old holes – newly drilled holes securing the new steel poles, the new poles on which anchored the wood beams, from which hung the cables, the famous cables of Half Dome.

My intentions for the next day had originally centered on fresh fruit, cold beer, and a hot pastrami sandwich from Degnon’s Deli, but faced with this rare opportunity, I turned upwards instead, pointing my boots towards Half Dome. Rising early, I accompanied my friend up the switchbacks, then across the ridge, finding his billet, the trail crew’s weekday campsite high above – just a bit below Quarter Dome. Hearing animosity, I left John behind to explain to his irate boss why he was only a few hours (a day) late, I passed the time by once again doing the cables, again, (as long as I was there, I might as well).

From the top, you could hear his drill start, roaring to life, a rude metal sound announcing its attack on the orange-brown, sparkly, mica-incrusted, granite surface. About 3/4s of the way down I again found John; he was, roped in, hanging on to this dang infernal machine for dear life. He drove an archaic drill… top roped above him, his main objective: just holding on while the rotating chisel did all the real hard work. Watching for a few moments, I could not let this prospect in front of me pass, and I admit it, (freely here too), that I heavily bribed John, begging him to let me have a chance. I remember he adamantly declined at first, but all I know is that right now, on the left hand side, looking up, about the twenty-third hole, that one there belongs to me.

You might think that would be the end of this tale; you must agree that it is impressive that I was able to put a legal permanent mark on one of the world’s most recognized landmarks, and even better, find a way to tell you too – (my effort is still recognizable many years later too – I still check). For some, that would be more than enough to end this rambling tale, but I ascribe to a higher calling, I still have to tie this whole saga together, so let us continue... It just so turns out that, while I was taking my turn with that drill contraption, I had previously taken off my daypack and looped it (I thought securely) over one of the lower poles. I soon discovered that nothing falling off the cables, (at least from the vicinity of the 21st pole), makes its way down to the trail directly below. At the base of the cables lives a pile of worn gloves, I can also tell you that just a little further south, it drops off quickly another thousand feet down.
See: http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25

Watching my pack, sunglasses, and water system slide down, then disappear over the ledge below, this produced howls of laughter from the masses (Well, at least from John and this other damn fool). Flummoxed, I immediately pondered if there was any way to retrieve my lost belongings. Riled still, looking at my Topo, I figured that if they landed somewhere around the red dot, they might be recoverable…maybe. To make a long story short, I never did recover my daypack. To anybody out there, the pack, a gunmetal blue North Face, the water system, an old Platypus, and the sunglasses were Porsche (I do miss those glasses.). I did find, (always within 1/8th mile of the trail too), many scraps of cloth that could have come from windbreakers, colored shapes that once might have been hats, frames from glasses, trail trash, paper, plastic, water bottles, cigarette wrappers, and a whole junk yard of wind-blown crap. I also discovered there is a Lost Lake that empties between Mount Broderick and Liberty cap, giving a unique perspective on the well-traveled main trail below.

By leaving the main trail somewhere, south, (just back from that flat open section overlooking Tenaya canyon – near that one big tree) I discovered the following sordid facts. It is almost possible to avoid a majority of the talus, some of the Manzanita, most of the bushes, and maintain the same altitude – no, I lied. The object soon became not to find my lost belongings, but just to find a different way, a safe way down from the Dome – it is a big rock. Within 1/8 mile, all traces of the trail above completely disappear – you cannot retrace steps - it becomes steep, fallen trees and thick shrubs impair the route, then, after experiencing the fun of a giant boulder field, after breaking a trekking pole and tearing up an ankle… finally open granite. There – above a boggy shallow lake covered with yellow pollen, Lost Lake – pristine, wilderness again.

What I remember most, heading southeast away from that high hidden marsh, was the amount of available firewood lying about. Having come through LYV over 50 times over the years, never has it been easy to find decent firewood there, at least within its 1/8th mile radius. I always thought that it was just due to the lack of trees. Here though, not that high above, and certainly not that far away, was ample easy campfire pickings. Then, as expected, the closer you got to LYV, the available wood stores ceased, and the trash increased.

Maybe there is a simpler definition of wilderness after all. Wilderness, at least in Yosemite right next to one of its most-used trails, seems to start 1/8 mile off trail any direction, and coincidently, that is where the firewood starts… and the trash stops. People complain that Yosemite is too crowded. To them I say, “Wilderness, I’ve been there. It’s that way, 1/8th mile.” What could be easier?

Another solo backpacking adventure… by markskor
Last edited by markskor on Wed May 16, 2007 5:14 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Buck Forester
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Post by Buck Forester »

marksor, duuude, you need to get a website up with this stuff. You have a great gift for writing.
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Post by Timberline »

marksor, duuude, you need to get a website up with this stuff. You have a great gift for writing.

Right On, Buck!. Marksor, this is great stuff and makes me feel like I'm right there with ya. A high five for bringing the best of the wilderness back home to share. Thanks, buddy.
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Post by giantbrookie »

caddis wrote:One morning on the trail back from Benson lake, my hiking partner and I met two old men sitting down at the top of Seavey Pass drinking a cup of coffee. They looked to be in their mid 60's at least...white hair and white beards. You'd have thought they were John Muir and Ansel Adams. After a short goodmorning and small talk we learned they had made this hike (the loop from twin lakes) a few times in the past and were taking their time, doing it again. The meeting is memorable because it was a picture of where I wanted to be in 20-25 years and let me know I still had plenty of hikes left in me. I regret to this day not taking a picture of the two sitting there in the rocks sipping coffee.
That reminds me of a couple in their mid 60's that my wife and I met while on a hike near Green Lake (eastern front south of Bridgeport). Both loved backpacking and fishing and I recall the wife telling us this story of a monster brown she caught at Heather Lake in Desolation Wilderness--so big that when she packed it out in her large external frame pack (she was a tall woman) that the tail stuck out the top of the main compartment. In any case, my wife and I both said that we hoped that was the image of us, decades in the future (would have been three decades in the future as of then). We too regret we didn't take a picture of the two.
Since my fishing (etc.) website is still down, you can be distracted by geology stuff at: http://www.fresnostate.edu/csm/ees/facu ... ayshi.html" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;
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Post by Buck Forester »

I remember one summer meeting a man in his late 60's at a Bitterroot trailhead in western Montana. He was shirtless and wearing shorts and he said he was on his way to run up a peak and back as part of his regular training. He was in incredible shape. It was inspiring to me to know that if I stay in shape that I can continue backpacking well into my 60's and 70's. We became friends and he made me his homemade buckwheat pancakes one morning and I spent a couple evenings at his cabin in Hamilton enjoying many hours worth of his slide shows from his years of wilderness backpacking. I love slide shows and he was excited that somebody actually wanted to see them too!
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Post by Timberline »

"I remember one summer meeting a man in his late 60's . . . ."

Yeah, Buck, (and a nod of acknowlegment to several others who have made similar comments), I was also inspired along those lines some years back when I introduced my oldest son to the Sierra on a week-long backpack via Mono Pass to Pioneer Basin and the Recesses. We base camped at 4th Recess lake and spent several days exploring that beautiful headwaters area. One afternoon shortly after returning to our camp, four fellows cruised by us and set up camp just a few yards away from us along the lakeshore. After a polite interval, we went over to introduce ourselves and welcome them all to the neighborhood. It was a most genial and friendly encounter, as these things tend to be in the backcountry. Turns out they were all related (brothers, uncles, nephews, so forth). Three of them were well into their 60's, and the "youngin" was 58 years old I believe. They had trekked all the way from Silver Pass that day, and this journey was just another of their annual get togethers to backpack in the Sierra. One of their group, recently retired at 64 years, had worked the latter part of his career, so I recall now, as an urban foreester in Griffith Park, L.A. He showed us a photo he carried with him on this hike, that was taken when he was a fiew years younger than my son. The photo showed him as a young boy standing astride the trail just east-side of Mono Pass where the trail emerges from the narrows below the Pass to open onto that grand vista that first reveals the peaks above Little Lakes Valley and along the Abbott - Mills Divide high above Ruby Lake. He mentioned he had brought this picture along to view once again when they reached that point on this particular hike, which for him would have been some 50 years earlier. Needless to say, both my son and I were greatly impressed by the significance of this event in his life, and his genuineness in sharing such a personal highlight.

While my son and I greatly enjoyed our Sierra experience together, we particularly remember this encounter with four old guys sharing, again, a similar bond of hiking and adventure. For me especially, I realized that age need not be a barrier to full enjoyment of the high country. Now that I'm in my 60's, that realization is paying off, and I'm continually grateful to those four fellows for their example
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Post by Snow Nymph »

caddis wrote:One morning on the trail back from Benson lake, my hiking partner and I met two old men sitting down at the top of Seavey Pass drinking a cup of coffee. They looked to be in their mid 60's at least...white hair and white beards. You'd have thought they were John Muir and Ansel Adams. After a short goodmorning and small talk we learned they had made this hike (the loop from twin lakes) a few times in the past and were taking their time, doing it again. The meeting is memorable because it was a picture of where I wanted to be in 20-25 years and let me know I still had plenty of hikes left in me. I regret to this day not taking a picture of the two sitting there in the rocks sipping coffee.
As a newbie 23 years ago, I remember seeing two women in their 60s, with full packs on up at Piute Pass. It just seemed cool to see them up there and I wanted to be like them.
Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free . . . . Jim Morrison


http://snownymph.smugmug.com/" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;
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Post by Rosabella »

Well, this isn't really quite the same as happening upon someone who makes an impression, but for me, my Dad has been my biggest inspiration. He took us backpacking as soon as we were old enough to carry a pack; I was 7-years old the first time I climbed Mt. Whitney.

The last hike I took with my Dad was 5 years ago, from Onion Valley to Whitney. He was 83-years old. I treasure the memories of that trip.
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Post by giantbrookie »

Echoing Rosabella's comment, I would be remiss if I didn't also say that my dad was the No. 1 inspiration for taking to the hills. He introduced me to the mountains at the age of 4 or 5 and taught me how to read a topo map at 6. By 10 I could look at topo maps and plan off trail routes to bag various peaks (no Secor in those days, so no detailed route descriptions). It probably didn't hurt that he was the closest thing to Superman I've ever met. At the age of 60 (in fact, to celebrate his birthday) he made the backpack from the Edison Rd/Bear Diversion intersection (didn't know we could easily 2WD to trailhead) to Lou Beverly Lake in 5.5 hours as a set up to bag Seven Gables. In his "prime" at the age of 45 he made East Lake via Bubbs Creek in 4 hours, and he said that included lounging for a half hour for lunch. At 5'3-1/2", 135-140lbs he would carry a pack that commonly weighed close to 70lbs (lots of photographic equipment, he was a superb photographer) and once over 100lbs (when carrying a bunch of rocks--he was an amateur rockhound and this is what started me on the road to geology) and looked taller than him. I'd call him the "American Sherpa".

I count myself an unusually fortunate individual because I can say that my No. 1 all time climbing partner was my dad, and my No. 1 fishing and drinking buddy is my wife. I hope I can instill the joy of the mountains in my children, too (we had kids late, so, sadly, my dad never lived to see his grandchildren), which reminds me of another fun encounter in the backcountry..

My wife and I were leaving Evolution via Lamarck Col. when we ran into three generations of male backpackers crossing the col. The youngest one was but 7 and had a pack as big as him. His father couldn't keep up with him. His only problem came at the "hikers snow groove" through the summit snowfield. Because of his short legs, the pack hung up on the sides of the groove and his feet couldn't touch the ground. Here, his grandad had to help him. Elsewhere, he left his dad in the dust, prompting his grandad (who was leading the group) so say "maybe you should go back and keep your dad company." The little fellow's first and middle names were Darwin Lamarck. Apparently the dad and mom (absent because of a bad knee, apparently) had hiked over Lamarck Col many years before and loved it (and Darwin Canyon) so much they vowed to name their first born after the place. I would have to say little Darwin Lamarck was worthy of the name and then some.

By the way, Buck, your mention of Hamilton brings back memories of my one summer in the Bitterroots (1980). I was staying in a cabin south of Darby, and I would occasionally make the trip to Missoula to go to the regional office of the company I was working for. That trip, of course, led through Hamilton. I recall there was a sporting goods store there with one of the best lure selections I've ever seen. They just had racks and racks of lures, many of which were without packaging and simply hung from the racks by their hooks. Those that know my fishing habits know that my lure of choice are various Z-Rays, but that summer I saw this pattern of Wonderlure (a trade name for a type of spoon) on the rack at that store that I KNEW would be a killer on first sight. It was green fading to yellow with a red honeycomb pattern over that. I did side by side tests with the rest of the my lure arsenal and that one clearly had the rest beat. I couldn't find a place that carried it once I got back to CA though.
Since my fishing (etc.) website is still down, you can be distracted by geology stuff at: http://www.fresnostate.edu/csm/ees/facu ... ayshi.html" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;
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Post by AldeFarte »

Good post Brookie. My dad turned the fam. on to packing, too. I don't know how he found the time. The thing about my dad was ,he gave me a lot of freedom. He trusted us to make good judgements. One time as a tyke on the Clackamas river {Oregon} at Austin hot springs, I got my lure hung up on the bottom. We shared lures back then and I was unwilling to break it off. Dad said go for it, so I found a stout stick and braced myself against the current and with him watching, I waded out up to my chest in what seemed a raging current and retrieved the lure.Had to completely submerge . When I got back ,I asked him what would have happened if I lost my footing. He said" I was watching, you were ok." Our first trip was to Cora lakes.He packed a frying pan in those days and always did the cooking. Been upward and onward from there. jls
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