Those Extra Days at Consultation Lake 9/4/2006
Mention the names of Seldon, Mather and Pinchot; include Glen (one of the steepest) and Muir; do not forget Donahue and Island, or Silver and Forester, and you know the trail. Traversing what many backpackers believe is the finest accessible mountain terrain found in all of the United States; measuring roughly 222 miles long, this well-known, well-signed, alpine, High Sierra artery meanders above and through a mystical enigma very much alive…heady really. You encounter eagles soaring motionless above 14,000-foot peaks, skirt countless, trout filled, azure lakes perhaps numbering in the thousands, tread stealthily beneath thick, silent, moss-covered forests and pass in close, misty proximity to countless rambunctious waterfalls. There is so much grandeur in evidence…invoking awe; you find yourself in a paradox: half the time gazing out partially numbed, the other desperately trying to avoid tromping on the ubiquitous lush carpets of wildflowers, the exact genus and specie far too numerous to identify.
God, I do love extended backpacking adventures; a week or a bit longer preferred, however, even at that length, on any of my past trips, when they are over, invariably (always) there must include some mention of a re-occurring trepidation: the anxiety of the myriad of hidden treasures missed along the way. I have never yet had a excursion where eventually I did not regret not stopping – not visiting somewhere – something missed…always under the guise of the inevitable rush. There are just too many dancing waters or unexplored canyons, and to top that, (pardon the pun), there are literally bazillions of un-named sculpted granite walls calling out - unheard. Maybe this time it would be different.
Twice previously, once from the south, the other north, I have backpacked this trail, both times tagging along innocently following some pre-made plans of another…rigid procedures - admittedly well thought out…, food pre-bought, pre-rationed, and pre-shipped…schedules itemized in detail…twice satisfyingly successful but always under the demands of a seemingly never-ending timetable. This last time, I vowed to do it my way…unplanned stops whenever…. whims and serendipity…days idly spent unhurried…the long version: (The directors’ cut?).
Before proceeding farther, let me ramble on a bit more… relate a personal observation and a bit of my own philosophy about most “regular” backpacking trips: they are always too friggin short. After all the weeks of planning…the maps…the visits to REI…the shopping, measuring, and packaging…and the long familiar drive, eventually… you finally get to the trailhead. There, one boldly proceeds to attack the mountain, intent on following some sort of pre-determined personal agenda. Two days later, you discover the error of microscopically pre-planning to the extreme, and then grasp again that the mountain itself always dictates what pace it will allow, not you, and hopefully, you gladly acquiesce to this inevitable realization. A day or so later, you finally re-find your legs, ultimately settle into a comfortable Sierra rhythm…and become one with the trail. Maybe after a layover, a couple or three long death-march days, (and hopefully, some fine evening fishing), you all-too-soon arrive at that one dreaded date…the last night in the backcountry. Where the hell did the week go?
Mid-summer, in the familiar Yosemite Valley permit office, I recall listening to myself answering the one big question: “30 days…maybe a bit longer…solo.” Some three weeks later, somewhere between Glen, with its polished exposure and steep switchbacks, and the sands of Forester, here is where this story truly begins to unfold. I will save the rest – the beginning - for another time. I remember it was just a day or so after a vast crimson sunset exploded hot over Charlotte Lake, a crowded camp under an expansive Milky Way sky. The sign said 20 miles to Sandy Meadow; the realization struck like a bolt from above. Waves of emotion coursed over me: first the sorrowful trepidation and then a light-hearted apprehension: the end of the trail was fast approaching…only a scant few days away now. It was almost over…again.
Gaining almost 3,000 feet before Forester (13,200'), my pack lighter - now an integral part of me...(from the very first day, my Gregory has always treated me, well - like an old trusted friend), I first encountered meeting up with Roq somewhere among the many switchbacks winding upwards…just a friendly nod and he comfortably fell in steps behind. Together, (funny, I remember few words actually spoken), we flew up and over the final pass, leaving behind the distant memories of Kings Canyon and entered into the friendly confines of Sequoia NP. Descending down to Bubbs Creek and into Vidette Meadows, we worked our way up the Bighorn Plateau… the well-earned rewards there are spectacular views of Russell, Tyndall, Williamson and our first views of Whitney in the near distance. One trail evening, I recollect a great camp near the Wright and together (silently), we fished the swirling pools, the eddies and the overhangs, all the while watching the nightly alpenglow come alive radiating off the rich-pink Sierra walls.
He said his name was Roq…with a Q, (I do not know how they find me, but they always do). He was thin, wiry, an avid fisherman too, carrying all the right gear, experienced, but candidly possessing a well-earned attitude…and it was slightly off kilter. One could easily say he was somewhat of an old coot, except for the fact that he was not that old…all the rest of the analogy fit him though. Roq laughed at everything, openly and full-heartedly. It was not a derogatory or deprecating laugh, but rather, a laugh that made you feel good while realizing that you just did something that stood out (in his opinion), as completely bogus…he had a constant ribald comment on all life forms in general.
Sarcastically, Roq was an equal opportunity cynic, laughing robustly with many, if not all of the passing hikers. He was not shy…he picked on everybody, pointing out instantly and sharing vividly all his well-known “inept hiking” horror stories with anyone within earshot. It turned out that he was a great trail companion…, as he also knew when to shut up.
Together, we hiked all the last miles together, catching and releasing uncounted Goldens from both Guitar and Hitchcock, eventually making our way up to Trail Crest and then spending the night atop the continental US in those few sheltered cleared spaces just west of the hut. Now only eleven miles of downhill left until the long-craved burger, we effortlessly purred through the 98 switchbacks, pausing briefly at Consultation…just to see it…and that is where this story really begins. “Are you really ready for it to be over?” he asked me knowingly; “How much food do you have left?” was my only reply.
The packs came off and the entire mal-odious contents of both spilled out on the convenient polished granite lakeside: various powerbars mutilated but uneaten…Wheatina packages…Crystal lite...one dehydrated curry something…something else Lipton with rice…and a few assorted packages of hot chocolate. Gastronomically speaking, it looked bleak. Nevertheless, we resigned on staying another night right here, for I too was not ready for it all to end…not yet.
Consultation Lake is one of those prime Sierra lakes; conveniently located just far enough from “a trail going elsewhere” that nobody goes there…Go figure. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?lat=36. ... ize=l&s=50 Less than a quarter mile from Trail Camp…a true zoo, we found almost perfect sandy sheltered sites….plenty of willing and healthy fish (‘Bows and hybrids)…and almost had the lake all to ourselves. For whatever reason, nobody in the “I did Whitney in one day death march” club fishes; over 200 determined bodies pass right by in a good day…no poles in evidence…nobody thinks about working a promising shoreline…it would seem that they all had other agendas.
For those who fish, and/or care about such things, we separated …subsequently dragging small Panther Martins, Kastmasters, or Z-Rays deep across both sides of a fairly good-sized lake, all the way down to the inlet. Armed only with barbless hooks, strikes came frequent…mostly skinny ‘Bows in the 10” to 12” size…some hybrids too (Goldens?), fighters too. Roq snagged a good one (~18”) and I kept two fat ones to add to our banquet entrée …dinner was assured. FYI, we did see a few lunkers cruising in the shadows too…large torpedoes lurking….and there were more than a few seagulls hovering over the lake. In my opinion, Consultation Lake, although stocked – probably long ago, seems healthy and self-sustaining for the amount of pressure it receives today.
Around 6:00 PM Roq decided to take a walk…”Back in an hour for dinner”, he yelled out… I stayed on the lake, having too much fun to leave. He came back soon enough from just over the ridge…the trail close to the solar shitter… with a daypack loaded: Sardines and crackers….pasta…candy…tuna….breakfast bars… even an instant strawberry cheesecake thing…and much, much more. Beef Jerky, packets of cheese, more crackers, trail mix, powdered milk, pancake mix, and jelly packets spilled out onto our ersatz kitchen rock; it appeared that Roq had been to the market…the market that is Trail Camp. “How...where…nice job” was my response.
Later, over a sumptuous sautéed trout, stuffed with Ritz crackers, and garlic rice, Roq explained. Initially, he said was going down to Trail Camp to try to barter fresh trout for anything edible…a fair swap…but somewhere along the way… “Sidetracked among the yokels”…that is how he put it. He added, “Nobody has a stove that is capable of cooking fish anyway…I saw no frying pans…no olive oil either…spices, fugitaboutit. What is with these clowns…and they call themselves backpackers…you cannot decently cook fish on a JetBoil….besides; most here already are carrying too much food along for an overnighter…they must not know that nothing is going to taste good the first night… at this altitude. Most of these Yahoos are not going to eat what they have… I just told them you were starving…something about a bear…and they all pitched in. I could have had more if I wanted it too…maybe we should stay over again tomorrow…good fishing?”…He laughed.
You heard no complaints from me with the improved food situation; admittedly, while not the infamous Portal burger followed by a cold beer chaser…up here, we were fat. “What about the Rangers,” I countered,”Won’t we get busted if we stay past our allotted permit date…they check up here pretty close, you know.” “You have the big-ticket permit; right…they never bother anyone with those…they figure that anybody might easily lose a day or two along the way.”…pretty civilized thinking if you ask me. In retrospect, I too was still not ready for all this adventure to come to an end…, as I had no pressing reason to get back to civilization and the city.
Fishing the rising boils early mornings and late evenings with fly and bubble…jerking lures deep in the afternoons, some times produced… others, not so much…that’s fishing. Eventually I wound up spending two more glorious “extra” nights camped on Consultation, easily bagging Wotan’s Throne – a great side trip and pleasant unscheduled bonus. The next day, I merely “vegged”, content in sunning myself on the slab granite…resting easy, observing the continuous ant-like procession that typifies Whitney, and listening to Roq’s constant monologue. His convoluted, skewed take on the general caliber of the ill-equipped masses parading the trail directly in front of us made us both laugh. (Possibly, it also helped that here I finished the last of my scotch ration; FYI, I think quite highly of single malt scotch drinkers…IMO, they usually have what it takes.)
Roq declared that he could accurately foretell, by merely a quick cursory glance, who was, and who was not going to make it to the summit. I recall it was one of Roq’s basic postulates that we all somehow emit some sort of a distinct aura… the truly difficult part is to be able to recognize it…interesting. Funny, the Whitney Rangers must be able to distinguish this aura too…for in those three days, nobody asked us to show them anything…can, license, or permit…coincidently, not once on the entire trip either. The next morning I was finally ready…my heart agreed this trip was over too…thankfully sated this time by those extra days at Consultation Lake.
Another solo backpacking adventure…by markskor