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My longest backpacking trip up until now was 8 days, and my longest solo trip was 6 days. It's been a goal of mine for a while to do an even bigger solo trip. Part of this is simple logistics -- you can cover more ground and see more the longer you're out, tilting that driving-to-hiking ratio further to the right. Some of it is street cred -- I've long admired the adventurous trips that many of you on this board have planned and executed, and been envious of the ability to spend that much time out in the backcountry. But most of it is because of some sort of challenge to myself. I wanted to see if I could walk out into the wilderness, leave the trail, and survive (and hopefully thrive) for over a week left to my own wits and thoughts.
And so it was that I found myself sneaking out of the Bay Area in a rental Nissan Sentra early on a Saturday morning to embark on a 9-day journey through some of my favorite country in the High Sierra.
Saturday, Aug. 17
I pulled into the North Lake parking lot at 1pm after a smooth drive across Sonora Pass and then down 395. My daily driver back home is an aging 2005 Honda CR-V, so I never fail to be impressed by the whisper-quiet road noise and new tech of a rental (Android Auto! Texts and calls piping in through the in-dash screen! Granular temperature adjustment controls!). The excitement and glorious anticipation of a keystone Sierra backpacking trip is always a bit tempered by the ignominious start of walking along the dirt road before you reach the actual trailhead, but the walk goes by quickly and soon enough I was laboring up the actual trail toward Piute Pass.
New trailhead sign:
It was a sunny afternoon, and I felt like I was moving slowly as I adjusted to the altitude. But I made steady progress and began passing other backpackers who were starting their own adventures.
As I crested the pass and turned onto the trail toward Muriel Lake, I passed a day hiker taking photos across Humphries Basin.
"It's amazing up here, you should be stoked!" he told me.
"I am definitely stoked," I grinned in return.
I made a beeline toward a nice sheltered campsite at the backside of Muriel that I had used before and set up camp, then with my remaining few hours of daylight I scrambled up to the Lost Lakes to poke around and explore with fishing rods in hand.
Sunday, Aug. 18
I woke up Sunday morning to a slight headache. I couldn't tell if it was caffeine withdrawal or feeling the altitude, so I boiled water for instant coffee and hoped for the former. After packing up camp, I struck out across Humphreys Basin headed north.
Passing Summit Lake, I intersected the trail to Desolation Lake and soon arrived at the southeast shore of this vast lake.
I fished for a bit but the water was choppy in the persistent wind, so I made a quick detour to check out Forsaken Lake (small, still windy).
Continuing along the eastern shore of Desolation, I traversed to the wide, sandy beach at the northeast side of the lake and then climbed north up the gentle slope to the lip of the basin.
At one point I spotted an osprey with his successful catch above Desolation:
My goal was Steelhead Pass, and the path of least resistance up the south side of the pass was evident from below: ascend traversing to the east, then angle west up to the low point on the ridge. Soon I was atop the wide saddle of the pass, peering over the other side.
The first part of the descent down the north side of Steelhead Pass was seemingly straightforward as a wide shelf beckoned below. However, once I dropped down onto the shelf, I came up to the edge of a dropoff that looked uncomfortably steep. I scanned to both sides for alternate ways down. To the right was a cliff wall that plunged out of sight. To the left was a very steep jumble of talus. It looked doable, but dicey. The topo map indicated a better gradient farther to the left, but I was blocked by another cliff band. So grumbling to myself, I clambered back up above the shelf so I could traverse west above the cliff band and hunt for a smoother path down.
Further west, the slope still looked uncomfortably closer to vertical than horizontal, but it was better than it had been immediately below the pass. I decided to go for it. I minced down the talus, one block at a time, testing each boulder to ensure stability before putting all of my weight on it. I continued descending to the northwest, aiming for the more gentle gradient I could see below me, and eventually made it down past the steep section and was able to walk the rest of the way down to Rust Lake.
Looking back up at the north side of Steelhead Pass:
I fished Rust for a bit, then continued north past a mostly dried up tarn and then picked my way down another talus field to the inlet side of Steelhead Lake. I found a campsite along the southwest shore of Steelhead that offered a bit of protection from the wind that had picked up in the late afternoon, and then fished until evening.
Monday, Aug. 19
No headache this morning -- I must have been feeling the effects of a bit of altitude sickness yesterday. After my morning coffee and packing up camp, I headed out. I crossed the outlet of Steelhead and then continued north, traversing the head of French Canyon while trying to keep my elevation as much as possible. This worked pretty well, and soon I had joined the trail just a few hundred feet before Pine Creek Pass.
After walking through the wide saddle, I followed the trail down the north side of the pass as it threaded down to the junction near Honeymoon Lake. Along the way, I passed a couple of day hikers heading up toward the pass -- the first other people I'd seen in the past 24 hours.
I turned left at the junction and began heading up into Granite Park. After about a mile, I veered right and continued offtrail into the next drainage over where I climbed up into the scenic Chalfant Lakes basin.
There were several lakes in the area, so I set up a base camp at one of the more scenic ones and then fished for the rest of the day.
Tuesday, Aug. 20
I didn't have far to hike today, so I took my time with my morning routine: coffee, packing up, and some fishing once the sun hit the water's surface. I ascended the ridge to the south and then traversed the top of this ridge for a bit until I had bypassed some of the inefficient portions of the trail through Granite Park (much of which I could see below). Around 11,600 feet I contoured back to the trail and then followed it up to Italy Pass. The trail gets spotty in places, but numerous cairns point the way (and the goal is obvious anyway).
Once I reached Italy Pass, I picked up speed as I descended the other side. The unmaintained trail was difficult for me to follow in the upper reaches, but became more defined as it dropped closer to the talus slope above Jumble Lake.
9 years ago, I had taken my wife on her first Sierra backpacking trip over Italy Pass, promising settings of stunning grandeur. Unfortunately, heavy smoke from the Rough Fire had clouded the first day of our trip, and then a thunderstorm began just as we crested Italy Pass, chasing us with first rain and then hail and then snow as we slipped and slid down to Jumble Lake. I had forgotten to advise my wife to pack rain pants or thermal layers, so by the time we were able to make camp at Jumble she was soaked and freezing.
It took several hours to get her warm and dry again, and it felt like years as I hovered anxiously above her, even sitting on her feet for periods of time to help warm her. It took actual years before she would stop making sarcastic remarks about that ill-fated trip whenever we described our backpacking adventures to family and friends. However, we're still married, she still goes on backpacking trips with me, and we are now always well-prepared with the proper gear when we head out. I was fairly confident that this is now a funny anecdote in the canon of our relationship, so when I stopped above Jumble Lake for a snack break I sent my wife a message on my InReach: "Guess where I am? Hint: it's your favorite place!"
Dropping down from Jumble to Lake Italy, I followed the trail along the south shore of the lake and easily bypassed the two dwindling snowfields that typically pose a challenge earlier in the season. Soon I was at the head of the Hilgard Branch, and veered left to make camp just above the inlet to Teddy Bear Lake.
My phone battery had dropped to 11% by this point, 4 days into the trip, so I used one of two battery packs I packed in to juice it back up to halfway. My InReach Mini was still at 50% so I could wait a bit longer to charge it.
Wednesday, Aug. 21
I had planned today to be a layover day. Halfway through my 9-day trip, I had figured I'd want a break from unpacking and repacking and moving camp to the next spot. And now that I was here, I was grateful that I had made time in my itinerary for the layover.
I enjoyed a slow morning waiting for the sun to warm my tent, then fished the nearby lakes, then took advantage of the uncharacteristically calm and warm late morning to bathe. More fishing and exploring in the afternoon, including a visit to check out Bearpaw Lake nearby.
At one point in the afternoon, I watched with morbid curiosity and a bit of dawning horror as a group of four folks came straight down the middle of White Bear Pass down to Brown Bear Lake. It looked impossibly steep, and they took quite a while to descend.
They made it down safely, but when I chatted with them later they all looked a bit shell-shocked and one said it was "terrible." I was planning to ascend White Bear Pass the following day, and based on what I'd read/heard I knew the best route was to bear left (east) and ascend that slope before traversing south to the actual pass. This route seemed much easier than the path that this group had just taken, and was also corroborated by the topo map.
Thursday, Aug. 22
On Thursday morning, as I was packing up my camp and preparing to head out, a pair of backpackers walked in from the direction of the Hilgard Branch and introduced themselves. It turned out that Chris and Elizabeth live in Oakland too and were also heading over White Bear Pass, so we decided to tackle the pass together. They had read the same beta as me, so we were in agreement about ascending further east instead of going straight up the middle. Following this route, reaching the top of the pass was a simple and straightforward climb. We even followed a good use trail part of the way up.
Once at White Bear Lake, we continued down to Black Bear Lake, then dropped down a grassy gulley to the outlet of Bearpaw Lake, marveling at the beauty of Bear Lakes Basin the entire time.
At Bearpaw Lake we parted ways after exchanging contact info -- they were going to continue wandering in the basin for the rest of the day, while I was headed over Bear-Royce Pass to the Royce Lakes. (It turns out that Chris is also on HST as generalelectrix -- check out his report from their trip here: viewtopic.php?t=23837).
Bear-Royce Pass was navigationally and technically straightforward, just steep. The route up was clear from the basin below, so I climbed up a combination of stable talus and crumbly sand as the slope grew progressively steeper.
The final 400 feet were steep and sandy. I tried to use as many rocks as possible to avoid slipping back down with each step up. Finally as I neared the top I was able to bypass the sandy middle of the chute and hoist myself up more efficiently using solid granite as handholds and footholds.
Pano taken by Chris (generalelectrix) -- Bear-Royce Pass is the low point in the middle:
On the east side of Bear-Royce Pass, the first few hundred feet of the slope was also steep and sandy so I enjoyed bounding down with each step cushioned by the sand. It reminded me of running down the sides of the massive sand dunes of Sossusvlei, Namibia. I made my way around the southern shore of Royce Lake #5 amidst a strong wind, and then contemplated a rather exposed campsite at the little tarn between Lake #5 and #4 (#4.5?) before finding a nice sheltered camp on the lee side of a large boulder north of the inlet of Lake #4.
My energy was just about fully sapped at this point with the combination of the two cross-country passes plus the wind and cold, and fishing in the relentless wind didn't sound very appealing, so I took a nap in my tent for an hour. Also finally sapped was my InReach Mini. It was now down to 22%, so I charged it back up to 75% and figured this would be more than enough to last the rest of the trip.
Waking up refreshed, I decided to give fishing a go despite the fact that the wind was still whipping up whitecaps on the water. After an hour, I gave up and headed back to camp early. I spent the rest of the evening reading in my tent, enjoying the warmth of both my down jacket and my sleeping bag to keep the oncoming cold at bay.
Friday, Aug. 23
Friday morning felt cold. Very cold. I poked an arm outside of my sleeping bag to grab my water bottle and confirmed that the top was frozen solid. No early morning fishing for me today. I napped a bit longer and then read for a bit, and finally got out of the tent once the sun had come up to make coffee and begin packing up.
An iconic High Sierra image:
It was still cold enough by 8:30am when I departed that I kept my down jacket and thermal pants on as I walked (or more technically, boulder hopped) around the north and east shores of Royce Lake #4. The wind continued to howl as I made my way past Lake #3 to Lake #2, and finally I got warm enough to change into my typical hiking clothing before continuing down to Pine Creek Pass. As I neared the pass, I spotted another backpacker a hundred yards away heading up toward the Royce Lakes.
Once back on the trail, I zoomed down deeper into French Canyon, grateful for the warmth and wind protection as I crossed below the treeline.
I passed a couple of backpackers arriving at the junction on the trail coming from Elba and Moon Lakes, but after that I didn't see anyone until reaching Hutchinson Meadow where I met another couple of backpackers at the trail junction there.
They were finishing up a through-hike from Mammoth to North Lake and decided to camp at Lower Honeymoon Lake for their last night out to stay below the treeline and out of the wind. I was heading in the same direction en route to Ramona Lake, so I hiked out ahead of them and ran into them again while on a lunch break at Lower Honeymoon Lake.
After snacking a bit, I continued ascending the remaining 800 feet to the saddle to the west, enjoying a wonderful wildflower bloom stretching for hundreds of feet in the grassy ravine leading up to the top. I wouldn't consider myself a flower guy, but I was still struck by the beauty of this setting and took dozens of photos as I climbed higher up the verdant slope.
On the west side of the ridge, I descended following a dry creekbed until I could see Ramona Lake and dropped down to the lakeshore.
I made camp near the outlet and fished for the next several hours, but again the strong wind and cold put a damper on both the fishing and my motivation. Not able to successfully fool goliath fish in the lake, I walked back to the outlet creek where I gratefully tossed dry flies to the willing goldens tucked away in each of the myriad pools before finally heading back to camp for the evening.
Saturday, Aug. 24
The night was cold again and I was again content to stay in the tent until later in the morning when it had warmed up a bit. I had contemplated spending a layover day here at Ramona, but given the weather and the fact that I had a long hike out the next day, I decided to remain until the afternoon and then hike a few miles out to get a head start on my exit.
I haven't seen this very often -- look at all of the small trees growing out of pockets on the north slope of this mountain. Is this the work of nesting birds who disseminated seeds here through their feces?
I spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon fishing Ramona, and then around 3pm I packed up camp and started heading out back the way I had come.
I retraced my steps back through the wildflower-filled gulley and down to Lower Honeymoon Lake, then tumbled down the steep trail before reconnecting with the main trail in Piute Canyon. I hiked up Piute Canyon for a few miles before peeling off and finding a nice off-trail campsite along Piute Creek. I had fun catching a few colorful goldens in the creek before retiring for the night.
Sunday, Aug. 25
Sunday morning may have been the coldest of all. My water bottle in my tent vestibule had half frozen overnight, and there was frost on my bear can and on my tent.
I packed up for the last time, hoisted my pack onto my back with the now-practiced action of someone who has been doing this every day for over a week (it helped that my pack was now significantly lighter, as I'd eaten nearly all of my food by this point), and headed out to find the trail to Golden Trout Lakes.
I never found the trail, but no matter -- the cross-country travel was easy and gave me something to think about as I traversed higher into Humphreys Basin. A group camped at Lower Golden Trout Lake was packing up as I passed by, unnoticed. I didn't see anyone else until I had nearly reached Piute Pass, when a trail runner crossed in the other direction.
As soon as I began trotting down the east side of the pass though, I passed a nearly steady stream of Sunday morning travelers: first came the trail runners, jogging briskly up the rocky path. Then the sporadic backpackers, trudging up the hill, interspersed with groups of day hikers, and then further down closer to the trailhead were even more day hikers and backpackers.
I made quick time down, energized by the vision of a large plate of tacos waiting for me down in Bishop, and reached the trailhead 3 hours and 15 minutes after leaving my camp 9 miles away. As I arrived at the trailhead proper, a group of high school or college-aged kids were milling around preparing for their trip. One looked at me, sized me up, then sheepishly asked me if I could send a text on his behalf once I got cell reception. I said sure, and drafted the text for him: "Sending a message on behalf of Finn, he made it and forgot to text you." He thanked me and the group headed off to start their trip over Lamarck Col.
Once I reached my car, I changed into shorts and a fresh shirt for the drive down the mountain. First order of business was lunch: I scarfed down 5 tacos at Tacqueria mi Guadalajara in quick succession. Once I was good and stuffed, I busied myself with errands around town: picking up some gardening gloves from Ace Hardware and a used buff from Mammoth Gear Exchange (I had forgotten to pack both on my previous trip), grabbing some more food supplies from Vons, and checking into the Holiday Inn Express where I enjoyed a shower and caught up with the happenings of the world. Later that afternoon, I received a response to my text from someone who I assume was Finn's parental figure thanking me for the confirmation that their son was alive and well.
My next trip would begin the following morning.
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Fishing was tough on this trip due to the prevailing wind, but I managed to scrounge up a handful of fish nonetheless. All were goldens -- most were small and colorful, some were larger and still colorful, and a few gave me such a run for my money that I didn't quite care how colorful they were.
Some goldens were bigger:
I did have one terrific 1.5 hr stretch of fishing one afternoon after I had just arrived at a lake. I had fished around one side of the lake unsuccessfully, then made my way around to the back side where I found dozens of goldens of all sizes cruising along the dropoff. I immediately began casting to cruising fish with a foam hopper and landed first a 14" golden, then an 8" golden, then a 16" golden.
Then another nice-sized golden hit, but as I was fighting the fish it somehow came off only for a smaller golden to race up and grab the dropper nymph. So the fish I landed shrunk in size by more than half from the one that I originally hooked!
After the cruising fish started to become more wary, I began tossing lures. On my second cast, I got a huge hit. My rod was bent double as I reeled as fast as I could to keep up with the big fish as it raced off. The fish made multiple drag-screaming runs, and was one of the hardest fighting goldens I've encountered. Finally I brought it close enough to shore to net -- it was a very fat 17-inch golden.
A few casts later, I had almost the same thing happen: another gigantic hit, more drag-screaming runs, only this time the fish threw the hook after I had gotten it to within 10 feet of shore. It looked every bit as large as the previous golden, and because it got away I can emphatically say it was even larger.
This tremendous fishing session culminated with the one that got away. As the light was fading, I noticed a couple of large rises off to my left. I walked over as quickly as I could and tossed a hopper out. A huge golden rose to smash the fly, then went berserk as soon as it was hooked. It was a few tense seconds as I held onto my 3-weight rod for dear life -- if the 17-incher I had landed previously felt like one of the hardest-fighting goldens I'd ever caught, then this fish was definitely the hardest-fighting golden I'd ever hooked on a fly rod. But then to my horror, the big golden dove down between two submerged rocks before I could try to steer it away. Snap! I heard the line sever before I felt my fly line zinging back at me, like a rubber band that had been stretched to its breaking point.
Inside, I felt like Yosemite Sam stomping his feet after being foiled yet again by Bugs Bunny. But after I had calmed down a bit, I marveled at the incredible fishing I had just experienced.
