Two words: wear pants.
OK, more than two words. Wait, coffee first, then more words.
Eight of us (Tom (tomcat_rc), Lisa, Jim (sierragator), Nathan, Alice (moondust), Karen, Bob (Hue-master-B), and myself) hit the trail around, oh, 0430ish from Sage Flat Road. Belly flowers, still closed up tight in the warm night air, filled in the dust of the path as the herd mooooved up the cattle trail towards Olancha Pass. By the time the sun rose (was it 0330 or 0530??), tinging the smoke- haze bright orange, we were safely under the trees, escaping the heat of the valley. We jumped right, into a gulley cutting west and north from the pass, each of us picking our way up loose rock.
Then we got to the manzanita.
It's a hard wood, good for burning, lasts a long time, lots of pretty colors. Or so my pop tells me. I told him we found the largest manzanita grove on the PLANET and that I might be happy to go harvest a few acres strictly out of spite. Jim was the big winner of the "I can navigate around anything" prize and he stood perched on an overlook above us as we swam our way into miseryville. Bob Huey was the smart one: bringing pant legs and a long-sleeve top, but not avoiding war wounds entirely. Me, not so much smart in ANY direction. Tank top, short shorts, short gaiters. Let the bloodletting begin.
We stopped to regroup and for snacks at the top of the hanging valley, and the mosquitos smelled their quarry immediately. Dive-bombers surrounded the group, and the bottles of goop went flying hand to hand in a vain attempt to thwart the attackers. The only solution was movement, so off we went, following the ridge to the north to Bear Trap meadow and the PCT. Drifts of snow alerted the herd to the fact that we were indeed not alone .
Past BTM, the PCT winds and contours north high up the western shoulder of Olancha Peak, and the views of the High Sierra opened to us. Above one bowl, we heard cries from what we assumed to be a mountain lion or bear cub, calling out to mama, and the herd tightened as we traversed to the saddle. The undulating valleys between Olancha and Horseshoe Meadows appeared melted out, the crest still bearing a torn coat of snow. Towering above it all shone Whitney , the jewel in the crown of the High Sierra. Jim immediately started drooling, feeling her forceful pull from a few weeks ago.
From the saddle below the western face , the herd migrated up, clambering amongst the rocks and boulders to the summit. I would HIGHLY recommend the views from Olancha Peak: there is absolutely nothing around that is higher, and the drop to the OV is beyond impressive. I stared into the depths of the High Sierra for a while, then leaned back, surrounded by my friends, and napped in the sunlight. A strengthening breeze signalled our time to descend, and the herd moved on.
We followed the PCT back to BTM, cutting back across our "shortcut" but then staying too high on the ridge. A route of any kind evaporated into the manzanita, and our only choice was to plow through. Claws of wood snagged already swollen skin, dragging across raw scrapes. I stepped as tall and gingerly as I could, sucking in breath at each new poke or prod. At last, the gulley, Jim's clear route up, and the trail back to Sage Flat, where the herd regrouped yet again, and the mosquitos zoomed in.
"BEER!" I hollered from 30ft down the trail , and the herd stood to trudge the last few miles to the waiting vehicles.
All told, 17 miles, 6500vf, countless cuts and scratches, and another beautiful day in the mountains with good friends.
A few moments from the day:
Rest of the pics are here .
From the luckiest girl in the world: Climb Hard, Be Safe.
-L
