High Sierra Topix

This is going to be a trip down memory lane, so if you're not a fan of self-indulgent solipsism (and is there any other kind?) cut your losses and move to another post. But, if you're even remotely sentimental, well........here goes:

I was a Midwestern boy (a la Bob Seger, but with ZERO musical talent) who had moved to LA in June, 1972 to attend grad school at UCLA. A younger brother arrived in late July for a visit and after checking out Disneyland, the beach (Malibu/Santa Monica), Hollywood Blvd, Beverly Hills and "real" Mexican food, we woke up early one Sunday morning and decided to drive up to Sequoia (the park). We scratched our head as we drove North on I-5 and saw the sign for Angeles National forest. There was not a tree in sight. Is all of CA this weird? By the time we hit the Grapevine, we realized that we were not in Kansas any more. Not even Wisconsin. And the intensive (and exotic) agriculture in the San Joaquin Valley was an eye opener; as was the oleander serving as the colorful center-divider on highway 99. At Visalia, we got on 198 and started heading East toward the park. Both the dam that created Lake Kaweah and the drive around the lake were reminders that the verdant farms we'd seen relied on huge public works that supplied the water. As we passed through Three Rivers and got closer to the park entrance, the peaks that were obscured by the Valley haze began to take shape. Soon, we hit that twisted segment of the General's Highway that catapults you from the foothills up to the Giant Forest in a swelter of swoon-worthy hairpin curves. Moro Rock was looming overhead like an ominous alien spacecraft. And then the sequoias. Gobs of them. Now, there's a TREE! As soon as we could, we turned off toward Crescent Meadow and abandoned the car to wander around in the woods. The cones from sugar pines were as gigantic as those of the sequoias were tiny. And then we decided to join the crowds and climb up the spine of Moro rock. By the time we caught our breath and lined up the peaks on the signs with their counterparts on the horizon, we realized that we'd miscalculated badly. Very badly. We needed to be back there. Back there among the peaks.

So, we hopped in the car and drove all the way back to LA (remember, there were speed limits back then) to collect camping gear. As we reached the house I was sharing with 4 other guys, I spotted a familiar face. Then another. A couple pals from college had hitchhiked out to LA and had arrived while we were genuflecting on Moro rock. I told them we were back briefly to get some gear and food and then we were going to the mountains. In spite of a dearth of gear, they were keen to join us. Fortunately, my brother had a sleeping bag (it was his bed, after all) and I had some primitive bits (Kelty pack, crummy tent, sleeping bag, cheesy boots, mess kit). We did manage to rustle up one more sleeping bag and a blanket. Along with granola, raisins, pita bread, peanut butter, cheese, canned tuna and sardines we were ready for the Sierra. The next day, we headed back to Crescent Meadow. Back then if you were inspired, you could sign the trailhead register (kind of like a peak-bagging register) and divulge where you were going. I think we just said "the Kaweahs".

To get there, we realized that the High Sierra trail took a winding path to Bearpaw Meadow and then on to Hamilton Lake. Having never seen a mountain lake quite like Hamilton, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. We spent the first night nearby before going over Kaweah gap into the Big Arroyo. The guy who had only a blanket for the first night had slept by and kept feeding the fire all night long, because it did cool off when the sun went down. Lesson #1: cherish your sleeping bag. When we pulled over to camp in the Big Arroyo, he spent the rest of the day snoozing in my bag. The rest of us went day hiking to see what the lakes of 9 Lakes basin were all about, and to get different angles on the Kaweahs. It was life altering. I'd been on canoe trips in northern Wisconsin, upper peninsula in Michigan and in the Boundary waters, but nothing like this: the high mountain lakes, the wildflowers, the razor ridges, the chirping marmots, the permanent snow and the night sky. And I'm not even a fisher-person. Or a peak bagger. Just a kid who fell head over heels in love with the Sierra. Obviously, that seminal trip was 50 years ago this week. Here's to many more! Cameron

lovely story. congrats on the 50 year milestone! i have a similar one, also involving the high sierra trail, but in 2015.

this range certainly seems to sink it’s teeth into some of us.

Amazing origin story! I really enjoyed reading it, thanks for sharing with the rest of us. I share your closing sentiments falling head over heals for the sierra. The fire still burns, red hott!

A great story, full of the enthusiasm of youth! I had a similar Wow! experience when I first saw Yosemite Valley on a family camping trip at age 12 in 1964. My limited previous nature experiences had all been in the California coast ranges. Those gigantic granite cliffs were otherworldly. I was so fascinated that, upon our return home, I found every book in the library about Yosemite and read it. The library even had a copy of Francois Matthe's 1930 USGS monograph on the formation of Yosemite Valley which I devoured in spite of its technical nature. This convinced me I wanted to be an Earth Scientist. I even majored in geophysics in college, but due to the twists and turns of life, never worked in the field but instead had a career in IT management. Thanks for the trip down memory lane.
-Phil

Thanks for sharing us your amazing story. I kept on smiling as I read through the post and reflect on my recent High Sierra Trail from last week!

Great story, Cameron.

I grew up here, and to a certain extent, in the mountains, as my dad was a summer ranger when I was young. But my first "real" backpacking trip was when I was about 17, and a friend (a fanatic fisherman) and I decided that we would hike out of Roads End to Colby Lake. It took us four days to get there, lugging brutally heavy packs over Avalanche Pass and up Cloud Canyon. And like you, we weren't carrying a stove or water filter! A tube tent and a Dacron II mummy bag, plus a 2 inch foam pad to sleep on. And for food, we took a box of Uncle Ben's instant rice and a fistful of Knorr sauce mixes--supplemented with trout that we caught every night for dinner.

I remember that we wore jeans and blue work shirts, and hiked in construction boots. And the last morning, at the Roaring River, I woke up to discover that the water in my plastic bottle was all stuck down at one end....it had frozen solid overnight. We hiked out that day...

Thanks for the comments! Obviously, HST attracts folk who had sufficiently positive experiences in the mountains that they keep going back for more; but as some of you noted here (and in other places), the evolution of gear over the last several decades has transformed backpacking-hiking-climbing.
I know that after my seminal experience, I immediately started saving up to buy better boots, a new tent and a new pack. Still, food options remained pretty primitive (very few freeze-dried food purveyors) and staples like instant rice, ramen and Knorr soups/sauces were about as good as one could manage. Now, I spend the better part of 3 days preparing for a trip. Back then, I could turn on a dime and head out the same day I (or a buddy) got the urge. This wilderness permit thing kind of blunts that spontaneity........but I get the need. Now, if you want spontaneity, you have to be ready to tackle some of the monsters (Baxter, Sawmill, Birch etc). Still, the magic remains even if it requires some planning! Cameron

These reminiscences are useful for reminding me that the ultralight pursuit isn't necessary to enjoy my time in the mountains. Indeed, I recall carrying Dinty Moore cans during my first outings -- never mind the weight...the nutritional aspect is what makes me shudder now.

Bob,
Thanks for being brave enough to cop to Dinty Moore.......folk I knew even went for Spam. Maybe even some Velveeta? Yes, those were the days! Cameron

My first backpacking adventure into the Sierra Nevada was in the early '70's. I don't recall the exact year, but Admiral Halsey was hot on the charts and it was the first year (or so) that permits were required. I was somewhere between 11 and 13. My uncle and his roommate took me to Blue Lake. My family had been there many times as evidenced by an old picture of my mom hiking up there when she was 17 (she's 83). Back then, the trail was cut on the opposite side of Lake Sabrina than it is today, so you hiked across the dam to reach the trailhead. There was a sign a few hundred yards into the TH that said a permit was now required, so we sat and waited while my uncle headed back to Bishop to obtain a permit. I had a boy scout backpack at the time. My uncle's roommate carried an inflatable boat, so we split some of his gear onto our backs to accommodate. It was rough for me because my backpack had crappy shoulder and waist straps, but we made it.
We hit the outlet and Jim (my uncle's roommate) inflated the boat and we rowed across the lake to the island. Back then, there were no restrictions against camping on the island. Every day for 3 days, we drift fished on the raft for Rainbow and Brook trout. I vividly remember we fished double flashers on a wire rig (propeller type) with a short leader and a nightcrawler. We caught 33 fish in 3 days. I have no memory of what we ate besides fish, but we ate a lot of fish.
Backtracking.... While we were waiting for my uncle to get our permits, I was playing in the scree, creating small avalanches by pushing it down slope (as kids will do). A group passed us and one in the group got excited about a bush full of berries, so they ate a bunch. After they passed, I decided to eat a few. During the whole trip I was fine except for times in the evening where I would puke. All 3 days. I told my uncle that I had eaten some berries that another group had eaten. For years, we were of the opinion that the berries were the source of my puking, but several years ago, I realized that they were red currants (I vividly remember the bushes and the berries). I'm now of the opinion that I most likely was suffering from altitude sickness. I've come across red currants many times, but was never willing to test my theory by eating currants.
Anyway, this first trip is what got me hooked on the Sierra experience and the wonders it hides for only those who are willing to put in the work. You don't get that experience out of your driver's window.