Not just Pear Lake
Posted: Sun Sep 29, 2024 3:38 pm
With the backpacking season coming to a close, and work obligations preventing me from getting any longer trips in, what remains is the weekend. The days are shorter, work is busy, I am tired. Frankly, it’s a bit hard to motivate. There’s a great place very near me though. It’s a place that I’ve been to so many times in the 31 years that I’ve lived here that I don’t even remember the first time I went. But I do remember coming back from that first time and gushing about this beautiful unexpectedly alpine lake that was not as far from the trailhead as you thought a lake such as that would be. The truth is, I don’t camp there very often anymore; it has a tendency to get crowded and I now tend to pass through on my way to the Tablelands or save it for a day trip. At this time of year though, it is a great quick overnight option, and yet, I found myself wishing for more days, and a longer adventure, and began to think I’d just stay home, after all, it’s just Pear Lake…..
First it was an overnight destination for my younger new backpacking self. I would take any friend that wanted to go and see this amazing place. There were many trips spent swimming in the amazing blue waters of this very deep lake, evenings spent marveling at alpenglow, and wondering about the peaks and ridges above the lake and what was behind them. I learned that there was a trail up Alta Peak, and that once on the peak you would know why they called it Pear Lake. Many trips in all kinds of different conditions up Alta Peak ensued. Early season when Alta was mostly melted but Pear Lake was not. Fog blowing up around me on the top. Crystal clear summer days where it seemed I could see for miles. One memorable trip where I learned just how fast a thunderstorm can arrive, where my long hair was standing on end and four of us ran down the scree filled bowl of the peak, terrified. I never went up there under those conditions again.
But back to Pear:
There was the October trip that I took with a friend and his girlfriend who were visiting, where we huddled in the heavy 3-person car camping tent that I used to bring back then and listened to coyotes howling in the dark. That trip marked the first attempt to climb out of Pear in the morning before leaving to see what was up there as I had heard of this place called Moose Lake and thought maybe we could see it (we couldn’t, this was my lesson that I needed to get better at map reading) and where I got my first glimpse of the Tablelands.
A college friend from the East coast visited once and I convinced her that it wasn’t all that hard to backpack to Pear, despite the fact she had never backpacked and was also a fairly heavy smoker. She went, and we made it as far as Emerald before she put her foot down. We spent a great night there, and in the morning, she asked for a picture of her with her backpack on so people would believe her, and also that she was never going to do this again. As I hit the button her middle finger went up; she framed it and sent it to me. Luckily, we are still friends.
On another trip, I took a friend who also hadn’t yet backpacked. This was a girl’s trip, complete with some wine consumed lakeside; notably it was also the trip where I carelessly left my boots outside the tent in our hurry to unwind at the lake and a marmot ate the heel out of one of them, making for an interesting hike out.
One Labor Day weekend, the year after losing my mom, I went up to repeat a solo Tablelands trip I had taken the year before, but the memories of the previous year weighed too heavily on me; it had been after that trip that I had my last conversation with her. And so, I turned around at Pear, marking my first day hike to the lake that involved a full backpack. The following Labor Day weekend I returned with a friend, despite very unseasonably cold weather, spent a couple of cold nights in the Tablelands, experienced rain and hail and thick fog, and went back to Pear for our last night, where it had turned warm and sunny again and someone had hiked up an inflatable paddleboard, making me think one day I should try that as it looked like a ton of fun.
And a few years ago, a friend and I took her 10-year-old daughter with us on an overnight during a warm late September week, cooked up sausages and ate them with cheese and fresh pears and as we sat watching the sunset. The adults toasted with wine, the daughter with juice, and she decided we were the coolest grownups ever.
So, here we are. It’s late September once again, and I’m so glad I didn’t stay home this weekend. It’s not just Pear Lake. It’s an old friend. It’s years of adventures in good weather and bad, of lessons learned in backcountry travel, of onery marmots, warm water and lazy sunny afternoons, and the many friends I’ve shared it with along the way. As dusk arrived last night, coyotes once again serenaded the occupants of the lake. One of whom was a guy I had spoken with on the trail during a quick rest break on the way up. He told me that he had day hiked to the lake multiple times and had always wanted to camp there; this was his first time doing so and he was so excited. And so, another person’s journey begins.
First it was an overnight destination for my younger new backpacking self. I would take any friend that wanted to go and see this amazing place. There were many trips spent swimming in the amazing blue waters of this very deep lake, evenings spent marveling at alpenglow, and wondering about the peaks and ridges above the lake and what was behind them. I learned that there was a trail up Alta Peak, and that once on the peak you would know why they called it Pear Lake. Many trips in all kinds of different conditions up Alta Peak ensued. Early season when Alta was mostly melted but Pear Lake was not. Fog blowing up around me on the top. Crystal clear summer days where it seemed I could see for miles. One memorable trip where I learned just how fast a thunderstorm can arrive, where my long hair was standing on end and four of us ran down the scree filled bowl of the peak, terrified. I never went up there under those conditions again.
But back to Pear:
There was the October trip that I took with a friend and his girlfriend who were visiting, where we huddled in the heavy 3-person car camping tent that I used to bring back then and listened to coyotes howling in the dark. That trip marked the first attempt to climb out of Pear in the morning before leaving to see what was up there as I had heard of this place called Moose Lake and thought maybe we could see it (we couldn’t, this was my lesson that I needed to get better at map reading) and where I got my first glimpse of the Tablelands.
A college friend from the East coast visited once and I convinced her that it wasn’t all that hard to backpack to Pear, despite the fact she had never backpacked and was also a fairly heavy smoker. She went, and we made it as far as Emerald before she put her foot down. We spent a great night there, and in the morning, she asked for a picture of her with her backpack on so people would believe her, and also that she was never going to do this again. As I hit the button her middle finger went up; she framed it and sent it to me. Luckily, we are still friends.
On another trip, I took a friend who also hadn’t yet backpacked. This was a girl’s trip, complete with some wine consumed lakeside; notably it was also the trip where I carelessly left my boots outside the tent in our hurry to unwind at the lake and a marmot ate the heel out of one of them, making for an interesting hike out.
One Labor Day weekend, the year after losing my mom, I went up to repeat a solo Tablelands trip I had taken the year before, but the memories of the previous year weighed too heavily on me; it had been after that trip that I had my last conversation with her. And so, I turned around at Pear, marking my first day hike to the lake that involved a full backpack. The following Labor Day weekend I returned with a friend, despite very unseasonably cold weather, spent a couple of cold nights in the Tablelands, experienced rain and hail and thick fog, and went back to Pear for our last night, where it had turned warm and sunny again and someone had hiked up an inflatable paddleboard, making me think one day I should try that as it looked like a ton of fun.
And a few years ago, a friend and I took her 10-year-old daughter with us on an overnight during a warm late September week, cooked up sausages and ate them with cheese and fresh pears and as we sat watching the sunset. The adults toasted with wine, the daughter with juice, and she decided we were the coolest grownups ever.
So, here we are. It’s late September once again, and I’m so glad I didn’t stay home this weekend. It’s not just Pear Lake. It’s an old friend. It’s years of adventures in good weather and bad, of lessons learned in backcountry travel, of onery marmots, warm water and lazy sunny afternoons, and the many friends I’ve shared it with along the way. As dusk arrived last night, coyotes once again serenaded the occupants of the lake. One of whom was a guy I had spoken with on the trail during a quick rest break on the way up. He told me that he had day hiked to the lake multiple times and had always wanted to camp there; this was his first time doing so and he was so excited. And so, another person’s journey begins.
