Coyote Parties and Really High Places

I'm too scattered and relaxed to give a full, eloquent update so I will break it into highlights and fill in the gaps with photos. Its been a hell of a few weeks! This is a long update that I'll polish up later (probably after I finish the hike) but for now I hope it catches you all up a bit!

The Basics.

When I left off last time I was just about to head back on to the trail from my injury. I spent a little over two weeks laying around daydreaming about being on the trail and as soon as I was able to, I hit the ground running (actually walking very slowly, but you get it)..

The first few days back hiking were terrifying. I was sure that I was going to reinjure my ankle and with each step I analyzed every feeling in my feet and tried to remember what WebMD had told me: I was sure I had everything I had read about. But as the miles passed my pessimism faded and I began to grow stronger physically and mentally. My ankle did just fine!

I made it over a hundred miles to about mile 475 before my ankle hurt, but that was because I was carrying 4 liters of water (an extra 10 pounds) down a steep incline. After a rest it was back to normal.

I've still been camping alone which has been pretty uneventful but one situation had me rattled and amazed. Around mile 450 I decided to camp at the top of a long ascent, nestled in the saddle of two bald summits just outside of Agua Dulce. It was a pretty easy spot to set up on since the low branches of the tree had swept a space for me with the wind. I set up the tent and then headed back up to the top of the closest summit to have dinner and watch the sun set. I ran into some friends and watched as the sky wirked it's way through the entire warm color spectrum before me. It was one of the prettiest sunsets I've ever seen. The boys took off and I returned to my tent, euphoric from the beauty I had witnessed. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the rainfly secured outside and started to drift off. Then I heard an unmistakable noise rush past my tent: the trot of a dog, or more accurately, a coyote. I sat still hoping it had just ran past and that was that. A few seconds later I heard it again. I ruffled my bag and cleared my throat loudly which is how I let animals know what's inside the tent. This didn't seem to affect the Coyote as it made a third pass. Them there was the distinct sound of another coyote trotting past on one side while the other coyote could still be heard nearby. Two coyotes. Then another, and another. Before I knew it there were more rustling leaves than I could interpret and I knew there was a pack of coyotes surrounding the tent. I grabbed the inside of the tent ceiling and shook violently and yelled erratically which caused a big commotion and drive the coyotes away leaving me in silence. I sat very still. I retracted my hiking poles down to manageable spear lengths and waited. Silence. Then, slowly, one by one I could hear the coyotes coming back. I repeated the shake/scream a few times but it quickly lost its effectiveness. I sat inside (falsely feeling protected by the thin walls of the tent) with a spear in one hand and my tiny knife in the other. The coyote walked around the tent sniffing, and a few times I could see them stick their noses under the edges of the vestibules on the rainfly as they sniffed loudly. I sat perfectly still. I was slightly comforted in the fact there had been no growling or barking, and their actions seemed very curious but non-threatening. After a couple minutes of this sniffing around the pack jogged off loudly down the mountain. I sat there holding my spear for a few more minutes Just in case they came back, but they never did. It took a long time to fall asleep that night but once I did I slept until 8am the next morning, 3 hours later than usual. What a night!

I breezed through Casa de Luna and Hikertown, two rather eccentric trail angel houses along the trail, again blown away by the genuine people I met, like Terri Anderson, who took me in as a dirt-covered, smelly hiker and spit me back out on the trail clean and refreshed and oh so well fed. The folks I am meeting along the way are making every mile of this trail more meaningful and worthwhile. It feels like family out here, dysfunction and all ;)

The miles passed slowly as I headed for the Sierras and I decided to skip the notoriously dry section from Tehachapi to Walker Pass since I was unable to carry enough water (10-12 liters which is 22-25 pounds!). Not being able to hit huge miles I would need more water than normal and I just couldn't carry that weight. I made the decision to skip and I made a deal with myself that if I finish the trail I will fly through and make up those miles at the end of the hike.

The Sierras, finally!

Since the earliest stages of planning I have been dreaming of the Sierras. In all the world I still consider Yosemite the prettiest place I've ever been and the thought of crossing hundreds of miles of this terrain was almost incomprehensible. I started north from Walker Pass and felt the desert fading away, plant by (motherfucking-spiny-stinging) plant. The heat faded a bit and the elevation gains and losses multiplied. As I wandered into Kennedy Meadows the excitement of leaving the desert and heading into the mountains was clear on everyone's sunburned faces.

The porch at Kennedy Meadows General Store was packed with hikers. As I walked up the road to the store the porch erupted in clapping and whistling, and it took a second for me to realize it was for me. This is the welcome that incoming hikers get as they make it to the store. What a nice way to arrive! There were several familiar faces and I made a few new friends as we all sat around packing and stuffing our bear canisters (which are required for the next leg) with as much calorie-rich food as possible. The tabletop scene was a mish-mash of Snickers bars and Idahoan instant mashed potatoes, ramen noodles, unlabeled baggies of homemade dehydrated food and an array of candy and treats. It's tough to fill one square foot with enough food for a hungry hiker to eat for 9 days, but somehow I did it. After a few beers, a few days and a few burgers I hit the road.

Hiking north I stopped at a campground a few miles up the road and camped with a few friends. The next morning, as per usual, the group was gone by the time I woke up and packed up and I headed off alone. The bear sightings had been steadily flowing in and multiplying, with videos and photos of the encounters proving we were now walking through forests in close proximity to these guys- whether we saw them or not. I saw tracks here and there but never encountered one (yet) but all the same I started to get a little more nervous about camping and hiking completely alone.

Dangers of Hiking Alone

Olanche Pass was the first mountain pass that both kicked my ass and gave me the incredible views I had imagined. It took a lot longer to summit than I had planned and by the time I crested the summit (after two frustrating false summits) I was beat. I started the descent in the midst of the fluffy rain clouds I had been admiring. About a half mile from the top a light hail storm kicked up but it was light and I had seen that the clouds were moving fast so I just walked on through it. About 10 minutes later there was another mix of hail and freezing rain that caught me off guard with its sudden onset and intensity. I panicked. I hastened my descent and decided after about 10 minutes, with the temperature steadily dropping and the hail kicking up a gear that I needed to pitch my tent. I found a clearing under a giant pine tree and went to work. I was still in my shorts and a long sleeve sun shirt- clothes that had been appropriate 20 minutes prior but were now leaving me exposed. I continued pitching the tent and as I worked I could feel myself losing the dexterity in my hands. It took about 5 minutes to get the tent up and functional with everything moved inside. I immediately put my warmer clothes on then headed back out to go cook and eat a warm meal to try and bring my temp up. I wasn't shivering but I knew I needed to warm up, fast. I wolfed down some mashed potatoes and headed back to the tent once the bear can and cooking gear were stored nearby. I got into my sleeping bag and stayed very still. My temp didn't seem to change for a while. After 20 minutes of forcing myself to twitch and do sit-ups in an attempt to raise my temp I was still getting no response and I started to worry. My hands were achey and my legs and arms felt cool and slightly numb to the touch. My sleeping bag is a 15 degree bag so it should have warmed me right up but instead I felt just as cold as ever. I darted back out in the cold (which was now being blanketed with snow) and grabbed my stove. I boiled some water and poured it in my water bottles and slid them into my sleeping bag with me and I very slowly began to feel warmer. All-in-all it had taken a couple hours to bring my temp up to a normal-feeling temp and I was finally calming down.

You take for granted that people will be near you- they won't always be around on this trail. True, there are a lot of hikers out here but late in the day there's no guarantee someone will be walking past til the morning, and if there is a storm everyone is pretty much going to stay put. If you are alone then you are on your own, period. This was the first genuine scare of the trip and even though I don't think it ever got that serious I still had a wake-up call that shit can get very real, very fast out here!

Mt. Whitney

In 2008 I camped alone at the Whitney Portal west of Lone Pine and swore that one day I would climb Mt.Whitney. This was something I had waited 750 miles for and I was ecstatic. For the last few days I had seen Whitney rising above the peaks in the horizon. I watched the weather rolling over it on lunch breaks and guessed the route up as I stared at it anxiously as I hiked towards it. Before I knew it I had come to the turn-off trail and I was in range and poised to make my move.

I climbed the long ascent to Guitar Lake and set up camp in the meadow, ready to make the final climb in the morning. The hike up past lakes and streams and neon green fields, like most of the Sierras, was almost too pretty- it almost looked staged like a set to a movie where Disney princesses would roll around in flowers talking to their animal friends- in this case curious marmots and wide-eyed pikas. Guitar Lake was a (you guessed it) guitar-shaped lake with a little meadow at the base of Mt. Whitney. I set up my tent next to what I thought were two friends, who turned out to be a couple that snuggled and giggled together shortly after I set up camp which made my very close proximity very awkward given the vast amount of available space... I didn't realize they had coupled up! Oh well. I walked around admiring the surrounding views and even caught a golden trout with my bare hands out of boredom (note to self: add this to bucket list and then cross that motherfucker off!).

I woke up at 5 the next morning and started the climb. It's amazing how mental these tough climbs can be. When I am excited the miles melt away behind me and I charge up mountains. When I'm not in the mood or scared of a potentially hazardous pass it feels like every step is a chore and a mile feels impossibly long. On this day, however, I felt like I was running to the top of the world. Or the top of the contiguous US, anyways. At 14,505 feet Mt. Whitney is the tallest mountain in the lower 48. Another lofty goal.

By 7am I had climbed an impressive 2500 feet and I was poised to approach the summit. I had walked over a few patches of ice but nothing serious, and my lack of crampons or microspikes (mini crampons) didn't worry me. The Sierras, and California, were in such a massive drought and had such a lack of snow that I had been advised to leave the spikes and ice ax at home. So on I hiked. When I reached Trail Crest (the junction of the eastbound and westbound climbers where the trail joined for the final ascent) the conditions began to change. The late-season snows from Memorial Day had formed their own little snow packs and accumulations that left even the local rangers baffled, and it left me in a situation where I was starting to climb America's tallest mountain basically in inadequate sneakers. I crossed the first ice chute with shaky knees and trembling hands. I had to let my trekking poles dangle from my wrist straps as I gripped the rock with bare hands and picked my footsteps across an icy path that literally meant a 200-300 foot fall if I slipped. I could do this. If I went slowly I could definitely do it. Another 3 chutes passed and I realized I had moved about 300 feet in an hour. I started to panic when I realized this because the sky was starting to darken with an impending snowstorm and I still had 3/4 of a mile to go to the summit. I could see the shelter. I could see people taking photos and high-fiving each other on the summit. I think one guy was even naked.. But between me and these celebrations I could also see about an hour's worth of climbing. And then there would be the descent, which would take longer. With bleeding hangnails from gripping the rock and tears welling up in my eyes I made the most painful decision of the trip- I turned back. Less than a mile from the summit I turned back to start the descent. I made it back to the switchbacks before I started to cry, then I let it loose. Aside from the physical challenge of the attempt I had also attached a lot of sentimental value to the climb and even though I was the only one who knew these intentions I felt like I had really let someone down. I bawled. It was the most disappointing moment of the trip thus far. I scrambled down The mountain trying unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact with other hikers. The descent in snow would have been fine, but I still needed to get down to my base camp, break camp, and move to lower ground before the snow overcame me like a few nights prior..

I felt defeated and exhausted. I walked down to Crabtree Meadows and sunk into a camping spot among familiar faces. Jake, now known as 75 because he carries a 75 pound pack, was just packing up his gear to summit Whitney, in the snowstorm, at night. Everyone has their comfort level I guess, and some people it seems are missing that part of their brain that connects fear to reality.. In the end, it was still one of the prettiest days of my life and an incredible experience even if I didn't get to summit.

As I wandered through camp towards the ranger station to get the weather report (with puffy eyes and a poor-me look on my face) I came across a couple I had passed on the climb. I fought back tears as I told them I had failed in the climb. The ranger gave us the weather and we all headed back to our tents. As I passed the couple I was approached by the guy, Adam, with a Crown Royal bag. Yes, PLEASE! I thought. Perhaps because he pitied me, perhaps because he knew I'd die without them he pulled his microspikes out of the bag and asked if I wanted them. I got teary-eyed again. The upcoming passes had snow on them and were going to be tough on me, he said. So he gave me his spikes and I promised to mail them to him after the Sierras. Against better judgement, I cried again. So Much emotion in one day!

What a long day.

Independence

The next day I slept in and only made it about 4 miles before it started storming and I set up my tent. I had met a couple coming off Whitney that I immediately liked and I set up my tent near them to weather the storm. Luckily, the storms never turned into much and I was able to avoid heavy thunder/lightning, again. A JMT hiker set his tent up next to us and after a few hours I ventured out to pee and unwittingly dropped my pants and peed right in front of him. Yikes. Its almost a right of passage- everyone has been caught peeing or worse now and I felt like part of the gang.

After only a few miles of hiking I slept like a baby that night, through rain and snow and hail, still needing to come down from the emotional charge of Whitney... Whitney, you bitch, I will conquer you one day!

Waking up early the next day I took off for Independence. In order to resupply there it's a 17 mile detour up and over Kearsarge Pass- a total pain in the ass but as I found out- a beautiful one.

I started the day with the long climb up Forester Pass. Again, all by myself, the way I've done 95% of the hike. The gradual rocky meadows gave way to snow-patched fields of rocks and frozen lakes with little rrivers (some seen and some heard underfoot beneath the snow as they flowed under delicate ice bridges which I walked over as gently as possible) and eventually I came to the switchbacks and headed up. I climbed slowly and watched behind me as I saw other hikers gaining on me. I took my time in the hopes that others would catch me- knowing that if I made it to the top I'd likely feel safer scaling the ice cornice with others nearby. I meandered up the switchbacks, suddenly aware that I was not as scared of heights as I thought I was. I could look down over the side of the trail and see straight down hundreds of feet of jagged cliff. I was unfazed. The trail itself was generally at least 3 feet wide and felt safe.

By the time I made it to the top I only had to wait about 20 minutes for a couple guys who were coming up to help me up over the very top where the snow had formed a tiny technical climb that just felt safer with people nearby. I sat atop the highest point on the PCT at 13,200 feet and felt very accomplished. I had done it! The big, bad, scary pass hadn't defeated me! I said a quick thank you to the snow gods for the incredibly low snow year before I picked my way down the managably snow-covered descent on the other side with my gifted microspikes strapped on my boots. It was incredibly pretty. It looked like a scene from Game of Thrones where there could erupt an epic battle between the Wildlings and the Night's Watch. I picked my way down and before I knew it I had passed the snow and I was descending through forests and creeks and the mountains were again rising up all around me.

After an 8 mile descent into the rugged valley I began to climb again up a very steep trail leading to Glen Pass. I cut off on the Bullfrog Lakes trail after a couple miles of climbing and headed towards Kearsarge Pass. Hiking in the Sierras doesn't bring you close to towns so you have to hike out, in this case a 17 mile roundtrip up and over Kearsarge Pass to the towns of Independence and Bishop, and back again with a pack full of food. I was a little grumpy at the time because at my pace I wasn't very excited about hiking extra miles, but this turned out to be one of the prettiest sections of trail.

I encountered my first ranger on this detour. I was eager to ask her all sorts of questions and struck up a conversation with her. I felt like I knew her, her name was Kat. The longer we chatted the more I was certain I knew her from somewhere. She was easy to remember, with a bubbly personality and excited smile. And then it came out, I DID know her! She had been the hut warden (basically a ranger) at one of the backcountry huts I had hiked to in New Zealand! It all clicked and I remembered her well! What a small world!

On I hiked up to the top of Kearsarge and the view was breathtaking. Looking back down the range you could watch the clouds mingling with the peaks. The lakes below reflected the clouds and the bright blue sky and it took a lot of self-motivating to stand up, leave this view and continue the hike towards the town of Independence.

Once you reach the top of Kearsarge Pass you fill like you're almost done with the hike out. Then you realize that you still have 4.4 miles of descending ahead of you. Damn. And there were dark clouds in every direction..Damnit. So I grabbed my two little lightning rod trekking poles and took off down the mountain, rushing to get down to tree-cover but also desperate to make it down in time to possibly score a bed for the evening in a hotel after 10 days in the woods.

I scurried and scrambled and made good time. I couldn't help but stop and admire the clouds and glow as the sun set behind the mountains. Several times I stopped as a storm formed in the valley below me and the rays of sun shines through them with prism-like patches of rainbows.

It was stunning. It should have registered sooner but as I gazed at this beautiful rain storm I realized that the pretty storm,was heading straight towards me, fast. I bolstered my cameras and scrambled down a little further where I could hide in the trees. I waterproofed everything and sat under a tall pine that shielded me from the rain. After a few minutes the rain let up a bit and I made a run for the trailhead parking lot at the base of the descent. The rain returned but I kept on flying down the mountain. I was soaked and the rain was stinging my face but I couldn't stop. It was getting dark outside and I had to get to the bottom. After a series of irritatingly shallow switchback I finally came to the bottom of the hill and I could see the parking lot. Two women were walking to a car and I knew I had to make a move. I literally, with full pack, ran to their car as they sat inside ready to drive off. As I neared the car I slowed to a big and ran to the driver's window, certain I had scared them with my approach. Turns out I probably couldn't have picked a more perfect car and pair of people had I sat there all day! The women drove me to their friend's motel and even paid for my first night's stay! The manager turned out to be a fellow hiker and greeted me with a beer before going to Subway to get me dinner. I almost cried, again. 23 miles of High Sierra hiking had ended in the best possible way and as I climbed in my warm bed I fell asleep almost immediately.

***Adding photos with limited internet (and on this phone) is a bit tricky here. I have 2 public PCT albums that can be seen at:

www.Facebook.com/jenmkirby (should be on my wall)