Seven Days of Backpackng North of Yosemite

Diana Coogle, Sarah Nawah, Scott Mattoon
in the Emigrant Wilderness Area

     Standing at the rock edge of a pool of cold, clear-to-the-bottom water, I clasped my little backpacker's towel to my dripping body and gazed at the scene in which I had a moment before been immersed: the long, narrow cup of granite that held the water, the clump of red and yellow wildflowers in a crack of rock at the water's edge, the rush of a little cascade falling into the pool from the long stream down the mountain, and, beyond, occasional stands of pines among the enormous white boulders culminating, far above, in the peak called Granite Dome.

    It was beauty beyond comprehension. Not even a photograph could serve as Gerard Manley Hopkins's latch or catch or key to keep back such beauty, and so the beauty of that moment vanished except in my memory, where it stays rich and vibrant.

    My hiking partners for this seven-day backpacking trip in the Emigrant Wilderness Area were Scott, from California, and Sarah, from Pennsylvania, 

Sarah and Scott at our camp on Gnome Lake

with whom I had hiked in the Wallowa Mountains of eastern Oregon last September. Scott, who is training to be a leader on Sierra Club trips, kept the lead. Sarah hiked next, I last. Day after day we hiked past enormous pine trees, 

through large meadows still vibrant with lupine, groundsel, butterweed, Indian paintbrush, valerian; past tiny streams giving life to still more wildflowers.

 We climbed Mosquito Pass, then rested for half an hour on its flat top with the stark, rock beauty of Sierra-rich views around us. Veins of rose quartz flowed through the granite. A packer with his mule train ambled past, an iconic picture in the high Sierra.  I spread some of my late husband's ashes on Mosquito Pass. 

    On the sixth day, Scott led us off-trail, over granite boulders with flowers tucked in crannies and cracks, up rock steps easy only for giants, on thin, narrow ledges, up flat slabs, or leaping from rock to rock over streams in deep chasms.

                        Photo by Scott Mattoon

It was stupendous hiking. We camped that night not far from an unnamed lake now dubbed Gnome Lake, blue water with undulating lines of green grasses outlining its contours, and a rock at each end for good swimming access. 

Gnome Lake

A waterfall made a long slender silver thread on the cliff above our tents. A glacier, we knew, was tucked up there on Granite Dome, on whose flank we were camped. 

    We hiked 42 miles in those seven days. Scott gave the trip a Sierra Club rating of four (out of five) for difficulty. Our highest altitude was 9370 feet, on Mosquito Pass, but we were almost as high at Gnome Lake. I had nine swims in five lakes, plus four dips in two pools. We spent our nights under brilliant stars. Scott watched the  Perseid meteor show. (I slept soundly in my tent.)

                                                                                        Photo by Scott Mattoon

 We saw an eagle, a marmot, various tiny frogs, a dragonfly caught in a spider web (which we set free), and we heard coyotes and an owl. 

    But there is no way to give voice to the beauty of that landscape. I will return.

Me and Sarah on the last day. Photo by Scott Mattoon

PCT Thru-hiker

        When I returned to my car at the top of Cook and Green Pass after a 12-mile hike partially on the Pacific Crest Trail the other day, a young PCT thru-hiker (Mexico to Canada) was sitting at the campsite there. He told me he had injured his leg and needed a ride to town, where he would "hang out for a few days and let the leg heal." I suggested he spend the night at my house, and I would take him to Ashland the next day, where he could find a motel to stay in.

    So after an hour's ride Nibbler (his trail name, because he was always nibbling on a block of cheese) found himself standing at the door of a lovely house in the Siskiyou Mountains.

   Taking off my shoes just inside the door, I asked him to do the same. 

    He took off his shoes, then said, "My socks are dirty, too."

   I turned to look. They were streaked black with dirt. I suggested he leave them outside.

    He took off his socks. He said, "My feet are pretty dirty."

    I turned to look. Indeed they were! I started to tell him to leave them outside, too, but told him instead to walk around the house to the bathroom door on the deck. There I gave him a towel and offered him a shower.

    What a change after no telling how many weeks or months on the trail! A shower. A good big helping of a tuna-melt casserole, which he wolfed down so fast I gave him the rest of it, too. A real bed, with clean sheets. Total luxury.

    For his part, he was a charming guest. He cleaned the kitchen after dinner, made his own bed, and entertained me with stories about the trail. 

    I learned, for instance, that hiking the Pacific Crest Trail these days is as much a social as a wilderness experience. Because you are basically hiking the same route in the same time frame as the people you start with, they become your trail family.

    I have long been curious how PCT hikers keep their pack weight low. Did they, for instance, carry tents?

   Some did, Nibbler said. Some use tarps, some just bivy sacks. Some people don't carry rain gear. Some cut the belts off their backpacks to lighten the load. He himself had cut the strap off his headlamp and velcroed the lamp to his hat. Some people, he said, considered headlamps extraneous, but he sometimes walked after dark to escape the heat and thought a headlamp a necessity.

    I asked about bear canisters. He said people carry them where they are required, as in the high Sierra, and then get rid of them. When I asked how campers keep bears out of their food, he said most people sleep with their food in the tent.

    I was aghast. A bear that smells food wouldn't hesitate a minute to rip into a tent. Weren't the hikers taking a huge risk? 

    Well, he said, there are so many people at the campsites that the bears don't come around.

    That many people?

    Everyone has their luxury item, he said. I pointed to my Kindle—that was mine, I said. (I didn't mention the camp dress.) He said his was an extra pair of socks.

    The next morning, on my way to a hike on Mt. Ashland, I left him, refreshed and well fed, in front of the Columbus Hotel in Ashland. He would stay there a few days, then rejoin his trail family farther up the trail when his leg felt better.

    A few days later, on another hike, I saw a thru-hiker with a big pack. "Smart girl," I thought.

    

The Birthday Hike That Wasn't

    Sometimes the good and the bad happen in rapid succession.

    The intended good: A 12-mile hike in the Red Buttes Wilderness with my son, Ela, for my birthday last week. 

    The first bad: A flash from the "overheating" light when we're six miles up a winding, uphill, gravel road headed for the trailhead. Steam billowing from the hood.

    The good: A lovely little waterfall at the side of the road from which I fill the water bottle. Ela pours water into the radiator. And again. And again.

    The bad: A leak in the radiator. We are going nowhere.

    The bad: No cell service.

    The good or the bad, depending: A 12-mile hike before us, after all, just not where we intended.

    The good: Cell signal after three miles. Ela texts a friend for rescue.

    The bad: No response.

    The good: After another mile: a car coming up the road. William! He takes us to his house, where I call AAA.

    The bad: On hold interminably.

    The good: AAA response.

    The bad: My AAA membership is in Oregon, but the car is just over the border in California. AAA won't cross borders. More long holds to talk to AAA California. 

    The good: AAA response. They will send a tow truck from Yreka, California. I explain that it would be closer to send one from Grants Pass, Oregon.

    The bad: Rules are Rules.

    The bad: More long holds while they try to find a tow truck driver.

    The good: Response from a tow truck driver. We send the GPS coordinates for the location of the car. He would meet us at the car at 2:00.

    The good: A car to drive while mine is in the shop—William's parents'. They are vacationing in Alaska and won't mind, he assures me. 

    The bad: Ela and I wait another hour at my car for the tow truck. He watches the road. I write a poem. The two truck arrives with a very unhappy driver. The road had been terrible. His big flatbed trailer had buckled and fishtailed over every pothole. 

    The bad: I'm not happy, either, with my crippled car.

    The good: The tow truck diver hauls my car to my mechanic in Grants Pass. Ela and I go home in the Prius.

    The bad: Modern radiators are plastic, throw-away parts. 

    The good: Lighter cars have better gas mileage.

    Conclusions of the bad: A long, tedious day. I had missed my birthday hike.

    Conclusions of the good: Good friends to help. A car to drive while mine is being fixed. AAA assistance at no cost. Best of all, the competent and cheerful companionship of my son on a frustrating day.

    Conclusions of the day: Not so bad, after all.