Timberline Lake to Whitney Portal

Approximately 12.8 miles. Cumulative: 213.4 miles.

The author on day 13 of his solo hike of the John Muir Trail.

I keep forgetting to mention the airplanes. There seemed to be a lot of them going overhead during the nighttime hours. They were loud. The first few nights I’d wake up a few times to the roar of a jet engine. I got used to it, but it was more common, or at least a lot noisier, at higher altitudes.

The morning air was crisp and chilly, the coldest since I’d camped at Evolution Lake. It was refreshing after the heat of the day before. As I broke camp, a few early hikers hustled by up the trail, hoping to catch the sunrise from on top of Mt. Whitney. I soon followed, but I was going too slowly to catch the sunrise. I was only about three miles from Trail Crest, but I’d have to climb 2,000 feet to get there.

But first, I came to Guitar Lake. If you’ve ever hiked M. Whitney, you’ve seen this iconic lake far below you after you pass Trail Crest.

Sunrise over Guitar Lake

The climb up to Trail Crest was very deceptive. If I looked up, it seemed I was almost at the top, but with every switchback, I didn’t seem to be getting any closer. And then, when I saw just how tiny the hikers above me looked, I resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be a long slog.

The climb to Trail Crest. You can see a pair of hikers resting about halfway up.

But even though the ascent was hard, the scenery was fantastic. I rested often, snacking and sipping water. I had two full bottles, but I didn’t know when my next chance to fill up would be. I knew of a good place where Lone Pine Creek crossed the trail down to Whitney Portal, but that was a fair distance below Trail Camp, at least five miles from where I was.

The Hitchcock Lakes and Mt. Hitchcock.

I enjoyed being in the shadows most of the way up to Trail Crest. The footing here was probably the most harrowing, aside from Glen Pass. It would have been really easy to fall right off the side of the trail in more than a few places.

A narrow spot on the trail. There were a few of these.

It took time, but I finally made it to the top of the climb. I still had a short distance to Trail Crest proper, but I had one last time for a panoramic look back at where I’d spent the last 13 days.

North-facing panorama of the John Muir Trail from Trail Crest.

And one last look at Guitar Lake.

Guitar Lake from above.

As you approach Trail Crest, the wind really picks up. It’s one of those places where one side of the pass is warm and temperate in the sun. But once you hit Trail Crest, a cold wind from the north side whips up the slope to catch the unprepared and make them realize just how unprepared they are.

Just before I got to the trail junction, it was pretty crowded with many day hikers trying for the Mt. Whitney summit, and a good majority of them were unprepared for this cold wind. One Whitney hiker, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt and carrying nothing but a water bottle, complained how cold it was; she didn’t think it would be like this.

I stood there for a moment considering my options. I’d summited Mt. Whitney twice in the past, so I decided to skip it this time. I was tired, sore, and just wanted down from this mountain. And I still had about nine miles to go.

I’m totally counting this as a pass.

Then came the descent of the so-called 99 switchbacks. I’ve never counted them, but there are many of them. I did look over at Mt. Whitney, about two miles to the north. I could see people standing on the summit.

Mt. Muir on the left and Mt. Whitney on the right. You can see the stone hut and people on its summit.

Then back to the 99 switchbacks. It was very busy that day, and I encountered large groups of hikers after every switchback on the way down. Some were prepared. Some weren’t. Most were day hikers going to Mt. Whitney, but a few were north-bound PCT hikers coming in from a Lone Pine resupply run. There was even a pair of hikers doing the JMT south -to-north (opposite of what I had done).

Going down the 99 switchbacks. Many hikers were going up.

As I finished the 99 switchbacks, I slipped on a loose patch of scree. I reached down to brace myself, and, well, this happened.

Just had to draw blood one last time before I was done.

If I’d had two poles, this probably would not have happened.

And then, Trail Camp. I saw a lot of nice campsites along the John Muir Trail during the last 13 days. Trail Camp, however, is not one of them. It’s a cesspit. I know some people who see it as essential to summiting Mt. Whitney, but if you can, I recommend skipping it.

Trail Camp. Skip this. Seriously.

I mean, you’ll have to contend with this.

One of many bags of human waste in Trail Camp. These things are jammed into and under rocks all over the camp.

Then it was down. I crossed paths with more than one hiker who was ascending with an Aether 70 or Baltoro 75 or some other massive pack. They were decked out in the latest mountaineering boots like you’d use to climb Mt. Everest. When I asked if they were doing the PCT said, no, just going t Trail Camp.

I’d hiked with a 30-pound pack and a pair of light hikers for 13 days. What the heck were they carrying for an overnight stay?

You are exiting the Whitney Zone.

The last three miles or so from this sign down to Whitney Portal is my least favorite stretch of trail in the Sierras. There are a lot of switchbacks, but they don’t drop very much, so it’s frustrating to make a turn and then hike along parallel and almost at the same level before you made the turn. Yeah, maybe that doesn’t make much sense. But trust me, it was frustrating.

To compound this frustration, you can hear the noise, smell the food (real food!) cooking, and see the Whitney Portal Store below. I couldn’t get down fast enough.

And then it was over. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. I got to the Whitney Portal Store, ordered myself a giant hamburger with fries and drank a 22-ounce bottle of Stone Smoked Porter.

I finished a day sooner than expected, and since it was a Friday, I had no one to pick me up. The wife had reserved a room at the Best Western in Lone Pine for Saturday, so my plan was to go there and try to check in a day early. But how to get there …

Lone Pine is 11 miles down the Whitney Portal Road. I certainly didn’t feel like walking it, and a shuttle service was something like $80. The girl at the Portal Store recommended I hitch a ride. I’ve never hitched a ride in my life, so I was wary about that. Who would give a ride to a scruffy, dirty, man? But it’s endemic to the culture of the area, and I got a ride from a man and his daughter. They were from Anaheim and were hiking to Mt. Whitney the next day.

They dropped me off at the hotel. I thanked them, wished them luck the next day, and offered them some money, but they turned me down. I remain very appreciative of their kindness.

I was a bit dismayed that the hotel was half a mile outside of Lone Pine proper. I was really hungry, and knew I’d have to go into town for dinner. I really didn’t feel like walking.

I managed to check into the room a day early, which was great. The staff at the Best Western were really hospitable. I took a long, hot shower, then did some laundry, and thought about dinner.

Now that I was clean a little rested, the walk to downtown Lone Pine didn’t seem too daunting, and besides, I didn’t really have any other option. So I walked to the Pizza Factory and ate a whole pizza.

As I walked back to the hotel in the twilight, I told myself I never had to do hike the John Muir Trail again. But I was lying. I’d do it again tomorrow.

End of an adventure. Now, for a pizza.

Center Basin to Timberline Lake (just past)

Approximately 19.6 miles. Cumulative: 200.6 miles.

The author on day 12 of his solo hike of the John Muir Trail.

I woke up in the middle of the night with my ankle on fire. Not literally, of course, but it has swelled even more and was rebelling against the elastic. Bandage. I peeled it off the elastic bandage for relief.

I slept a little later than normal. The couple from La Crescenta were still sleeping, so I tried to break camp as quietly as possible. I hope I didn’t disturb them too much.

I got moving on the trail at 7:20. I was only a few miles from Forester Pass, the last and tallest pass on the John Muir Trail (unless you count Trail Crest), and it wasn’t long before I walked past the last serious tree cover.

Soon, I would leave the tree cover behind. But I do love those foxtail pines.

I had 2,000 feet of elevation to climb to Forester Pass. It seemed to go on forever, certainly a lot longer than the 4.4 miles advertised. But at least it felt more gradual than some of the other passes.

Initially the weather was pleasantly cool, but once the sun rose over the mountains, it warmed up. Now this wasn’t just something that happened that day — it happened every day. Because you’re up so high, it can be daylight for quite some time before the sun comes up over the surrounding peaks. I found that once the sun did come up, though, it got warm rather quickly (of course this works in reverse in the evenings).

The sun peeking up over the eastern ridge.

On this approach, that effect was particularly noticeable, maybe because there were no sheltering trees to provide shady relief. It was just bare rock. Interesting geologic formations, to be sure, but bare rock nonetheless.

Food stopped having significant meaning. I don’t mean eating it — I was still plenty hungry — I just didn’t care what I ate or when I ate it. For instance, lunch foods looked better for breakfast than breakfast foods. I also sucked down a few packets of GU Roctane as I limped along. That really helped power me along.

The climb dragged on. In places when I stopped to rest, I could hear water running underneath the rocks, which was really fascinating. I came to a little alpine lake, and I thought I was almost there, but the trail kept on going up. I realized then that this was not the lake I was looking for, though it was very beautiful.

There is something really appealing about these small alpine lakes.

The trail switchbacked a few times. I wasn’t entirely sure where the pass was from where I was standing. I’d be interested to climb this when i was more rested. I think my sore ankle and  general weariness were slowing me down.

Eventually, I reached the lake at 12,250 feet. At least that’s what the book calls it. If it has another name, I don’t know what it is. I wish I could say the pass is right after this lake, but I still had more climbing to do.

The lake at 12,250 feet. Still a ways to go …

After a few more switchbacks, I came to a snowfield, relatively flat, about 60 feet long. Another hiker was coming across from the other direction. She seemed very worried about the snow, more worries that this section of snow called for. She got down on all fours and crawled across it. It took her a long time, and she complained, loudly, the entire time.I thought it strange that someone so fearful of this situation would choose to hike in the Sierras in June. Normally, there is much more snow along the trails through the passes.

Now, sure, slipping is a very valid concern, but this seemed like an extreme response. I hoped she didn’t get too freaked out at Glen Pass. The snowfield there had been significantly steeper.

Then, after having a great conversation with a hiker, I was over the pass and looking down at a broad basin with a few lakes.

The view south fro Forester Pass. The day wasn’t done yet.

Going down was still harder than going up on my swollen ankle, so the descent took some time, and when I got to the bottom, I saw the trail that stretched out for as far as I could see. It was surreal.

The trail, stretched out in front of me.

As I hiked, I could see the north-bound hikers lined up like so many planes coming in to land at an airport.I kept on the lookout for any rocks that looked good for sitting, occasionally taking advantage of these, and enjoying the conversations with the north-bound hikers. I had a lot of information they wanted, and I was happy I could help them out.

From a long way off, I could see the north-bound hikers walking my way. Can you spot them? Click through to see a large, notated version.

Eventually, I reached Tyndall Creek. I filled up with water and had a snack, then started a really long walk to find a campsite. I made my way up to and across Bighorn Plateau, which was pretty cool, but fairly surreal. It was also the first glimpse of Mt. Whitney in the distance.

Hiking across the Bighorn Plateau, with the first views of Mt. Whitney on (the left).

At Wright Creek, I ran into a group of about five really stoned hikers. Some of them were in their underwear. They quickly pointed out to me that it was Hike Naked Day (it is also Hike Naked Day when this post was published). I didn’t know there was a thing, and I’m glad they weren’t totally naked, but I’m glad they told me about it. I realized then that I had no idea what had happened for the past week, and even then, the news was sporadic at best. The world could have been overrun by zombies and I wouldn’t have known.

By the time I got to Crabtree Meadow, I was a hurting unit, so I didn’t go down to ranger station to get my required wag bag. I’d heard reports that there were no bags there, and I didn’t look forward to hiking down the hill for no good reason. I was entering Whitney Zone, and regulations stated I needed one if I had to do any business (no cat holes allowed here). I was a little nervous, because, well, the timing was right that I just might need it. But if it came to that, I’d hold it and hike faster.

In looking at the map, my general plan was to camp at Timberline Lake. It was the last lake before Guitar Lake and the climb up to Trail Crest. But when I got to Timberline Lake, I saw this sign.

No camping at Timberline Lake. Argh.

I just wanted to stop. Dejected, I sat down on a rock and leaned back a bit to take the weight off my shoulders. I must have looked as miserable as I felt, because a group of hikers passing by told me not to worry, there was a good site another half-mile or so down the trail.

I reluctantly got shuffled my way along, eventually finding the site they’d mentioned. It did look pretty nice.

My last camp on the John Muir Trail. It was a nice place to spend my final night.

This would be my last campsite on this adventure, and I was happy to finally be able to crawl into the sleeping bag. I was really looking forward to finishing, but I was blissfully ignorant of how challenging the climb to Trail Crest would be.

Woods Creek Canyon to Center Basin

Approximately 18.6 miles. Cumulative: 181 miles.

The author on day 11 of his solo hike of the John Muir Trail.

So something was sniffing around my tent at one point last night. I don’t think it was a bear, but it was close. Close enough to wake me up.

This seems like a  good time to mention that I really wanted to see a bear. From a distance, of course, but it never happened. Not that they weren’t out there, they just didn’t feel the need to bother me, which is fine. But I would have liked to see one.

But back to the day at hand. I broke camp and started hiking at 6:30 a.m.

Then I sprained my ankle at 8:30 a.m.

I was coming down the trail and took a step off a rather large boulder. I wasn’t paying attention to just how large it was (instead, I was admiring the views. I mean, how could you not?), and, on that last step, felt — and heard — a pop from my ankle.

I said a few bad words and sat there for a moment. Another hiker saw the whole thing and walked right by me (thanks, pal). Not that he could have done much, but a “Bummer, dude,” would have been welcomed. Humans like to have company in, or at least acknowledgement of, their misery.

I’d sprained an ankle before and knew (well, hoped) I’d be able to walk it off, but it sure wouldn’t be a pleasant day. I didn’t have much of a choice, so I kept on. The going was a little slower (which annoyed me), and initially a little painful, but after a little while, I could walk on it with minimal discomfort. I didn’t want to stop and look at it, though.

I sort of forgot about it, though, when I came to the wood-and-steel-cable bridge over Woods Creek, the so-called “Golden Gate of the Sierras.”

The Golden Gate of the Sierras is pretty narrow.

As the sign says, one person at a time, please. There’s just something neat about walking on a bouncy suspension bridge. The kid in me couldn’t resist the urge to bounce just a little.

The author on the “one person at a time on bridge” bridge.

A lot of people were camped out on the other side of the bridge. There were many young folks, which made me happy. I always like to see kids enjoying nature, especially here.

I had about nine miles to go to Glen Pass, which I had very little information about. Unlike the other passes, all of which had been given some level of trail notoriety by north-bound hikers, no one had said anything about Glen Pass.

The trail from the bridge was a steady climb up to the Rae Lakes. I was moving slower than I wanted to, but the scenery, as always was beautiful. I found the trees, especially the foxtail pines, to be quite remarkable.

Majestic foxtail Pines on the trail to Rae Lakes.

The trail leveled off right as I entered the Rae Lakes Basin. The Fin Dome, on my right, rose high above the lakes. It was one of my favorite rock formations of the whole trip.

Fin Dome

Rae Lakes was gorgeous, snatching second-favorite lake status from Pinnacle Lakes. I think I liked Rae lakes slightly better. Nothing can top Evolution Lake for me, though.

Rae Lakes, beneath Fin Dome

After walking along Rae Lakes, past the Rae Lakes Ranger Station, I saw the The Painted lady and Dragon Peak, two more fantastic peaks that would be my near-constant companions as I climbed up to Glen Pass.

The Painted Lady over Rae lakes. That’s Dragon Peak on the left.

After crossing a stream that flowed out of the Rae Lakes, I stopped for a bit to rest and east some lunch. I wasn’t looking forward to the climb on my ankle at all, but there was no one to carry me, so off I went. I had about 1,500 feet of climb ahead of me in less than two miles. The elevation profile looked daunting. It was slow going.

About an hour into the climb, two kids, about 9 and 11, came tearing down the path. It made me think of my kids and how much I missed them. A few minutes later, a single hiker ambled down the trail, the father of the two boys who’d ran past me. They were finishing a four-day Father’s Day hike, which sounded pretty cool.

He asked where I was going. I told him. He asked if I knew where the pass was. I told him not exactly, but it was up there somewhere. I pointed to the ridge way up ahead and high above us.

He nodded. Yeah, see than snow field? Yep. That dark line across it, that’s footprints in the snow that lead right up to the pass.

Glen Pass. You can’t really see it here, but click through to see where the path is up to the pass and a hiker on the ridge.

I thanked him and limped on up the trail. It was going to be a long afternoon. The book said that this is where mountain bighorn sheep came to play, so I didn’t mind having to rest frequently on the way up. As I sat on these breaks, regaining what little energy I could, I’d scan the rocks for signs of movement, but I never saw any bighorn sheep. I did see a number of those small, deep blue alpine lakes I liked so much, though.

A nameless alpine lake below Glen Pass and behind The Painted Lady.

As I climbed, I could see two hikers way above me on the ridge. They seemed to be walking back and forth, acting lost or confused. I continued to climb.

A hiker on Glen Pass, looking for the trail.

As I got within shouting range, one of them shouted down to me, “Is this the trail?”

Numerous deep footprints marked the narrow snowfield. It looked pretty obvious to me where the trail was, but maybe it was harder to see from above. So I said, “Yeah, you’ll pick it up again right around this corner.” I pointed behind me where the trail disappeared among the scree.

Everyone warned me about Mather Pass. No one ever talked about Glen Pass. I found Glen Pass to be a bit more harrowing, It might have been a bit easier earlier in the day when it was cooler, but the sun was high and the snow was soft. I postholed my way up. I’ve never been much a a guy for gaiters, even when trail running, but cold ice down the shoe made me see the value in them.

The hikers on the ridge glissaded down the slope after I’d climbed up, then it was over the pass. I saw that as steeply as it ascended, so did it descend, and I limped down the other side. Going downhill hurt my ankle more, so I picked my way carefully.

As I got to the bottom of the slope, I walked past two rangers filtering water. Or at least I assumed they were rangers. They had on that green uniform with patches and wore thick beards — but by now, most of the men had beards. They were younger guys, had seemed to gather a collection of young admirers. From where I stood, it looked like a bunch of ranger groupies or something hanging out with them. It was kind of odd.

I limped along for another few miles, past Charlotte Lake, and decided it was time to look at the ankle. So I stopped at the Kearsarge Pass junction and took off my shoe. It was swollen all right. I pulled out the first aid kit (always carry one, even on day hikes!) and wrapped my ankle with an elastic bandage. That would have to do. I had lunch and got back to it.

Charlotte Lake. There’s supposed to be a ranger station down there.

My secured ankle felt better, but it still hurt to go downhill. So, of course, the trail here was downhill for the next two miles or so, only to start a steady climb back up to Vidette Meadow, where there’s  a famous bear box. I was thinking of camping there, but it was still plenty light out when I got there, so I kept going. I made it to Center Creek Basin about the same time as a pair of north-bound hikers. The site was plenty big, so we agreed to share it.

Turns out they were a husband and wife from La Crescenta, California, which is a section of Los Angeles not too far from me. He was a chemist and she was a lawyer who had quit their jobs to hike the PCT together, which was pretty cool. Living the dream and all that.

They were great campsite companions. I learned a lot in the short time we talked. They preferred the Sierras to the Anza-Borrego section of the PCT, where they each had to carry at least three liters of water (more than six and a half pounds) to make it through some stretches.

They also cooked hot food at lunch and ate cold food at dinner. This made a lot of sense to me, for a number of reasons. I was often racing to clean up the dishes before bed and always slightly worried about lingering food scent on my clothing from cooking. Plus, at lunch, normally the hottest part of the say, taking the extra time to cook in a nice shaded area sounded appealing. I’m going to adopt this practice in future hikes and see how it goes.

I told them about the large number of north-bound PCT hikers I’d seen in the past few days. They told me the last “trail magic” days at Vidette Meadow ended a few days ago, which would explain that. I had to wonder how magic this trail magic was if it was planned.

The bear box at my campsite at Center Basin in case you were wondering what they looked like. They can get pretty full.

We talked for a bit longer, then retired for the night. I was about four and a half miles from Forester Pass, the last of the passes (and the tallest at 13,100 feet) on the John Muir Trail. It would be a good feeling to clear it. My ankle throbbed, and I was looking forward to bringing this adventure, as grand as it was, to an end.

Deer Meadow to Woods Creek Canyon

Approximately 21.6 miles. Cumulative: 162.4 miles.

The author on day 10 of his solo hike of the John Muir Trail.

Of the three groups camped in the Deer Meadow, I was the first one to greet the day. I broke camp, had a quick cup of coffee, and started walking. There had been rumors of a bear in the area, but our three campsites were undisturbed.

At one point, the mosquitoes started getting a little annoying, so I went to put on my mosquito head net … and it wasn’t there. I’d been keeping it in my hip belt pocket. I was bummed. It was a good piece of equipment; lightweight and it did the job it was designed to do very well. Instead, I used my trusty Original Buff (another fabulous piece of gear). It didn’t work quite as well for keeping the bugs from annoying me, but at least it kept them out of my nose and mouth.

As I hiked along toward the Golden Staircase (there were a few minor blowdowns here to negotiate), one of the guys from the fire last night zipped past me. After we greeted each other, I asked him if he happened to see a mosquito net. He had, but he through it belonged to the two ladies who’d camped near us. When they said it wasn’t theirs, he left it on the trail in case someone went back for it.

I can’t remember this guy’s name, but he was one hell of a strong hiker. He could climb steep elevation gains quickly and steadily. He was 23 years younger than me, and I felt every one of those years as I watched him speed up the slopes of the Golden Staircase ahead of me.

The first few steps of the Golden Staircase …

Ah yes, the Golden Staircase. This was the last section of the John Muir Trail to be finished, and it wasn’t complete until 1938, some 23 years after construction of the trail had officially begun.

I don’t know why it’s called the Golden Staircase. It’s not golden, and it’s not really a staircase. Instead, it’s a arduous stretch of rocky trail that switchbacks its way up to the Palisade Lakes. It runs parallel to the Palisade Creek, which tumbles down out of the lakes above, so there were plenty of places where waterfalls roared by. I’d pause every so often to rest, catch my breath, and look back into the valley where I’d spent the night.

Sun rising over Deer Meadow from the Golden Staircase

This climb was more difficult than I’d anticipated, and it took a lot out of me. The renewed energy I’d gotten from my stay at VVR was waning. It took me longer than I’d wanted to reach the Palisade Lakes, but when I did, I had to agree with the hiker I’d spoken to the day before that they were indeed beautiful. The Evolution Basin still holds the distinction of being my favorite place along this trail, but Palisade Lakes is a close second.

Lower Palisade Lake with Mather Pass in the background.

A lot of people had spent the night here. There were at least three distinct groups having breakfast and breaking camp when I hiked by. We all chatted briefly about how great it was to be alive and be in the High Sierras. As I walked along the trail that paralleled the shore of Lower Palisade Lake, I ran into a hiker coming down from Mather Pass. He’d slept up there the night before and pointed it out to me. It looked further away than I wanted it to be.

After I passed Upper Palisade Lake, the trail started to climb steadily, leaving almost all vegetation behind, and soon I was on a trail that was all rock.

These cairns mark the trail up to Mather Pass.

I slogged up the switchbacks to Mather Pass. This was an intense climb, and pretty tiring. Quite often I sat and rested for a few moments among the huge boulders that made up the talus surrounding the trail. I’d snack often (glad I had those peanut M&Ms) and look around. There were many tiny, nameless alpine lakes peppering the slopes of the surrounding peaks. They were very inviting. Also, the views behind me back at the Palisade Lakes — and the namesake Palisades range of peaks rising up behind them — were spectacular.

View from the climb up to Mather Pass looking north. The Palisades rise up behind the Palisade Lakes.

During this stretch, the second guy from the campsite the night before cruised by me. He was a young guy, too, just out of college. I don’t feel old that often, but, well, I was feeling pretty old that day. Turns out the three of us would leapfrog each other regularly for the next three days. I caught up to them as they relaxed at the top of Mather Pass.

I took a short break there, looked back …

At Mather Pass, looking north to the Palisades and Palisade Lakes.

… and looked ahead …

At Mather Pass looking south: down into Upper Basin

… then kept going. Coming down the other side of Mather Pass was not easy, either. The trail switch-backed all the way down, and footing was treacherous in places. A few times I could hear rocks tumbling down from above. Just a little freaky.

The footing was rocky, dusty, and treacherous during the descent from Mather Pass.

Upon reaching the trail traveled along dry and desert-like terrain for a few miles. I was close to running out of water, the closest I’d been all trip, and it took me a little while to find a likely spot. I was glad for the break and rested near the stream for a few minutes.

It was only 10 miles from Mather Pass to Pinchot Pass, and the day was still early. I was confident I could make it. But for some reason my mood had gotten bad. So I got into a fight with my water bottle.

I was using one of those Platypus Platy Bottles. Great for dayhikes and everyday urban use, but it just doesn’t hold up to long-term abuse on the trail. It worked well for awhile, but by now, I hated it. The damn thing kept falling out of its pocket.

And let me tell you. There’s nothing sillier than a man yelling at his water bottle.

After this long, dry section, the trail entered a lightly forested section. It was nice to get some shade. I wasn’t the only one to think so; this is where I saw my first and only buck mule deer.

Unlike the does, this guy didn’t like me being around. He bolted right after I took his photo.

Soon enough, I came to the South Fork of the King’s River. I forded my way across it — well, more like jumped across it on a series of partially submerged rocks — ate a snack, then started to climb to Pinchot Pass, eventually passing the Bench Lake Ranger station. The trail kept a slight uphill grade through a pleasant meadow, eventually surrendering to more rugged terrain as I got closer to Pinchot Pass.

I came across another hiker making camp near the Lake Marjorie outlet, right where the trail climbed up to the pass. I was really tired, so I thought about stopping, but it was only 3 P.M. I had a good four hours of hiking and about six miles to go to Sawmill Lake Junction, most of that downhill. I knew I could make the pass, after that, well, I was sure I’d find some place to sleep.

The road to Pinchot Pass. Crater Mountain on the left. Mount Ickes on the right. Nameless lake in front.

Again, the climbs were getting harder. I rested a lot on the way up. It was, after all, my second pass that day, with a total of more than 5,300 feet of climbing.

Right before the pass, I ran into a guy who asked me if I’d passed a girl. He described her and I remembered passing her on day eight. He asked me a lot of questions about her, but they were weird questions, more stalker than friend. Normally hikers asking about other hikers I’d seen seemed friendly, but this time it seemed a little creepy (this opinion was later corroborated by another hiker, so it wasn’t just me). I answered vaguely. He also told me you couldn’t do 20 miles a day in the Sierras. I didn’t argue, but he was wrong.

The view of the alpine basin south of Pinchot Pass.

I cleared Pinchot Pass and shuffled down, hoping to make Sawmill Pass Trail or something really close. I had a specific campsite in mind, but when I got there, it was taken. I had a brief conversation with the guy camped there about typical hiker stuff. The sun was getting low and I wasn’t sure how far I had to to the next suitable camp. I was tired and wanted to stop there, but something about his body language had me thinking he didn’t want to share the campsite.

So I backtracked a bit to fill up on water at the nearby stream, then walked back by him to wish him well. That’s when he told me he was hiking with another hiker who was in the tent, suffering from a virus. So that made me glad I took the time to treat all the water I drank. You just never know.

That said, I did wonder about the integrity of the batch of water I’d just treated. It was the only time I wondered about the quality of the water source I’d chosen the entire trip. But I sourced it upstream from the camp in the opposite direction they were traveling, so I told myself I’d be all right.

The light was starting to fading; this was the longest I’d gone before making camp, and I had no camp in sight. Fortunately, I met two guys coming up the trail, and they told me about a great campsite about half a mile ahead. And it was below 10,000 feet with a fire ring. That meant I could start a fire.

I hustled and got to the spot as soon as I could. I made camp and started collecting twigs and other small combustibles scattered around the campsite to start a fire. I was being brutalized by mosquitoes as I did this. As great as the Buff was, I sorely missed not having the mosquito net I’d lost that morning.

And I really had to go to the bathroom again (I know, right! I’d just gone the day before!), so I retreated away from camp and did my business while trying my best (mostly failing) to avoid an army of mosquitoes.

I got back to camp and totally abandoned the idea of a fire. I didn’t think it would keep enough of the bugs away, and I was tired and hungry. I jsut wanted to eat and go to bed. I wouldn’t even have time to enjoy a nice campfire.

I cooked dinner in the security of my tent’s vestibule, ate it, cleaned up quickly, and got to bed. The sun had dropped below the peaks and it was well past my bed time.

I nodded off right away. This had been my hardest day yet. I didn’t know it yet, of course, but tomorrow would be worse.