Day 23
Reds Meadow to Thousand Island Lakes
19.2 miles
7500 ft elevation change
August 27, 2019
I wake in a bed and feel somehow out of place. Missing my four tent walls, the hug of my quilt, the sounds of morning birds singing me gently awake. This cabin feels too dark and too quiet. I’m ready for my return to the trees.
We pack up quickly and hit the trail at first light. A doe watches me intently as her two fawns nibble on grass alongside the trail, silhouetted by the rising sun. She saunters off as I approach, and one of the fawns follows closely. The other realizes she’s left a few moments later, freezes, then explodes into a clumsy hop up the hill to the safety of her side. We all study each other for a few quiet, peaceful breaths before I finally turn away to continue walking.
Our first mile takes us through Reds Meadow and into the wilds of Devils Postpile National Monument. The escalating smoke of a distant forest fire hangs heavy in the air, filling my lungs with the scent of destruction.
The forest whispers its story to me as I walk. As I climb out of the valley, it shows me scars from fires past, and the smoky air gives atmosphere to its history. All around me, I see death and ash and new growth. And in it, I see myself.
You and me, we’re phoenixes, I say aloud as I graze a nearby tree with my fingertips.
Fire runs through us, and we are reborn from our ashes in a never ending cycle. Simultaneously fragile and resilient. I stop mid-step and fall to my knees, marveling at the might of a new growth pine now eye level beside me. It stares back, a mirror to the forests of my soul.
I am a seedling with old growth dreams, always becoming. I dig deep and reach high, rooting myself to the fiery core of this world and branching skyward toward the edges of this atmosphere and beyond.
I walk through this phoenix forest for what feels like hours, awestruck and reverent and listening to its story over and over and over. It bears testament to what’s possible. That fire and ash can lead to new beginning, that life and death stand side by side in an endless loop. There’s comfort in it, somehow.
Yes, we’re phoenixes.
HP and I walk almost twenty miles today, and none of it is flat. Up and down and up again, a typical day in the Sierra wilderness. I let my mind wander as my strong body carries me forward. I experience excitement, boredom, wonder, sadness and determination at intervals.
Before I know it, we have reached Thousand Island Lakes, our intended stop point for the day. And it takes my breath away.
We set up camp a ways down the lakeshore and run through our chores. As I refresh myself with a lakeside bath, I feel the air turn and see clouds building over Mount Ritter in the distance. I’m getting better at reading the skies, and I prepare for a classic Sierra afternoon storm.
Sure enough, thunder rumbles overhead not thirty minutes later. I have just enough time to make my dinner and climb into my tent before the hail hits. I can barely hear HP in his nearby tent through the pummeling hail, even though we are practically screaming at each other. Finally, he gives up and climbs into my tent with me. We weather the storm together over an Alfredo pasta dinner, studying tomorrow’s stretch of trail on my topo map.
I will never forget tonight’s sky as the suns sets over Mount Ritter amidst receding thunderheads. I can barely believe it’s real. Some part of me knows this will be one of the last nights I spend out here, and an ache builds deep in my gut. I’m not ready, may never be ready. This place feels like home, I think as I watch the stars peek slowly out one by one in the darkening expanse. I fall asleep on a flat rock nestled in this starry night’s blanketing embrace. Some time later, HP wakes me, and we both retreat to our tents.
Day 24
Thousand Island Lakes to Tuolumne Meadows
22 miles
5000 ft elevation change
August 28, 2019
I wake just before dawn. As I emerge from my tent into the crisp, cold morning air, my breath catches at the pre-dawn sight. A million stars still sparkle all around me, and the dawning day announces its presence with a mixture of purples, pinks and blues building strength in the eastern corner of the sky.
Yesterday’s storm left the ground and trees wet with moisture covering my single-walled shelter in condensation this morning. And, I realize with a small groan, my sleeping bag. I spread the down quilt out on a high, flat rock to bask in the rising sun and wipe down my tent walls with a bandana.
Hopefully the sun with do the rest of the work for me, I think as I pull out my stove to make a coffee. It’s a white chocolate mocha day. Once my little Nalgene is filled with steaming, caffeinated goodness, I make my way back to the high rock and plop down next to my quilt to watch the remaining sunrise.
With the sun fully risen and our gear marginally more dry, HP and I break camp and hike out to the lake’s inlet to start our Island Pass ascent. Partway up, we are stopped dead in our tracks by the beauty of Mount Ritter reflected off the quiet lake surface. I want to stand here forever just looking and looking, studying every detail. But, we eventually move on. I inwardly reflect on the transience of my world.
Island Pass is a quick jaunt for our well-conditioned legs. We cross it easily and turn our focus to the last big pass of our thru hike, Donohue Pass. It sits at 11,056 feet and looks down upon the Yosemite Wilderness further north. I feel a thrill as I think about seeing Yosemite for the first time in my life. Donohue doesn’t let us go easy, though. Steep steps leave my knees and ankles protesting before long, and I move quickly to get this harrowing climb over with. Thankfully, the views on the way up don’t disappoint.
The summit is windy, refreshing our tired, overheated bodies as we marvel at the view. I can see far down into the Yosemite Valley, and the sight invigorates me. What an incredible way to experience this iconic place, by walking in from the south. Each tree, each curve of valley, each peak has been hard-earned. I thirstily drink it in with my every sense as we begin our descent.
Somewhere along the path toward the valley, we decide to shoot for Tuolumne Meadows tonight. Thoughts of cold beer and fresh-cooked burgers dance in our heads. We are kept company by Lyell Creek for most of our valley walk, and I relish its softly flowing voice, its crisp sweet water, its tendency to inspire the technicolor growth of everything around it. Wildflowers of every color sway in green grass meadows, sheltered by distant peaks and wise old trees.
We pass two friends we met in Independence, excitedly exchanging stories about our journeys and our plans. They share trail beta confirming something of utmost importance: we could indeed have a burger and beer tonight. But only if we reach Tuolumne before 6pm. Challenge accepted.
We keep a good pace, stopping occasionally to marvel at a new angle of meadow or take a sip of creek water. We reach Tuolumne with time to spare and set up our tents in the backpackers’ camp before heading excitedly to the grill. On our way, we run into our two German friends from Reds Meadow. We all talk about the trail as we walk. I order a double cheeseburger with fries and a bottomless pink lemonade. I’ve refilled the lemonade twice before my food even arrives. I can’t remember anything ever tasting as good as this pink lemonade tastes right now. It’s pure magic.
We sit with our friends at a picnic table outside the grill and inhale our food with relish. One of them disappears as we finish, returning a few minutes later with four beers and a box of fresh raspberries. I gratefully partake. They tell us they ran out of food but have a few days left in their journey. We have plenty of extra, so we promise to share as much as they need from our food supply. We could do with a lighter load anyway.
Other hikers pass all around us, refueling their bodies with mouth-watering food and swapping tales of their journeys. We recognize many of them, calling out hellos and joining in the storytelling atmosphere. Some carry boxes of beer as they make their way back to camp, others stuff extra food into their bags for later or go back to order seconds, thirds, their lean, calorie-starved bodies never quite satiated.
Before turning in for the night, we go to a campfire hosted by the park rangers. A ranger sings songs on his acoustic guitar and tells us stories about thunder. My heart is full as I climb into my tent and drift off to sleep.
