Day 4: Crabtree Meadows to base of Forester Pass
August 8th, 2019
12.3 miles
We wake late today, affording ourselves a leisurely start. Yesterday tested us physically, mentally and emotionally, so we need a bit of R&R before setting off.
I focus today as we hike on studying the topography of the land surrounding us and the swirling weather patterns. The day starts with blue, cloudless sky but progressively builds cumulus toward the north over Forester Pass, giving our journey the feel of taking a powerful ring to the fires of Mordor. I feel the air cool and warm at intervals as the clouds swirl around us. A storm thankfully never hits where we hike.
After surviving a summit and a squall yesterday, I feel capable of just about anything. I’m excited for the rest of the trail, better acclimatized and moving faster now. I traverse uphill sections of trail without getting as winded. Pride in my budding strength begins to well up inside me.
I think again about how this journey will change me… how I want to change. I meditate as I walk on the habits I’ve developed, both good and bad, in recent months. I visualize myself letting go of unhealthy tendencies and cultivating better ones. I don’t force these thoughts but rather allow my steps to massage them from my mind.
As we pass hikers moving in the opposite direction, many ask us about yesterday’s storm. We swap stories of where we were when the storm hit, and I think each time of all those hikers yesterday still persisting stubbornly toward the summit despite our warnings, despite the building storm clouds and fast cooling air. I hope for what must be the hundredth time that summit fever claimed no lives this time. The two rescue helicopters we see zooming toward Whitney over the course of today’s hike do nothing to calm my concern.
We meet another NOBO JMT hiker resting on the side of the trail. He tells us he didn’t acclimatize before starting his journey, and it shows. He looks very tired and a little out of sorts. He forgets the name of the pass he was on the day before and admits he spent most of yesterday very nauseous and disoriented but feels much better today. He plans to camp at Tyndall Creek a couple miles away, and we head farther up trail to stage for Forester Pass (once we know he is okay).
We pass a solo hiker headed south who asks us to carry a handwritten message to some friends behind her on the trail. Their names are Greg and Amelia; she draws a little picture of Greg’s sunglasses and Amelia’s braids for reference. We promise to do all we can to get the message to them.
We ford three rivers and traverse snow on a couple of short trail sections. The snow-covered path is easy to follow with obvious footprints in the melting snow.
We make camp at 11,700 ft with plans to wake early to cross Forester tomorrow morning, before the north-facing snow gets dangerously slushy. I take a bath in the nearby snow-melt stream… as much of one as I can handle without freezing solid, anyway. Mosquitoes don’t bother us here due to the freezing cold temperatures and high winds. It’s a welcome reprieve.
I enjoy a delicious stroganoff dinner and climb into my tent before sundown yet again. This has become the habit each night so far out here because of bugs, exhaustion or plans for an early start the next day. As I drift off to sleep, I promise myself I’ll prioritize staying up for a sunset soon.
Day 5: Forester Pass to Kearsarge Lakes
August 9th, 2019
12.5 miles
Camp at the base of Forester Pass carries high winds throughout the night, making my tent very cold. Shivering even in my 0° bag, I don all my wool layers, down jacket, rain shell, beanie and gloves as barriers to the frigid air. As long as I burrow my entire body into my sleeping bag and cinch it tight above my head, I hold in enough heat not to shiver. I wake a few times cold and needing to readjust my position in the bag. Otherwise I sleep surprisingly solid.
I have a disturbing dream.
I attended an exclusive convention of glamor and progressive fashion. It was all sparkles and glitter and flashy, fancy appearances. Then, I peeked behind the curtain. I found a basement warehouse of body parts, human and other species, divided into well organized plastic bins stacked high to the ceiling in rows. Horrified, I delved deeper.
I found a large, frightening man killing goats and vagabonds in desolate alleyways behind the building. I got video evidence of these transgressions, but they began to suspect me. I saw ugly, twisted features and fear of discovery behind the fanciful facades. I pushed through their quiet threats and my own fear at what I might find. I kept digging deeper and deeper beneath the layers of ribbon and glamor until the ultimate truth became clear.
The clueless, beautified attendees were shepherded into a gigantic mechanical beast for amusement and awe, like a carnival ride. They marveled at the state-of-the-art interior with no expense spared. They looked out the windows to what the ride makers wanted them to see, to believe about their journey inside this beast. They never saw, never tried to see the exterior of the creation as they climbed deep within its bowels.
But I did, I saw. I stood in horror at the hull born straight from a nightmare. The beast wore body parts of all kinds like a giant patchwork skin. Goat hide and human eyes and hair and innards and limbs of various creatures sticking out at weird angles. I tried to warm the riders what they were inadvertently party to, what was really out there just beyond their sight. They made excuses, mocked me, didn’t want to see or to know the truth…
I wake cold in my sleeping bag, burrow deeper into the warmth of my own body heat, and drift back to sleep.
My alarm goes off at 5:30 AM, but I wake cold and reticent to leave the warmth of my sleeping bag. I finally start moving as the sun rises, packing up as swiftly as I can. Everything takes longer though due to the penetrating cold. Cold coffee and oatmeal don’t help lift my spirits or my temperature.
Fatigue from expending energy to stay warm all night leaves me with little reserve to power the ascent up Forester, the highest of the passes (aside from Whitney). I move slowly, grumpily, taking a long time to warm up my body with the sun not yet hitting this south side of the pass. We traverse a few snowy patches on the way up.
As we ascend, my exhaustion is all-consuming. I think to myself, this isn’t enjoyable right now. The pass around me is breathtaking, but I am not enjoying myself at all. Haven’t been since I climbed shivering into my tent last night. The nagging question of why I chose to do this comes creeping back. But this time, through the haze of my discomfort, an answer starts to form.
Enjoyment is not what this is about. I’m not out here to enjoy myself. Of course I’d be lying if I said that isn’t part of it sometimes, but it’s so much deeper than that. I really start to process the “why” I couldn’t wrap my overwhelmed brain around after the storm chased us off Whitney two days ago.
I am out here to disconnect from my daily life, to step outside my routine and my comfort zone. I am out here to be uncomfortable. So much out here is out of my control, and that unknown teaches me to trust my own ability to weather whatever might come my way, to roll with the punches, to grow through all of it. I am out here to challenge my own limits and push the boundaries of what is possible. I’m out here to reconnect with my body and my spirituality and to be a part of something so much bigger than I am.
Sometimes, I enjoy myself in the process. Often, I am swatting bugs, covered in scratches and bites and sunburns, dirty and dusty and stinky from days upon days without a proper shower. But the discomfort is an integral part of the experience, part of stepping beyond my comfort zone and into the wild, desolate places of my world.
We reach the sunlit summit of Forester Pass at 13,200 ft by 9 AM. The views are stunning. I finish my coffee and down a king-sized Snickers bar as I bask in the sunlight. I feel my energy and my higher spirits returning in full measure.
The only other people at the top are two women around my age hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). Because this has been such an unusually high snow year, both opted to bypass the Sierras and flip flop (hiker term for doing trail sections out of order) back once the snow had melted a bit. They started the section at Kennedy Meadows a few days ago and have only the northern few hundred miles of Washington left after this. I walk sections of the Cascade PCT often through the summer and fall, so I tell them I may see them out there.
Two other hikers reach the summit as the PCTers begin their descent. Once they catch their breath, they tell us about a hiker who died descending Forester only a few weeks ago. We push that out of our minds as we begin our own descent.
Sections of the descent are covered in snow. We carefully traverse one, but even in the early morning while the snow is less slushy, the risk of post-holing (punching through the snow to the rocks beneath) is high. We descend to the boulders below the snow fields and scramble down to meet the trail where the snow seems mostly melted. It’s slow going but a great workout for our muscles and minds as we chart our course.
Once we hit the lower trail, we pass many southbound hikers switchbacking their way up the pass and curious about conditions up higher. We take our time swapping stories and sharing our route through the north side of Forester.
We ask many if they are Greg or Amelia, but do not find them. We finally stop asking in Vidette Meadows. We deliver two other messages successfully though and joke we may end up with trail names like USPS or Postal. One message is from a teenage boy who asks us to tell his mom that he is “way the fuck ahead of her” on their southbound Forester ascent.
The other is from an adorable older woman in her 60s or 70s named Doris “Dory” whose pack looks to be about as big as she is. She asks us to tell the man leading the pack mules in on horseback that she is in Vidette and very ready for the resupply they carry. She is part of a larger group of older hikers with a couple younger hikers guiding them. As we ask the younger girl about the conditions on Kearsarge Pass (our next stop), an older man start shouting “Joe! Joe! Left or center?!” The younger girl chuckles at our bewildered expressions and says, “Yeah, Larry loves to shout. It always makes my heart race.”
We make it up to Kearsarge Lakes after over 6500 ft cumulative elevation change before finally making camp. This side trail leads to our first resupply in Independence. We are now two days ahead of schedule, so we coordinate to have our shuttle pick us up a day early and plan an extra zero (hiker term for zero mile or rest day) in town.
The mosquitoes here aren’t bad at all, but there are swarms of gnats whenever the wind dies down. I don’t mind at all, donning my head net to keep them out of my eyes.
Since we arrive on a Friday to this gorgeous lake near a trail head, the area is filled with weekend warriors escaping the nearby cities. I love meeting all the people carving out time to pursue this gorgeous wilderness.
We finally stay up long enough to enjoy a sunset, then we hit the sack to warm up and sleep off this long day.
Day 6: A glorious zero day at Kearsarge Lakes
August 10th, 2019
0 miles
I sleep sound in the single-walled tent that is starting to feel like home. The moon shines in through the open door like a nightlight keeping monsters away.
When I wake at first light, I let myself roll over and fall back asleep, knowing I have nowhere to be but right here. It’s a glorious feeling.
I heat water for coffee and mashed potatoes, a luxury since we’ve been cold soaking our breakfast to conserve fuel all week. HP and I perch atop a sunny rock near the lake edge to enjoy our morning meal.
After a refreshing bath and my first hair rinse since setting out six days ago, I feel like a whole new woman. I begin to reacquaint myself with my own body – so much has changed so quickly over this past week. My legs are firmer, my core less doughy, my lips chapped beyond believe despite constant Chapstick applications.
I feel a wave of appreciation for all that I am and all that I am capable of. The cuts and tan lines and remaining cushion don’t hinder this feeling like they would while peering into the bathroom mirror at home.
Here, self love flows like the breeze rustling my hair. Here, awe at my own strength ripples like the lake surf, lapping away at the shores of my deeply engrained self criticism.
I am strong. I am powerful. I am capable of accomplishing anything I dream, as long as it is powered by my heart and my passion. I can summit mountains and weather storms. I can love myself and grow in strength and gratitude every single day. If I can do that, what can’t I do?
As HP goes off to explore a basin above the surrounding lake, I lie back on a rock and bask in all that I have overcome thus far.
I eventually move down to the lake edge and soak my feet in the cool, refreshing water. I watch trout swim lazily by in search of bugs on the water surface. Hours pass. A man wanders up the lake and tells me he drove seven hours to get here for the weekend because he had to get out of the city. He asks me where I’m headed. I explain that I’m taking a month to hike the JMT, and I’m surprised when he asks simply, “How?”
“By prioritizing what’s important.” I finally reply, just as simply.
“Who’s to say…” he answers as he takes off his hat to quizzically scratch his head. “I have no idea.”
“It’s different for everyone, I suppose.” I say with a smile.
I think about our conversation long after he wanders away back down the lake shore and out of sight.
By the end of the day, I feel refreshed and ready for a resupply in Independence tomorrow. I almost go to bed before the sunset. I see it glowing tantalizingly through the tent wall and think a dangerous thought.
There will be other sunsets.
But then I stop myself. I can let my whole life go by with this way of thinking. Part of why I’m out here is to boycott the procrastination of living my life to its fullest. And there may indeed be other sunsets other nights in other places, but never again will I have this opportunity to stand in awe of this sunset in this place tonight.
So, I get my ass out of the damn tent.
This sunset literally takes my breath away. Five minutes later, the earth has rotated the sun behind the Kearsarge mountains and out of sight.
I climb back into my tent a little wiser and drift off to sleep.