Passes in the Sierra Mountains
The one conversational topic dear to all hikers in this section of the Sierra Mountains is the high passes. The trail crosses six passes above 11,000 feet elevation. Each one is different, with its own character. A description of two of these mountain passes might give a window into this section of trail.
Mather Pass is my personal favorite. The approach is long and gentle. The trail winds across a glacier carved valley and into a cirque, a bowl shaped area surrounded by tall mountains. As the path traverses the top of a long glacial moraine, I look at those mountains, wondering which impassable-seeming face the trail tackles. It takes so long to get there, I finally give up wondering and lose myself in the sounds of wind over rocks, footsteps scuffing decomposed granite, burbling snowmelt rivulets running below the moraine. I feel as if Jay and I are the only two people on the planet.
When the trail finally begins closing in on a dip between two mountain peaks, I can scarcely believe my eyes. The trail carves long zigzags up and across a huge barren slope of tumbled boulders, decomposed granite, and sliding gravel. I marvel at the engineering knowledge that went into this trail. I wonder who could have had the imagination to say, “That incredibly steep slope is perfect for some truly spectacular switch-backs!” After 45 minutes of gentle gradient leading ever upwards, with only a few time-outs to climb over rock falls blocking the trail, I find the top, winded, slightly nauseous from the altitude, but incredibly happy, and with a view of miles of empty landscape.
The Muir Pass is a very different proposition. We approach it late in the afternoon, planning to camp a couple miles before Lake Helen, a frozen lake just before the last approach to the pass.
The approach to Muir Pass is characterized by beautiful pines, green grass, water-filled lakes, and a hurrying stream linking it all together. The trail spends several miles climbing a series of tall cliffs, with miniature worlds, level ledges of beauty, between each climb.
As we climb above 10,000 feet, the familiar feel of headache and nausea hit me. Adjusting to the high altitude can be tough for many people, and my body responds with typical symptoms. I grit my teeth and keep climbing, following a rushing, roaring stream as it leaps down through pockets of beauty.
As the trail keeps going up, ledge after ledge, my body begins protesting the altitude more fiercely. My left calf develops a cramp. My right ankle aches from rolling on a rock. My left wrist gives twinges of pain with every placement of the trekking pole, and my right shoulder protests the pack strap across it. With every step my lungs are sure the oxygen will give out completely.
Around 6:00 p.m., after following that leaping waterway uphill, we reach a place where the trail crosses the wild stream, with only a few pointy boulders to help one stay dry-shod. I look with despair at Jay. In my state, I am sure I will slip off a boulder and plunge thigh-deep into the frigid water. “Wait here,” Jay tells me. He back-tracks a few yards, heads uphill, and calls, “How about we camp here?” He had found a flawless flat spot sheltered by trees, with an incredible view down the mountainside. This gorgeous camp site is perhaps the most welcome sight I’ve seen in a day of spectacular beauty.
The next morning I cross the stream without incident, and we continue climbing to the Muir Pass. By the time we finally pass Lake Helen, I am once again fighting nausea and dragging oxygen-starved legs through each step. The final approach requires several bits of route-finding where snow fields have covered the trail. Fortunately, Jay’s spatial sense and map-reading skills keep us on course.
We finally reach the top of the pass, enchanted to find the Muir Shelter, a rock hut built by the Sierra Club in 1930. Beautiful as it is, my body just wants to head downhill and get under 10,000 feet again.
For most people, the exquisite splendor of the terrain up to Muir Pass, and the charming rock shelter on top make this pass their all-time favorite. For me, altitude sickness mars my memories of Muir Pass, and the gentle gradient and windswept emptiness of Mather Pass remain my preferred mountain route.
Crossing Creeks
When hiking the high Sierras in June, there are untold thousands of rivers, creeks, streams, and rivulets to cross. Water, in the form of springs, lakes, and snowmelt, is a gift of these mountains.
The rivers have bridges, which are wonderful! Such luxury to come to a river bank and just keep walking straight across, through the air, to the other side. So much nicer than precariously scrambling down one bank, wading across a rushing stream of water, then laboriously clambering back up!
The creeks, streams, and rivulets, however, are another tale. Since this is a low snow year, most of these waterways are already pretty low. Jay and I can leap across, or rock-hop, or blithely balance on a log as we cross dry-shod. Several creeks are 50 feet or more wide, but thoughtful people and wonderful trail crews have placed rocks exactly right for crossing.
There are two streams in this 200+ mile section that defy rock placement or fallen log bridges: Evolution Creek and Bear Creek. During high snow years, these creeks are notorious, and can be downright dangerous to cross. Fortunately for us, this June’s low snow pack just meant we had the fun of fording these infamous creeks.
We arrived at Evolution Creek one evening, and decided to camp on the near side and cross in the morning. As we checked out the ford after dinner, we saw a hiker on the far side, putting on socks and shoes.
“It’s great!” he called. “I only went in up to my knees! An easy crossing!”
The next morning at 7:00 a.m., I was ready to go. I removed socks, shoes, pants, and carefully stowed them in my pack. Then grasping trekking poles firmly, I stepped into the creek. Within 5 steps, my feet were numb. In 10 steps, I was knee-deep. As the water crept ever higher up my thighs and I tottered forward on feet I could see but not feel, I thought, “When in my life have I ever deliberately immersed my body into water this cold?” (Jumping from a snow bank into Suttle Lake, OR, when it was 60°F outside comes to mind, but I was much younger and more foolish back then.) Anyway, I did manage to stagger and lurch to the far bank of the creek. Once on solid sand, my feet came back to life in a roar of throbbing needles. As I put on socks and shoes, I gazed with satisfaction on one creek that I would not have to cross again.
Fording Bear Creek the next day was much easier. It was evening, and the water was much warmer. Once again I removed socks, shoes, pants. But this time I could feel each smooth, water-worn rock, and carefully place my feet on sandy spots between the rocks. The water was refreshing on hot feet that had been hiking all day. When I reached the other side, I told Jay I would gladly do it again if he wanted a picture! The mosquitoes discouraged us from the photo opportunity, however.
The water in the high Sierras is as much a part of the landscape as trees, granite, and mountain peaks. It can also bring a lovely bonus to a day of hiking, or an adventure worth telling friends.
