Day 74: Mile 856.7 - 872.2
So I'm here in my tent, in nothing but my skivvies because it's been hot and muggy since we dropped into this river valley a few miles back and I'm laying on my pad trying not to touch anything, and watching the mosquitos probing above, having found a way past my rain fly only to be foiled by the fine mesh of my tent. And my face is swelling from where they *did* get me during dinner--at least 4 spots, 3 on my cheeks--along with spots on the backs of my hands, my forearms (through my sunshirt), even possibly my ankle (through my socks?--how?). And overhead there's a distant rumble, a yawning thunder, and the overcast skies above are dropping sprinkles of rain at their leisure.
And let me tell you, unironically and unapologetically, today was a *good* day.
Because today we went over Selden Pass, which is my favorite so far--Muir Pass being a close second. And lest you think, oh, he just likes the most recent pass, the one freshest in his memory--no, there was something about Selden Pass.
The pass itself was admittedly a bit different. The approach itself--following the South Fork of the San Joaquin River, before climbing a series of long switchbacks up to Senger Creek--I do admit that was fun. It felt like a southern California hike: the day was hot but hadn't reached the hottest part of the day yet, the way was shaded in bits and pieces by large trees, a good breeze would blow through at opportune times, and the terrain was overall drier than we'd had the past few days. And the incline itself: I could have made it infinite, but I opted to push some, build up a sweat that would be cooled off by the breeze, let my mind and breathing wander into the zone, and that made it finite. But the hike reminded me of the Trabuco Canyon Trail that climbs from Trabuco Creek Road to Main Divide (and also has the benefit of tall shade, albeit there from pines), and its views reminded me of the first part of the San Bernardino ascent (you look out over a canyon and see a ridge, but the ridgeline is level enough and long enough and--seemingly--short enough that you start to wonder what's on the other side) (the answer, by the way, is another ridge).
After Senger Creek, the trail mellows out some, flattening some as it wanders through the woods, eventually emerging at a wooded lake--one side surrounded by big trees, the other ending in naught but rock slopes, its outlet a bubbling stream flooding through a small meadow--and then climbing to a rocky lake--a bowl cut from the surrounding stone, decorated by tiny wildflowers. And from there, it becomes an actual climb, ascending towards a recognizable pass, winding from this side of the narrow canyon to that as it stairsteps up.
And *that's* my favorite part. Because, on that final climb, looking up, there are these granite cliffs, tall and prominent and proud, yet their tops rounded off into gentle curves. As my mom would say, they looked straight out of a Chinese painting, the places where the brush bristles separated and rejoined formed into actual cracks and clefts, the places where the brush sputtered into actual lonesome trees. Except that the rock itself was not only the bright gray of granite, but colored: in reds and browns and yellows from weathering, from lichen; in black streaks, themselves a natural brushwork, where water once cascaded in wetter days. And overhead, the sky started blue with large white clouds, and would alternately turn overcast threatening rain and thunder, but both rendered shadow and contrast to the cliffs to enable a true appreciation of depth, each cliff now distinct, each cliff now in or out from the face, each cliff saying something, if only I could hear.
Because something, something about those cliffs spoke to me, only I couldn't hear what they were saying. And as I told Uno as we slowly hiked up--half because it was steep and half because I kept stopping to take photos (which didn't capture anything, I was shooting in a blind daze)--I could have stayed there for a day, camped out at some spot near the cliffs, and just stared and listened and waited.
Eventually Uno and me reached the top, and met up with Dylan (who, like he does with many passes, speeds ahead), and were treated with a magnificent view of the next part of the trail, looking down over the incredible Marie Lake (a real-life example of what happens when you activate the Archipelago setting in the Civilization world generator as Dylan put it, aptly). And there was indeed a storm coming up behind us--we did hear the grumbles of thunder and even felt some rain drops at the top (albeit under still sunny skies--but rain works differently in the mountains than in southern California). And after lunching at the top, we headed down, and we had intended to swim in Marie Lake but now the sky was gray and we went on, descending down into another valley until we came to Bear Creek and following that all the way here. But all that's a bit of a blur, because I still have those cliffs in mind, am still wrestling with that granite. Because it *does* have something to say. And I do know now that the Sierras have something to say--or at least Selden Pass does. Just like the desert had something to say about brutal heat, crippling isolation, and vast desolation, that is, about openness and honesty and not-hiding, so too the Sierras have something to say. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to hear it.
-- Campsite > Piute Creek > Past Muir Trail Ranch (didn't go) > Senger Creek > Sallie Keyes Lakes > Selden Pass > Marie Lake > Bear Creek > Campsite
-- By the way, for those keeping track, the first lake on the way up is one of the Sallie Keyes Lakes, the second on the way up is Heart Lake.
-- Today I met Otter, the legend. Technically I'd met him before, on the approach to Pinchot Pass. Otter likes to take a break before going over a big pass--ideally likes to take a nap--and I had come up to the final little stream before the pass and interrupted his sleep the first time. Had talked a bit, he's very friendly, very chill, had a chef for a roommate so everytime he's in town he cooks and he described some recipes which--even to me cooking-deaf ear--sounded pretty good. I remember when he headed out he turned to me and said, simply, podcast or music, and I had somehow clued into that immediately and said, oh, for this?, music, because you don't want to think, you just want to go. Yeah, I think you might be right, he had said, then plugged in his earphones and headed up. I would meet him again right before the alpine swim: he would be sitting on a rock chatting with Dylan when Uno and I came up, and after I got out of the water would be the one who asked me whether I felt better now being in the sun (I didn't--I was still freezing and wet, just now I was freezing and wet in the air rather than in the water). And today, he made camp next to us, and promptly--before setting up his tent--established a fire ring and started a fire. To keep away the mosquitos. And it worked, for a little while, until the wised up (or until our blood became just too delectable). But Otter is a cool guy: back home in Houston he works in a lab processing test results, for example, processing COVID test results for the past year or so. But he's done the AT, is doing the PCT, will do the CDT next year. He has a girlfriend, who is also hiking the PCT, but much faster and much further ahead: they agree that once they get their trail legs, then it becomes a race; on the AT, she beat him by a week or so. He seems ok with that, though, takes it matter-of-factly. Evidently he and his girlfriend have a 2-2-2 agreement: every 2 weeks they go out to dinner, every 2 months they go on a weekend trip, and every 2 years they do a big trip. And evidently, it works!--they've been together for 12 years now. Just goes to show that not every couple on the PCT necessarily has to hike together: you can hike separately, just be prepared when you're in the desert, slaving away in the heat, and they (intentionally) text a photo of them already in Kennedy Meadows, enjoying a cold drink!
-- Dylan, by the way, hates being passed while ascending passes, so he usually blazes ahead of Uno and me. That makes sense to me, it's a pride thing. But today he took it to another level. Towards the top, he looked at the granite cliffs and had a much different reaction: as a climber, he saw a line, dropped his pack, and gave it a try. The granite came off in his hand, though, so it was hard going, but as he was up there, he saw another hiker coming up--and this guy was fast (I remember when he passed me--he was blazing away). And Dylan saw him. Now I would have thought his can't-be-passed instinct doesn't count when he's--I dunno--busy rock-climbing a tricky face but, no, I'd be wrong, so Dylan scrambled back down and raced up the pass, completely out of breath, just to beat this guy. And there he was, at the top, by then cool as a cucumber and seemingly well-rested, when Uno and I arrived.
-- Today I saw V-Dubs and Suave, the two I parasitically attaached myself to when getting a hitch into Bishop. I was surprised: I know they're faster hikers than me, and now they're passing me, which means I somehow had gotten *ahead* of them? Turns out they took more zeroes in Bishop, as Suave explained at the top of Selden Pass before he pushed on and passed me a final time. But, yes, watching them move, they're very fast, although they do take breaks. So to give a feel of leapfrogging on the trail: I saw them first at Senger Creek when they came in behind us (we had stopped to eat breakfast) and they took a short break (and V-Dubs recognized me and waved), then we headed out first. Then they passed us on the trail, then we passed them when they stopped at Heart Lake to eat, then they passed us one final time at the top of Selden Pass when Uno and Dylan and I stopped to eat lunch while they just grabbed their photos and pushed on. Hop hop hop!
-- Towards the end of the day, the trail walked along a small gorge, the water coursing beneath, carving away at the stone. At one point, it had carved a hollow in the stone below, so that what had been a cliff was rapidly (well, rapidly in geological time) becoming a shelf. And atop that shelf budded a small tree, still young, only just taller than me. And I imagined the trees here, on the more secure shore, tall and big and much much older, calling out to it, little one, little one, do you know where you sprout? The ground beneath you: it won't be ground for long, I can see the river churning below, eating away at the stone. It's not safe over there! But then again, trees can't move, so there's nothing to be done except hope in geological time, and that by the time the water erodes the shelf enough that it finally collapses, the tree will have already grown and coned and lived the tree-equivalent of a Good Life, and maybe even already passed. For even when you build on the rock instead of the sand, know that the rock isn't forever; but sometimes it can be forever enough.
-- Dylan, of course, intrigued by the gorge and the water below, found a spot to go down and, possibly, jump in. Only the water was churning pretty
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