Chased Out of the Miter Basin

The Miter Basin

I’ve got a Tom Harrison map of the Whitney Zone that I unfurl now and then so that I can daydream about all of the nooks and crannies on that map that I still need to visit. One of the places I’ve stared at and imagined for a long time is the Miter Basin. Surrounded by an assemblage of white granite peaks, spires, and domes, and dotted with lakes with names like “Sky Blue” and “Iridescent,” I always found this trackless and relatively remote area irresistibly alluring. And I wanted to visit it.

So I finally conceived a plan and convinced my daughter and a friend from Utah to join me on a romp into the heart of the basin. The loose itinerary involved a loop of sorts beginning at the Cottonwood Pass trailhead. The plan was to spend the first night a lower Soldier Lake, a second night a Sky Blue Lake, and a third night in the Cottonwood Lakes Basin. We’d make the short walk out and back to the car on the morning of the fourth day.

So on a Wednesday afternoon we loaded up and headed for the Alabama Hills where we car-camped at Tuttle Creek. The next morning we were up early for coffee and permits. We didn’t actually have permits reserved, so we had to wait until the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor Center opened at 8 a.m. for the lottery. When we got there around 7:45 a.m. there was already a line of about 30 folks doing the same. I sauntered up to the entrance and was innocently milling about when a dude with his girlfriend barked at me for trying to cut the line. I told the guy that there was no line, and that we’d all draw numbers from a hat to determine our order. Shortly after that, a Ranger appeared with a bucket and made me look like a sage. We then all drew numbers. I pulled number 3; the guy that barked at me pulled something much worse. We got permits no problem. I don’t know about the other guy.

Car Camping in the Alabama Hills

Forty-five minutes later we were on the trail and making our way up to Cottonwood Pass. If you’re an old man living at sea level, one of the nice things about the trails departing from Horseshoe Meadow is that you’re already at elevation. You of course still end up climbing with a fully-loaded pack, but it’s a kinder, gentler climb that allows your body a bit of time to acclimate to both the weight of the pack and the less oxygen-nutrient air.

At Cottonwood Pass, we paused briefly for snacks and to snap pictures for a group that had spent a week or so making the circuit around the Big Whitney Meadow area. We then jumped onto the PCT and made our way to Chicken Spring Lake to tank up on water since it wasn’t evident whether we’d have another chance before we reached lower Soldier Lake.

Horseshoe Meadow

Cottonwood Pass

PCT

Chicken Spring Lake

From Chicken Spring Lake, the PCT climbs briefly out of a shallow cirque and then remains relatively level at about the 11,300’ contour until it crests a low rise and begins a slow descent into the vast Siberian Outpost. Here we stopped briefly to admire the stark landscape and the interplay of sun and shadows being cast by storm clouds to the west. A harbinger of things to come.

A mile or so beyond this is a well-marked trail junction. Going south will take you up over the Siberian Pass and into the Big Whitney Meadow area. Continuing west along the PCT leads to Rock Creek and beyond. We veered north on the pleasant connector which ultimately intersects with the path that leads east up over New Army Pass and northwest to lower Soldier Lake. Just before that intersection, the connector crosses a stream which was running strongly and could serve as a good source for replenishing water supplies. We were still good in that regard, so we pushed on to our destination.

The spur leading to lower Soldier Lake is dotted with campsites and a single bear box. There are additional sites immediately adjacent to the lake as well, but we didn’t know when we first arrived. As we inched along the spur, we were somewhat surprised to find that every single site was occupied. One large site housed a group of ten 20-somethings from Ohio State who told us they’d been on the trail for 26 days. The last site before the lake was taken by a sole older gentleman who offered to split the site with us. We gratefully accepted and shared our whiskey with him as recompense. Turns out our camp host was enjoying his first night of a solo hike of the JMT. The following day he was headed for Guitar Lake so that the day after he could summit Mt. Whitney and officially begin his through-hike.

PCT Views

Rock Field

Siberian Outpost

Connector to Lower Soldier Lake

Camp View at Lower Soldier Lake

The next morning we had planned to penetrate the Miter Basin. The intended route was the “short-cut” which follows a use trail that skirts the west side of lower Soldier Lake and then climbs the low rise on the north-west end of the lake. Upon seeing the route, my daughter expressed a bit of trepidation so we back-tracked to the main trail and tacked southwest to the mouth of the Rock Creek drainage.

There is supposed to be an obvious use trail leading up drainage, but it wasn’t obvious to us. We ran into a couple of young ladies looking to do the same thing we were doing and we all fumbled around a bit looking for the non-existent use trail. Finally, we forded Rock Creek and began ascending the west side on something that kinda, sorta resembled a faint use path or game trail. After bashing through brush for a bit and climbing obstacles, our female companions apparently called it quits because we didn’t see them again. Determined or obstinate, we continued forward for about ¼ mile when we burst into a wide, open meadow bisected by Rock Creek. One the east side of the creek, we finally saw the well-trod use trail we’d been searching for and jumped the creek to beat its path.

Meadow Near Rock Creek Junction

Rock Creek as it Flows Out of the Miter Basin

The Meadow - Use Trail to the Right

From here, the route forward was pretty simple: continue up the basin. We occasionally lost then relocated the use trail, but it’s pretty hard to get truly lost here as there is only one way in and one way out. Ok, that’s not entirely true, but practically speaking it is for most mortals, and that included us.

The scenery here is as sublime and glorious as I had imagined it. The Major General sits high on your right. Mt. Corcoran, Mt. LeConte, and the Shark Tooth, all 13,000’+ dominate the skyline to the northeast. The spikey Miter scrapes the sky to the north. And an unnamed granite spire and 12,000’ solid granite walls hem you in on the west. Our intended destination Sky Blue Lake, sits in a bowl above a series of cascades sandwiched between the Miter and Peak 13,221’.

But about ½ mile out, as we approached the final ascent to Sky Blue Lake, the sky after which the lake is named became ominous. The wind, which had been still throughout the day, began to howl. The temperature dropped. We started to hear the crack of lightning and the rumble of thunder. And then the heavens opened up and it began to rain. Then it hailed hard enough to coat the ground with tiny balls of ice. Then it rained again, harder this time.

We stopped to evaluate the situation and ponder the night ahead. My trail companions looked dubious. My daughter, the more level-headed of the two of us, was reluctant and urged retreat to lower ground. Dejected, I relented and we started to beat a retreat back to Soldier Lake.

On the way out, we bumped into a young lady that was part of the Ohio State contingent. She had gone into the basin on a day exploration and was retreating to Soldier Lake as well. When we discovered that she was returning via the “shortcut,” we stalked her all the way back to the lake which in fact shaved off a fair amount of distance and time.

Granite Cliffs Abound

Pushing Deeper Into the Basin

Typical Basin Views

Lower Soldier Lake from Atop the Shortcut

Back where we started the day, we set up camp lakeside on the peninsula of sorts that juts into the lake on its south side. As soon as our tents were up, the rain began and we took shelter. And then it rained, and it rained, and it rained. And it hailed again. And then it rained again. For three straight hours, the rain relentlessly pummeled our sad little fabric shelters which finally wetted out despite a valiant struggle to keep us dry. At dusk, the precipitation finally subsided and the clouds gradually began to move along and ruin someone else’s party.

The next morning was brisk and clear. We took our time breaking camp in order to allow our gear to dry some. Then we were back on the trail ascending the stunningly gorgeous valley that climbs to New Army Pass from the east. As the climb stiffened, and the suffering began in earnest, the beauty of my surroundings began to fade. Actually, the surroundings didn’t change at all. It was just my frame of mind. The Buckeyes were in front of us, and I tried to use them as my rabbit, but I couldn’t keep pace with the youngsters, including my daughter who blasted the ascent with no problems. Finally atop the 12,310’ pass, we stopped to refuel and to immerse ourselves in the moment. It was chilly and breezy at the pass and billowy clouds were starting to accumulate on the horizon.

The climbing for the trip complete, we descended the spare cirque that cradles appropriately-named High Lake. A fair number of hikers were struggling up as we came down, including a guy attempting to prod, poke, and cajole a group of adolescent boys up to the pass. We offered encouragement, but the boys just looked at us with utter contempt. I laughed because I knew how they felt. At Long Lake, we stopped again to pump water and solidify our plans for the evening. Charcoal gray thunderheads were now boiling up over the peaks to the northwest and the skies to the east and south were darkening. Remembering the onslaught we endured the night before, we determined to admit defeat and walk the rest of the way out. Midway back it began to rain again.

Back in Lone Pine, we figured we’d salvage the remainder of the trip by getting eats, beer, and firewood for another night of car-camping at Tuttle Creek. But even here, the weather refused to cooperate. While we were in town, the wind kicked up and the sky turned black. Lightning cackled and thunder thundered in the distance. We knew our fate was sealed. So we jumped in the car and made the long drive back to predictably and reliably dry civilization. 

Lower Soldier Lake Campsite

Climbing to New Army Pass

Approaching Near New Army Pass

Mt. Langley from the New Army Pass Trail

High Lake, Long Lake, and South Fork Lakes from New Army Pass

Descending the East Side of New Army Pass

Stunning Rock Formations

Long Lake

Cottonwood Lakes Basin

Dharma-Bumming the Southern Sierra

I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.

-Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

The closer you get to real matter, rock air fire and wood, boy, the more spiritual the world is.

-Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

Sometime last week, I glanced at the calendar and realized it was mid-July. Of course, I knew what date it was in a cognitive awareness sort of way, but it hadn't actually dawned on me that we were half-way through the summer already. Anxiousness washed over me with the subtlety of a flash flood. Summer, the season of the Sierra, was slowly receding from me. The promise of warm days and cool, starry nights at altitude was slipping away.

Mildly panicked, I resolved then and there that a trip to Lone Pine was in order. Not on some future date after meticulous organization, relentless planning, and exhaustive consultation. What I had in mind was something immediate. An impulsive, chaotic, and messy affair that I'd make up as I went along. When I mentioned my idea to my skeptical better half, I was told I was forcing the issue. And of course I was. That's the only way these things ever seem to happen.

So two days later, there I was headed north by myself, crossing the upper Mojave as the devilishly hot desert air came blasting through my open car windows. Those windows weren't open by choice, but rather by necessity as the air conditioner in my car had recently quit me. In some respects, that's understandable I suppose given the fact that I drive a 2009 Honda Civil Si with 187,000 miles and a flaking paint job. But still, the inability to conjure artificially cool air on demand made the journey an exceedingly hot and uncomfortably noisy affair. Through the haze of time, this will be the stuff of warm memories and embellished bar-stool reminiscences.

Three hours in I made a hard left and tacked west up narrow and winding Lubken Canyon Road. Here, the landscape immediately and dramatically changes from burnt desertscape to a velvety, green paradise that is watered by gurgly Lubken Creek. But Eden is a very small and private place that is not shared freely by its chosen inhabitants, so I soldiered on into the parched and sun-baked promised land that is the Alabama Hills. Finding a suitable place to call home for the evening, I set up camp, built a fire, and then settled in as the sun mercifully slid behind the mountains and darkness crept over the fantastic and grotesque rock formations for which these hills are justly famous.

It would not be odd in the least to wonder about how the name "Alabama" became appended to these eastern California hills. I have thought about that myself. Apparently, the area was named by local prospectors in honor of the CSS Alabama, a legendary Confederate battleship that was successful in raiding Union merchant and naval ships during the Civil War. The CSS Alabama was ultimately sunk in June of 1864 by the USS Kearsarge for which the Kearsarge Pass, Lakes, and Pinnacles are named. But fret not. The CSS Alabama may be gone, but it is not entirely forgotten in these parts. 150+ years and counting after the end of bloody hostilities between the north and south, a bit of the Confederacy spirit can still be found in Lone Pine where the "Stars and Bars" is proudly displayed over certain bars and hung from scattered homes.

Around 5:30 a.m the next day, the sun reappeared over the Inyo Mountains and bathed the Sierra in warm amber. This is a spectacular phenomenon I never tire of, although I wonder if the local even see it anymore because it is so commonplace. Foregoing coffee and the urge to linger, I broke camp and immediately drove to the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead at 10,000 feet where my thermometer told me the outside temperature was cool and comfortable 51 degrees. As I pulled in, I congratulated myself on the early arrival, smug in the belief that it would secure me a convenient place to park and ample space for my smellables in the bear box. Much to my dismay, however, the parking lot was completely full, forcing me to the sad overflow area near the equestrian camp, the hiker's equivalent of the kids' table.

Although the parking lot was full, the trail was empty as I silently made my way through the forest noisily gasping for air. Being a lowlander all these years has rendered me altitudinally challenged. But the weather was so perfect, the creeks so full, and the scenery so fine it was easy to ignore my tortoise's pace and the fact that my legs felt like lead.

Five miles or so in, the trail crests a low rise and suddenly I was in an enchanted, high-altitude basin hemmed by blazing white granite and splattered with sapphire lakes. Mt. Langley towered 14,026' to my right. Cirque Peak pierced the flawless sky to my left. Before me sat a surprisingly verdant bowl studded with boulders and bisected by flowing water. Ah yes, this was the wonderland I had journeyed all this way to bathe in.

There are many foot-paths that cut through this justly popular basin. I opted to follow the one that passes between Lake No. 3 and the unnamed "pond" to the northeast. Water from snow-melt roared into Lake No. 3 at its inlet on the northwest end. As I neared Lake Nos. 4 and 5 nestled beneath Army Point Pass, clouds of marauding mosquitoes swarmed. It's been a record water-year in the Sierra and the mosquitoes are taking maximum and frenzied advantage of the situation. The only way I could escape the blood-thirsty little creatures was to stay on the rocks and away from any vegetation. I now know what it must feel like to be a Caribou on the Arctic Plain in the spring time.

But biting midge-like flies are a small price of admission, so I offered up some of my bodily fluids and luxuriated in the resounding silence of my personal nirvana. Afterwords, I back-tracked through the basin, veering south for a quick visit to the appropriately named South Fork Lakes, before reluctantly making my way back to the trailhead and what passes for reality.

Back at my campsite in the Alabama Hills, the late-afternoon heat was unrelenting. As a diversion, I tried to read, hoping for relief as the scorching sun crept west across the sky. But I despise the heat and soon grew impatient with how slowly sunset was approaching. So I loaded up my gear and started back for home.

The air conditioner in my car wasn't working any better on the way back than it was on the way up. So of course I had all the windows wide open once again. Somewhere along that tedious and lonely stretch between Olancha and Mojave ferocious cross-winds began to buffet the car. Then, a couple of closed-cell foam pads in the back seat that I keep in a plastic garbage bag began to levitate. I sensed impending calamity and began bringing up the windows in earnest, but the foam pads took flight. They momentarily got stuck as the passenger side window pinched around them, but then they were gone. Out the window to join the other sad detritus along the highway median. Stunned, I slowed some to quickly considered my options as other cars passed me on the right, their occupants staring at me quizzically. A quarter-mile or so later, I brought the car to a stop after I had processed the curiosity of what had just happened. Then I walked in shame and embarrassment up the freeway in the 103 degree heat to retrieve my garbage-bag belongings. Ah yes, another life episode to ultimately be remembered more fondly than deserved through the prism of hindsight and the bottom of a beer stein.

When I finally arrived home in the fading light a few hours later, I felt like Ray Smith from Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums. I didn't feel like doing much of anything but lying down and remembering it all. The woods do that to you.

Native Trout

Cottonwood Lakes: Everyone Knows This is Nowhere

Cottonwood Lakes Basin

Maybe I don’t really wanna know

How your garden grows cos I just want to fly

Lately, did you ever feel the pain?

In the morning as its soaks you to the bone

Maybe I just want to fly

I want to live, I don’t want to die

Maybe I just want to breathe

Maybe I just don’t believe

Maybe you’re the same as me

We see things they’ll never see

You and I we’re gonna live forever.

-Live Forever, Oasis

The long weekend was on and the call of the wild was loud so what else could I do? The Cottonwood Lakes area has always had a magnetism to it that I could not resist, so on Saturday afternoon my daughter, a friend, and I all dutifully obeyed the Law of Attraction and made the three hour drive to Lone Pine in search of a high altitude fix. The plan was...well, we didn't really have a plan per se other than to hike into the Cottonwood Lakes. We figured we'd figure out the rest as we went. That lack of planning had always worked out in the past for these types of trips and this one proved to be no exception, despite the fact that it was a holiday weekend.

The temps were uncommonly comfortable and the road surprisingly empty as we made our way north across the barren desertscape. As we passed through the assemblage of odd little roadstops that dot the 395, places like Pearsonville, Coso Junction, Dunmovin, and Cartago all bleached and withering away in the blast furnace heat and wind of the Mojave Desert, we speculated about their origins and laughed out loud about the stories we conjured up, particularly those about Dunmovin. Somewhere Neil Young was singing Everyone Knows This is Nowhere.

In no time it seemed, we arrived on the outskirts of Lone Pine. We hadn't really taken notice of the miles as they passed because we were too engaged in solving the world's problems. With that small task accomplished, we turned our attention to finding accommodations for the night and headed for Tuttle Creek. If that failed us, we'd just find a blank spot to hunker down on somewhere within the sandstone labyrinth that is the the Alabama Hills. Fortunately, there was an open spot at the Tuttle Creek inn, so we grabbed it and set up for the night. There's nothing fancy about Tuttle Creek--a gravelly spot for a tent, a concrete picnic table, a fire ring, and bathroom, all set out under the blistering sun of the Owens River Valley--but it suited our limited purposes. And we were beggars anyway.

After we got situated, we made the short drive to Lone Pine in search of the fabled Los Hermanos taco truck. We found it parked on the north end of town in a dusty lot adjacent to Carl's Jr. and directly across the street from the only other taco truck for miles. As I waited for our order, Chris disappeared across the street to the gas station-cum-convenience store and then returned with a brown bag brimming with brown bottles. Back at Tuttle Creek, we enjoyed tacos and craft beer under an inky black sky splattered with a billion blinking stars and the spilled-milk of the Milky Way.

Alabama Hills

Tuttle Creek Tent Site

Afternoon Clouds

Inyo Mountains

Last Light Along the Eastern Sierra

Under a Blood Red Sky

The next morning, we arose to brilliant alpenglow painting the eastern escarpment of the Sierra. The site is such a commonplace occurrence in these parts that its beauty was almost boring. Deciding that we should probably put some energy into the main purpose of our trip, we quickly tore down camp before the heat index rose too high, and then made our way back to Lone Pine for caffeine and morning vitals to see us through the start of our planned hike.

We ended up at the Lone Star Bistro located along Main Street. I'd been to this place before and vowed never to return because the guy behind the counter was such a horse's ass on my last visit. But time was of the essence (which meant the Alabama Hills Cafe was not on the menu) so I put aside my convictions and gave the place another shot.

A collection of locals, mostly gray-haired and bearded men, was assembled at table chatting and drinking coffee as we entered. The Lone Pine coffee-klatch. Down the street where we parked, a Confederate Flag fluttered in the slight breeze. A friendly chap that I perceived to be the owner greeted us as we entered. Good start. We stood there for a moment looking at the ample offerings displayed out on a chalk-board over the counter and then stepped up to order. There, a stoney-faced woman awaited us oozing rudeness and negativity.

We wanted coffee. And we wanted breakfast sandwiches. But the Medusa behind the counter wouldn't allow us to order them at the same time. She insisted that we order our breakfast sandwiches first, and then our coffee. Ostensibly, this was a time-management thing intended to allow the other poor girl behind the counter to start our order while Ms. Grumpy Gills got our coffee. But getting our coffee consisted of simply handing us a cup so that we could pour our own. Yeah, big time saver that.

Alpenglow

Morning on the Eastside

Light and Shadows

Some Might Say...

Maddie Capturing the Moment

Back on the road, we retraced our drive past Tuttle Creek and began the steep zig-zag up to Horeshoe Meadows and the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead. This is one of the more dramatic mountain roads to pierce the eastern flanks of the Sierra ascending approximately 5,000 feet from the valley floor to an elevation of 10,040 feet at its terminus. Given the fact it was a holiday weekend, the parking area was predictably and completely packed with backpackers and hikers save for one spot right up front that was awaiting us. We obligingly took that one remaining spot, put the cooler in the bear box, and off we went.

The trail here is easy and beautiful and there were a bunch of folks coming out as we went in.
Green, gold, and shade dominate as the path wends its way through a forest of Jeffrey Pine and high altitude meadows. Both South Fork Creek and Cottonwood Creek were flowing nicely and Chris was compelled to stop and get water. Not because he necessarily needed it, but because of the novelty of it all. Living in a state of perpetual drought, we weren't accustomed to seeing running water and felt the need to just drink it all in. Near the water's edge, a few enterprising mosquitoes followed our lead and had a drink of their own.  

Past Golden Trout Camp, where I imagine folks don't sleep on closed-cell foam pads or dine on dehydrated meals, the trail splits. Here, we veered left, crossed Cottonwood Creek, and made the slow climb to the basin. This is the only part of the trail where there is really any gain to speak of, unless of course you continue past the basin to the top of New Army Pass. Wildflowers were still popping and water spilled down the rocky canyon from Lake #1 above.

Golden Trout Wilderness Boundary

South Fork Creek

Chris Tanking Up Along South Fork Creek

Mountain Gargoyle

Maddie Crossing Cottonwood Creek

Cottonwood Creek Spilling Out of Lake 1

Padres Shooting Stars

A short distance later, the trail crests a low rise and Bam!, you're in the basin. I'm always taken by this sudden and arresting change in scenery which compelled us to stop again to admire the stark, mountain tableau which is dominated by 14,000' Mt. Langley.

The blueprint for the day had us exploring all six Cottonwood Lakes. Once in the basin,, however, we decided to investigate Long Lake instead which sits in a shallow bowl just below New Army Pass at an elevation of  11,143 feet. To get there, we stayed on the south side of Lake #1 and followed the well-worn and level path that angles in the direction of Cirque Peak. Along the way, we stopped at scenic Lake #2 where California Golden Trout were literally leaping from the sapphire surface. Just beyond that, the path took us through a massive, treeless rock-pile before re-entering the thin forest. At a lush meadow fed by Long Lake, we followed the main trail which veered left (an obvious use path to the right goes to the north shore of Long Lake) and then crests a small bump. And suddenly we were there.

As a destination to just hang out and absorb the high country, the south side of Long Lake is not optimal. It's a bit marshy and spongy and is better suited for fishing (which a couple of anglers were doing). The north side of the lake it turns out appears superior for those types of lazy activities. But that didn't deter us. We'd come too far to be stymied. So we lolly-gagged along the shore for a spell in the bright Sierra sun and ate our lunches. We had pretty much talked ourselves out on the way in, so we sat in silence now, each of us lost for awhile in our own thoughts and world.

A far too short of a time later, it was time to go. But we were reluctant. We wanted to stay because, well we wanted to be in this place, this moment, forever. And besides, we were feeling the sluggish effects of a lunch-induced food coma. But it was time to go so we went. On the way out, we stopped again along the shore of lovely Lake #2 so I could play Golden Trout in the icy waters in my skivvies to the great embarrassment of my trail companions, I'm sure. Suitably refreshed, it was then just an easy, but long walk back to the trailhead so that we could make the hard and long drive back to reality.

Cottonwood Lakes Basin with Mt. Langley in Rearground

Cottonwood Lake #2

Cottonwood Lake #2

Rock Field at 11,000'

Chris Ascending to Long Lake

Beautiful Wood

Meadow Below Long Lake

Maddie at Long Lake

Long Lake