I Ain't Going Out Like That

 

The next big event after retiring is dying. And I'm not going to volunteer for that one yet.
~Bobby Bowden

We ain't going out like that, we ain't going out like that.
~Cypress Hill, I Ain't Going Out Like That

Legendary Florida State football coach Bobby Bowden continued to work long into the sunset of his life. His philosophy, often repeated, was that once you retire, there is only one major life event remaining. And he was determined to stave that event off by avoiding the immediately preceding life event (retirement) as long as possible. How successful that strategy was we'll probably never know for certain. But death found Bobby despite his efforts and he was escorted into the mysterious beyond on August 8, 2021. 

I don't know how Bobby lived his life, but the subtext of his philosophy is to just keep grinding until you ultimately slump over a stack of paper on your desk, a tie around your neck, and the fluorescent lights reflecting in your vacant stare. Fuck that. As DJ Muggs and the boys said, "I ain't going out like that." I know the stage of life I'm at. I know what the actuarial tables say. I know the knock could come any day. So I'm not going to waste opportunity on the mere possibility that continuous toil is the path to Ponce de Leon's mythical spring. If living instead of working costs me a couple of extra years, I'll happily make that Faustian bargain.

So when the chance to walk a stretch of the famed John Muir Trail (JMT) was placed in front of me, I wasn't going to demur. Even if that meant spending a precious few days away from the never-ending stream of emails that I knew would be pooling to unfathomable debts in my absence.

I'm a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. It drives my wife crazy. She's a meticulous planner. Every detail must be accounted for beforehand. There is little room for variation in the finalized agenda. Me, I too often approach things with only a sketch of a plan and then figure I'll ad-lib the rest. I like the not knowing. I like the spontaneity. I like the surprise. I like the freedom. Sometimes that approach bites me in the rear. Most of the time things works out. But as a result, if it was left up to me, I'd probably never walk the JMT. That's because it requires thinking about the trip months in advance. It requires researching when and how to obtain permits (and then actually getting those permits). It requires a fair amount of thought and planning. I find that whole process tedious and aggravating. I just want to show up and go. It's one of my many flaws.

Fortunately, I have a friend that is pretty good at doing those types of things and will tolerate me mooching off of his administrative efforts. So back at the beginning of the year, when the night sky still lingered long on the landscape, my friend, who was already dreaming about summer backpacking, secured permits for the the JMT with entry at Lyell Canyon in Yosemite National Park. Being the swell guy that he is, and knowing that I'd want in on the action, he made sure there was a spot for me to tag along. 

Our adventure started on a Saturday in Mammoth Lakes where we left a car. Early the next morning, we jumped on a Tuolumne-bound YARTS bus in front of the Shiloh Inn. We were joined by a couple of young lads from Rotterdam, Netherlands who had just finished the entire 222 miles of the JMT, had hitched a ride back up the 395, and were now headed for the Yosemite Valley. Talking to these young guys, who couldn't have been more than 21 or 22, I was impressed by their adventurous spirits, their infectious energy, their youthful fearlessness, and their ability to communicate with us fluently in the native tongue. Thinking back on my own youth, I would never have had the courage to go traipsing off to some foreign land with nothing but a pack on my back and a wild idea in my head. Hell, that wasn't even on my radar when I was their age. So I have great admiration for these guys. They are everything that I wasn't in my youth. 

At Tuolumne Meadows, we, along with a rag-tag assemblage of other backpackers, secured our permit after receiving the obligatory ranger lecture about bears, poo, and fire. We then started up Lyell Canyon where we planned to stay the first night. The term "up" in this context is somewhat of a misnomer as the trail through Lyell Canyon is relatively level for the first 7-8 miles before it finally begins climbing toward Donahue Pass. That makes for an easy first day and provides the ability to acclimate some before the air thins out and your lungs begin to burn as you walk.

It was high season along the JMT so we continually passed, or more frequently were passed by fellow travelers. That's the thing about hiking in the Sierra Nevada. The range can conceal an incredible number of hikers and backpackers. There are folks everywhere in these mountains. To the casual observer, it might no be evident. But they are there. By the lakes, along the ridgelines, and under cover of the forest canopy. So even when you're alone on the trail, you're never really alone. And there were quite a few folks alone on the trail. Most of them we encountered were women which was counter-intuitive. In the olden days, when we were all forced to walk to and from school bare-foot in the snow, and it was uphill both ways, you wouldn't have seen that. Too dangerous. Or at least that was the commonly-accepted wisdom. Now? I suppose safety in numbers has mitigated that concern some. And/or maybe contemporary women are just sick of that shit and are like "fuck it! I'm going." Either way, the "fairer sex" is killing it out there.  

Youth was the other common denominator. Schlepping a backpack full of gear at elevation, battling pesky mosquitoes, and sleeping in the dirt is mostly a young man's game. And the trekkers we encountered along the trail substantially, although not exclusively, bore that out. As old guys, we were definitely an outlier. Maybe even a curiosity. As we walked along, I couldn't help imagining the youngsters we met thinking how cute it was that a couple of old men were still out there doing it. Of course, no one said that or even hinted at it. Still, I'd be lying if I told you I never felt that we didn't belong. But that probably says more about me than it does the youth brigade we shared the trail with.

The day began gray and continued to get grayer the deeper in we went. By late afternoon, with the sky darkening, we reached the 9,700' contour and decided to camp just below the footbridge that crosses Lyell Fork. A ranger we met earlier informed us that there had been bear activity at this location for the last few nights, so I was a little on edge. Shortly after we set up camp, the sprinkles began and we took refuge in our tents. I didn't bring anything to read in an effort to cut bulk and weight, so I just laid there in my nylon cocoon listening to rain spattering the fly and awaiting a visit from Ursus Americanus Californiensis. That never happened, and I ultimately drifted off around 8 p.m., awakening early the next morning well before they sky began to lighten.  

Back on the trail, we climbed to a beautiful tarn at 10,200' that is fed by what remains of the Lyell Glacier. There are several campsites here which would make an outstanding place to stay for a night or two. As we admired the camping opportunities, we lost the trail when we followed a social path that skirted the eastern bank of the tarn and then ultimately fizzled out. Backtracking, we realized our error when we saw another JMTer crossing the tarn outlet and then follow the correct path along the western bank instead. 

Higher up, the trail crossed a stream before reaching another tarn that sat above treeline. Low clouds were smothering Mt. Lyell which made for an ethereal and foreboding landscape. We stopped to collect some of the cold, delicious water at the stream whose source was a pool higher up in the glacial cirque. One-half mile or so later, we crested barren Donahue Summit where I surprisingly, but briefly had cell reception.

The clouds that hung high in the sky earlier were now at ground level. Maybe they moved lower or we moved higher, but suddenly we were in them. And they began dropping moisture. It started as an innocent mist that morphed into drizzle. That drizzle then turned to rain which quickly became a malevolent torrent. We donned rain jackets and ponchos, but it was futile. The rain was drenching and relentless. Dropping into the Rush Creek drainage, we took refuge under a gigantic granite overhang to ride out the rest of the storm. 

Afternoon thunderstorms are a regular occurrence in the mountains. They are one of those things that you just expect at elevation in the summer. But as we cowered under that slab of protective granite, the irony of it suddenly raining after 8 months of bone dry weather struck hard. Perhaps, I thought, I could single-handedly solve California's drought situation by seeding the clouds through backpacking all the time. I'd be happy, you'd be happy, the farmers would be happy, everyone would be happy. Win-win-win-win.

When the rain tapered off, we began moving again, but the skies did not look friendly. We had targeted the Marie Lakes as our destination for night 2, but when we got to the trail junction leading into the basin, we could tell that location was going to be stormy. So we continued descending until we reached the junction with the trail leading to Gem Lake where the deluge began once again. We joined a couple of young ladies under a tree in an effort to stay dry and made idle chit chat. One of them was on the finishing leg of a solo JMT trek northbound; the other, her friend, had joined her for the last few miles of the journey. Eventually, they got up and wandered off in the still-falling rain as we continued hiding under the tree boughs until the storm died down some and the trail stopped flowing like river. Then it was up and over Island Pass and down to Thousand Island Lake where we camped for the night. We had been warned by others on the trail that Thousand Island was crowded, noisy, and not very pleasant, but the place was pretty much empty. We had a very enjoyable evening there.

The following morning, the sun was shining and Mt. Ritter gleamed gold in the alpenglow. The air was warm, birds were chirping, and I'm pretty sure I heard a chorus of angels heralding in the new day. Convinced we'd survived the worst Mother Nature had to throw at us, and ahead of schedule, we decided to tack on some extra mileage and head for Rosalie Lake that night with an eventual exit at Reds Meadow.

The trail that morning led us past the precious stone lakes - Emerald, Ruby, and Garnett. The water at Thousand Island tasted somewhat swampy so we stopped to pump at inviting little Ruby Lake that sits in a small, confined basin backed rocky cliffs. The scenery here is really spectacular and the water was superior to Thousand Island so we were glad we waited. Then it was down to sapphire-hued Garnett Lake (another misnomer) where we stopped briefly at the footbridge at the lake's outlet to dunk our heads in the cool water. 

Here again, we briefly lost the trail when we mistakenly followed an alternate path that apparently leads to Altha Lake. The JMT, which we relocated quickly, hews closely to Garnett's southern shore before climbing over a low divide and dropping into the Shadow Creek drainage. As we descended off the rocky divide, the surroundings suddenly changed and we found ourselves wandering a pleasant path through a shady, evergreen forest.

Where the JMT intersects with the Shadow Lake Trail, we stopped to talk to a young fellow from Alabama who was going solo southbound. He told us he'd never been to California before and this being only the third day of his journey, he was still acclimating. That gave us pause. We were on day 3 of our trip too and we started at Tuolumne. This Golden State newbie was at the same place, yet he started at Happy Isles in the Yosemite Valley. To add insult to injury, he was headed for Red's that day while we were only aiming for Rosalie. He was averaging about 25 miles per day to our 10. That was a bit of a sobering slap that reaffirmed our lowly place in the backpacking pecking order.

After we parted ways, the drips started again. As we followed the Shadow Creek Trail east, it continued to pick up intensity until we reached the footbridge at the inlet to Shadow Lake. Then, the heavens opened up and the rain came pouring down with impressive intensity. We sheltered under another tree and considered our options. We had originally planned to exit at Agnew and only altered that agenda because we were ahead of schedule. But with the rain now falling hard, the prospect of hiking further in soaking conditions and then setting up a soggy camp wasn't terribly appealing. And when we weighed the potential misery of sitting in the rain at Rosalie against the guaranteed pleasure of sitting at Mammoth Brewing Company with a hoppy pint before us, the decision was easy. We decided against continuing onto Red. "We ain't going out like that, we ain't going out like that."

As we walked out, the sky dried up some but the clouds still looked sinister and foreboding. Finally at Agnew, we awaited a shuttle ride out with a pleasant group of fellow gray hairs from Oregon. Since Agnew is the last stop on the exit route, every shuttle that came by was already full. So it was a long and frustrating wait. After a while, I got impatient and resorted to flashing cash at passing cars in an effort to catch a ride. Unsurprisingly, I got no takers. Few folks are interested in picking up a pair of stinky axe-murderers even if the reward is $30. After what seemed an eternity, one of the shuttle drivers going into Reds Meadow radioed ahead that there were riders that needed out. And we successfully caught a ride on the very next shuttle heading up the hill. 

Back at Mammoth Mountain Resort, we boarded the last free shuttle of the day into town. As luck would have it, that shuttle dropped us immediately adjacent to the brewery where we plunked down our heavy packs and consumed a bit of craft beer with enthusiasm and affection. As the warming influence of the alcohol began to take hold, I felt pleased with the trip, even though we abandoned the last leg to Reds. And of course I was happy to have snuck in one more adventure before experiencing what Bobby Bowden euphemistically called the last major life adventure. Especially because my way of avoiding that event seems much more fun than the utter drudgery of Bobby's way.

Takin' 'er Easy at Polly Dome Lake

Lighten up while you still can

Don't even try to understand

Just find a place to make your stand

And take it easy.

~Take it Easy (Eagles)

The Dude abides.

I don't know about you, but I take comfort in that,

knowin' he's out there. The Dude.

Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners.

 ~The Stranger (The Big Lebowski)

Foiled by Fire - Tahoe Rim and Jennie Lakes

Several months back, when the hills were still rich with vegetation and the reverberating echoes of Spring deceived me into believing that fire season in California wasn't really a thing, I dreamed of taking a late-season, multi-day backpacking trip with my kids and some old friends. California's backcountry is immense, so the possibilities then seemed limitless. Thus, along with my backpacking co-conspirators, we began pouring over topographic maps, researching trail descriptions, and plotting potential routes through the forests and ranges that comprise the vast Sierra Nevada. Ultimately, we settled on a section of the Tahoe Rim Trail, a 165 mile path that circumnavigates the famous sapphire pool that straddles the California-Nevada border. That selection seemed to have everything that an outdoor enthusiast could possibly desire: scenery, easy access, scenery, adequate water, and scenery. Plus, it was proximate to post-adventure beer and tacos. That was the real clincher.  

And then in mid-August, as the date for our departure began to creep over the horizon, the Caldor Fire ignited and the El Dorado Forest near Lake Tahoe began to burn. As the conflagration raged out of control and evacuation orders forced locals to flee to wetter ground, smoke darkened the skies and ash rained down over the Tahoe Basin. The best laid plans...

So we scouted alternatives and settled on the Jennie Lakes Wilderness near Sequoia-Kings Canyon ("SEKI"). It hit all the same marks as the Tahoe Rim Trail save nearby tacos and beer. We decided we could adjust to that minor imperfection and major inconvenience. 

And then it happened again. The KNP Complex fire ignited and suddenly SEKI was ablaze too. The fire began in the south, but steadily marched northward threatening the world's largest tree by volume and closing the park. Foiled yet again, we scrambled for a back-up to our back-up and miraculously found enough available permits for the Murphy Creek Trail in Yosemite. If the Tuolumne Basin started to burn, we were done. We'd just stay home and pout.  

But Yosemite didn't burn. So on a Thursday afternoon, we all converged on the trailhead along Tioga Pass Road, strapped on our packs that were heavy with whiskey and other goodies that would make the ultra-light set squeamish, and headed into the wilderness. 

Murphy Creek Trail to Polly Dome Lake

The Murphy Creek Trail is a short, flat, and pleasant walk through a lush coniferous forest that is occasionally interrupted by brilliant granite slabs that have polished smooth by the ancient glaciers that created this place. Classic Yosemite. About 2 miles in, a use trail branches to the right that takes you to the western edge of pretty Polly Dome Lake.  

The original plan, conceived when we were feeling ambitious about our adventure, was to hike to Polly Dome Lake for the first night, down to Glen Aulin along the Tuolumne River the second night, back to May Lake the third night, then out the morning of the fourth day. But after we arrived at Polly Dome Lake and set up camp, we decided to embrace our inner Dude and just take 'er easy. We'd use Polly Dome as our base the whole time and just day-hike to our planned destinations. That way, we could avoid the unnecessary hassle of repeatedly putting up and tearing down camp.  

Day Hike to the High Sierra Camp at Glen Aulin

The following morning we brewed coffee in the cool mountain air. Inexplicably, the exact same coffee that you drink at home every single day suddenly becomes a gourmet experience when consumed from a titanium mug under a canopy of regal evergreens. If only I could say the same thing about food (Top Ramen excepted) which I find to be largely unappetizing at elevation. 

Anyway, sufficiently juiced up on caffeine, we then headed to Glen Aulin for the day which was a little less than 5 miles to our northeast. It was a slow descent on a beautiful, well maintained trail that permitted occasional looks at various peaks that stud the Tioga Pass area. At McGee Lake, a finger-like lake along the trail, we stopped for a brief spell to try our hands at swimming and fishing. Neither endeavor was particularly successful. We then made the final drop to Glen Aulin where the Tuolumne River comes spilling of the cliffside into a large, emerald pool. There's a High Sierra camp at Glen Aulin with bathrooms, water, and bear boxes, but all of it was locked tight and the camp was empty of campers. 

Ultimately, the nearby water proved too enticing, so we all gleefully stripped off our clothes and jumped into the waiting pool. A day-hiker nearby watched in bemusement. Almost immediately, we regretted our impulsiveness as the water was surprisingly frigid and major shrinkage ensued for all those with appendages that could shrink. We then sat like lizards in the sun, warming our now cold blood.  

On the way back to camp later that afternoon as my mind had wandered off as I wandered along, my friend suddenly exclaimed "bear!" I immediately snapped to attention, and sure enough, about 30 yards up-trail blocking our way was a very large black bear. When we checked in to obtain our permits, the ranger told us that bears were very active in the park and to expect a visit to camp every night, but that never happened. This was the only bruin we would see. As the bear ambled down trail toward us, we all started yelling and clapping our hands like fools to no avail. The bear was completely unfazed by our antics and continued slowly toward us. As we started to search the ground for projectiles, the bear moved off trail and we slid by without incident making it back to camp with a tale to tell.

May Lake, the Geographic Center of Yosemite

The following day, we made the 4-mile trek to May Lake, the "geographic center" of the park. May Lake is a gorgeous high-country lake that sits in a basin beneath stark and towering Mt. Hoffmann. We briefly contemplated making an attempt at Hoffmann's summit, but consistent with our adopted Dude-aesthetic, we decided to simply sit shoreside and admire it from afar. 

There's also a High Sierra camp at May Lake replete with bathrooms, water, and bear boxes. Like Glen Aulin, the bathrooms and water here were non-functional. Unlike Glen Aulin, the bear boxes here were unlocked and stuffed to the gills. Loafs of bread, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and edibles of all types were crowded in, on, and under every box. And the camping area was congested with campers. It was a bit of a shit show even though it was late season. I suppose that is understandable given that May Lake is easily accessible from Tioga Pass Road via a mile and one-half trail. But as scenic and worthwhile as it was to visit for the day, we were quite happy to return to lonely Polly Dome for the night.

Leaving Yosemite - the Last Day

On the final morning, we walked out, retracing our steps from day one. As always seems the case when you've been out a few days, we were both ready and reluctant to go. So we got moving early, but moved slowly, savoring the last moments of high-country bliss. Back at the trailhead, we unloaded our packs and retrieved the cans of malt and grain beverages that were stowed in the nearby bear boxes. We were going to just leave those in the trunk, but the ranger told us that bears can smell sealed beer through an aluminum can. Although we skeptically viewed that tidbit of information as nothing more than ranger scare-mongering, and despite the threat of theft by fellow hikers and hooligans, we ultimately were obedient little soldiers and stashed our stash in the bear boxes. And the beer survived the ordeal.

On the way down 395, we were hankering for some real food. After a couple of days of trial mix and tuna pouches and trail mix, we could think of nothing but burgers and fries and burgers, so stopped in Mammoth Lakes at the brewery to quell our hunger pangs and slake our thirst with a frosty mug. It was all very Dude and the perfect compliment to a good couple of days in the mountains.