During the night, water leaked into my tent, but using my neckerchief, I’m able
to sop it up and wring the water out of the neckerchief on the outside of the
tent. Having an inflated air mattress to sleep on elevated me just enough
to keep my sleeping bag from soaking up the water, which would have been
disastrous. I wouldn’t have been able to stay dry and would have suffered
from hypothermia.
Around
10:00 a.m., I peered out of my tent just as four hikers were passing by.
They were decked out in rain jackets and had rain covers over their
packs. I felt a little guilty being in my tent, but dang it, it was still
raining and somewhat cold outside. I determined to stay in my tent and
sleeping bag until at least 1:00 p.m. and then take my chances.
It was
one in the afternoon and I had been in my tent for twenty-four hours straight.
I determine to leave – rain or no rain. I slipped on my rain pants
and wet North Face jacket, laced up my soggy wet shoes, and popped out of the
tent. What rain was still falling was mostly drip from the trees I was
standing under. As quick as I could, I stuffed my belongings into my
pack, rolled up my wet tent and stuffed it in its stuff sack and strapped it on
top of my pack, and headed up the trail.
For the
most part, it had stopped raining, just as Russ had said it would, and yes,
overhead, blue sky was starting to appear. Within a mile, I passed the
four hikers huddled in their tents who had passed by my me at ten this morning;
I guess they figured it wasn’t worth the effort to try and make miles in the
rain.
Kumquat
and Tour Guide were also camped nearby. They each had their own
one-person tent, but during the night, Tour Guide’s tent became flooded with
water, soaking his sleeping bag, so he crawled in with Kumquat. Two
people in a one-person tent, plus backpacks, was more than just a little
crowded. The two of them had been in the tent since three this morning.
I bid them a hearty farewell and moved on
.
The trail
followed the west bank of Falls Creek, which was flowing at least three times
its size from the previous day. I knew there were stream crossings behind
me, but I didn’t know what lay ahead. I just hope I wouldn’t have to
cross the raging stream that was roaring down the canyon, off to my right.
Water was flowing everywhere; even the trail itself had become a
mini-stream, funneling water from the flat meadows to roaring Falls Creek.
I passed Pia, who was still in her tent, and shortly thereafter, I was
passed by Yashinka who had been leapfrogging the trail with me since Kennedy
Meadows. Knowing that he was camped across the stream from where I spent
the night, I asked him how it was to cross the stream in flood stage. He
said it was over waist-deep, hard to cross, and very treacherous.
The climb
continued upward until Dorothy Lake came into view, and as I was standing
beside it I turned around and looked back down the valley at the massive gray
clouds that were still being pushed up the valley and over the mountaintops on
either side of the valley, where they dissipated. The storm was over
with, but it had been a good one.
Ahead of
me was a summit called the Sierra Crest, which was located at 10,640 feet,
still a major climb of approximately fifteen hundred feet. Beyond Dorothy
Lake, the trail crossed Cascade Creek and then followed the West Fork of West
Walker River. With the thirty-plus hours of rain the landscape has just
endured, the West Walker River was bulging at its banks and the trail, according
to my maps, had to cross over it. Fortunately, there was a steel bridge
over the gorge that contained the river, and I passed over without incident and
moved on to Walker Meadows.
The long
valley that I had been climbing up all afternoon now culminated in the
fifteen-hundred-foot climb along an exposed alpine traverse that was part Jeep
road and part horse trail. Standing at the base of the climb, I could see it is
a long, long traverse that eventually went up and over the Sierra Crest, and
all of it was above tree line. I began the climb; the going was slow; I
moved along counting units of eight steps, and made progress up the slope.
Halfway across the traverse, I looked back and saw other hikers just
beginning the climb. My honest hope at that moment was that I would be
able to make it to the top and start down the other side before they caught up
with me. I did so, and throughout the rest of the day, I saw no other
hikers.
I hiked
until 8:30 p.m. and then camped for the night at mile 1,003. I was
pleased with my progress; I had only 1,660 miles left to walk until I reached
the Canadian border. As I contemplated my progress thus far, I found it
hard to fathom that it was possible to hike such a long distance.
My feet
hurt, but not from blisters; just the constant pounding of walking seventeen to
twenty miles a day. What really hurt was my back, specifically the
muscles on either side of my spine. I had to assume the pain was the
result of an ill-fitting backpack, for I found myself constantly adjusting the
straps to either lift the pack higher up on my back, or lower it in an effort
to gain relief from the pain. A particular adjustment would give me
relief on one side of my back for a few miles, and then the pain would start in
again. I was taking a lot of Ibuprofen and Advil, which only brought
relief for a little while.
I didn’t
think it would rain last night, and it didn’t, but I put my tent up anyway to
get some relief from the mosquitoes. I was only thirteen miles from
Sonora Pass and Highway 108 that lead west to Kennedy Meadows North and my next
resupply box. The day was not total sunshine; storm clouds still
lingered, but the three-day storm just endured had spent its fury and milder
conditions now prevailed.
Snow melt racing towards the Pacific Ocean.
No comments:
Post a Comment