Kearsarge Pass | Center Basin | Forester Pass | Shepherd Pass | Shepherd Creek
Part 4
“The sun is up,” Brad’s voice jolts me.
I leap out of my sleeping bag, jump out of the tent, grab my wide-angle lens, and crank down the aperture. I race along the shores of Lake 11,400’, chasing the border where light meets shadow, trying to capture perfect sun stars. As I reach the southern shore, I snag a double star—one behind Mt. Tyndall, and the other mirrored in the lake below. The rising sun begins to burn off the morning dew, and wildflowers open up to embrace the warmth. I switch to my macro lens, capturing delicate details.
Meanwhile, Brad is getting breakfast started. It’s the usual oatmeal, coffee, and scones, though later we’ll realize we forgot the honey. Since today is our easiest day, we linger over breakfast, soaking in the calm of the lake and the wide-open landscape before us.
When we finally set out, we opt for a cross-country route heading east through the valley, which spares us the drop down onto the JMT. Being above the tree line, the route is straightforward. We make a direct line toward Mt. Tyndall. As we tiptoe across Tyndall Creek, I tell Brad that this really is a perfect place.
We join the Shepherd Pass Trail directly across from Rockwell Pass and slowly wind our way up the gentle slopes. Compared to the grueling climb to Forester Pass, today’s hike feels almost leisurely. The elevation gain is mild, as we’re already on a high, treeless plateau, with a few small creeks braiding across the trail.
But the wind is relentless. At the top of Shepherd Pass, it howls. I set up a low tripod to take our pictures, constantly worried that the wind might knock over the camera. The other side of the pass is a long scree slope, as dizzying as the south side of Forester Pass. With the wind whipping around us, I ask Brad to tuck away my hat so it doesn’t blow into my face during the scary descent.
I brace against the fear of sliding down the steep incline, taking slow, deliberate steps. For a brief moment, I consider asking Brad to tell Yan, “I love you,” if something were to happen to me. Once we’re past the scariest part, I check my phone. There’s signal! I quickly send a few texts to Yan and even manage to call her. It’s so good to hear her voice.
We descend rapidly, leisurely almost, leaving the scree field behind and passing The Pothole. The barren moonscape transitions into a pine forest, and we can hear Shepherd Creek’s soothing song. Before long, we arrive at Anvil Camp.
It’s only 2:00 in the afternoon. We snack on leftover lunch and then scout for a better campsite. Across the right bank, nestled among foxtail pines and next to a small meadow, we find the perfect spot. Beyond the meadow, the dry slopes are dotted with boulders and more pines. I find a cozy place for a warm afternoon nap. In the meantime, Brad naps on the tent’s footprint.
At 4:00, we start the afternoon routine. Set up camp, shampoo, and wash. Brad sees me shiver in the pool of snowmelt and decide against bathing. We make dinner. Tom Kha soup is ready in no time, and Brad shaves carrots for the Pad Thai. A squeeze of fresh lime gives the dish a bright, fresh kick.
It’s our final night out. I get a flashback to our hike out on the last day in Rainier, when a light rain swept over us and brought on the feeling of accomplishment, of connectedness, of contentment, all wrapped into one. The blue and orange shirts I wore on that trip are still with me now. Fifteen years have passed since that trip, but the memories, though distant, feel vividly clear.
After a camp-style apple pie, I drift off to sleep, lulled by the sound of Shepherd Creek rushing by, as scenes from backcountry trips of yesteryears play in my mind.
