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  • Saddlebag Lake to Greenstone Lake Backpacking

    Saddlebag Lake to Greenstone Lake Backpacking

    It’s been a year since we last went backpacking, and the kids have been looking forward to this trip. They are growing up, and they can have more freedom on this trip. The night before our trip, I put all the kids to bed an hour early, since we have an early morning start to a long car ride and hike.

    Early Saturday morning, we leave home at 6:30 and head up the highway, stopping briefly at the Eastern Sierra Visitor Center in Lone Pine. From there, we shoot up to the Mono Basin Scenic Area Visitor Center to meet up with the Denhams and have a picnic lunch. Months prior, looking for hiking partners, Yan had mentioned this trip to her coworker, Laura; we’re so happy that she and her family can make this trip.

    The hike in is a flat stroll along the southwestern shore of Saddlebag Lake. Before long, we’re at the far end of the lake. It seems shorter than what Yan and I remember when we brought Daphney on her first backpacking trip. We stop for a snack break by trailside boulders.

    We cross Lee Vining Creek on some makeshift log bridges and find a lakefront campsite. Jeremy and I scout around but decide that the scenic value of our location is unsurpassed. Greenstone Lake is flanked by sheer granite walls, and North Peak stands regal, looking down from the opposite shore.

    Yan and I try to remember where we camped the last time we were here—we had to cross a marshy area with Mark and Sarah. Somehow, this lake feels different. Later, when comparing pictures, I’ll discover that the area where we are camping now was previously underwater and the rock outcroppings were little islands.

    I set up camp while letting the kids roam free. Daphney collects and knaps rocks into round coins and triangular arrowheads. The other kids skip rocks in the lake. After a quick bath, we make dinner. It’s egg flower soup and spinach noodles.

    Bright stars dot the clear inky blue sky as light fades away. Our orange tent gives a pop of contrast color to the evening. I take star trail pictures.

    Jayden is the first to wake up on Sunday morning. At 5:00, he needs to pee, and once outside, he exclaims that the Milky Way is super bright. Sure enough, it is vertical, like smoke rising up from the right side of North Peak. There are but a few minutes to capture this, however, since twilight is around the corner.

    The peaks reflect in Greenstone Lake’s polished mirror. As the sun comes up, golden light sets the cliffs aglow. Ducks make ripples in the calm water. We have breakfast burritos.

    This trip is about letting the kids have more say, since the adults dictate so much of their lives. I ask them if they want to move camp and backpack to another lake for a change of scene or just stay put. Daphney, Jayden, and Nathaniel hold a conference and decide to stay. “We love this place,” they say.

    With no rush to go anywhere, the morning is now a lazy one. With my three-weight rod in hand, I fly fish the pond created by the outlet of Greenstone Lake. Little brook trout are biting. Little Parachute Adams seem to work well. Jayden says he feels sorry for the fish, but he’ll eat one if I cook it. Daphney, however, says no. Since the kids are in charge, we catch and release.

    We encounter other wildlife on our hike towards Wasco Lake in the afternoon. A garter snake mesmerizes the kids as it swims along the shore and into the grass. Laura catches some native Sierra frogs.

    Back at camp, we make rice and Japanese curry with homegrown carrots. The kids devour that and then share a dessert: dried strawberries sprinkled over cheesecake pudding spread on crushed Oreo cookies. We watch the sun go down and the sky turn orange. The moon is just past first quarter.

    After oatmeal and more fishing, we make the long drive home.

    Myles says, “I love backpacking.” Next year, maybe he’ll actually hike, carry some of his stuff, and gain some trail freedom.

  • Center Basin

    Center Basin

    Kearsarge Pass | Center Basin | Forester Pass | Shepherd Pass | Shepherd Creek

    Part 2

    The lake is still, like a mirror in the morning light. Around dawn, I poke around with my macro lens to find suitable subjects, looking for details that often go unnoticed. Then, we have a simple but satisfying breakfast: oatmeal with honey , scones with pour-over coffee. I had made the contraption to hold the filter paper, and grounds were pre-measured from home: 35 g of beans to 560 cc of water.

    We set out under another bright sky. The wind starts to pick up as we hike around Bullfrog Lake. After heading down the Vidette Switchbacks, we reach the John Muir Trail along Bubbs Creek. There are a few overused campsites, and we try fishing from one of them. The hope is to catch some and grill them here, before we ascend above 10,000 feet where fires are prohibited. The one and only ranger we encounter on the trip greets us here and checks my permit. After lunch, we hike on.

    Halfway between Vidette Meadow Junction and Center Basin Junction, we stumble upon an impressive waterfall. Pictures don’t capture its majesty, especially in the glare of the harsh noontime sun. To our delight, though, trout are dancing in the large pool below the waterfall. There are maybe two dozen fish darting around. Brad and I decide to cast, and in the fast-moving current, without the chance to examine the fly, the golden trout strike at the caddis again and again. This is Brad’s first forage into fly fishing, and he’s enjoying the game.

    The trail up to Center Basin is non-distinct, but luckily, we met a pair of hikers who described how to find it: directly across from the campsite with a large bear box. The climb is difficult in places, and being unmaintained, we lose the trail in a few places only to wander back onto it. Cresting the ridge, an expansive basin greets us, Center Peak standing sentinel to the right, and the Crags palisading on the left. A lush meadow and shallow lakes spread out before us like a hidden paradise.

    We push up into the next basin, reaching Golden Bear Lake. The solitude here is deafening, and I feel like the mountains and earth are all touching the sky. Brad and I scout out a nice campsite; I like it because it allows for open views of the sky for star photography. With map and compass, I orient myself, pinpointing where Polaris will make its appearance tonight —just over University Pass.

    Following our usual routine, we set up camp, wash off the trail dust, and do laundry. Our shirts, shorts, and towels fluttering against the towering peaks evoke images of Tibetan prayer flags. Tonight’s dinner menu features spinach and cheese tortellini with pine nuts, Parmesan, and olive oil, finished with fresh basil. Fresh herbs are light and add so much to a backcountry meal. For dessert, Brad whips up tiramisu for a sweet treat to end the day.

    As the sun is setting, alpenglow emerges and paints the peaks in rosy hues. I set up my wide-angle lens and frame the tent and where I figured the north star will be. After a few test shots, I turn in, setting my alarm for 21:17, when dark night begins.

    The stars emerge and turn the sky into a brilliant tapestry. The moon is so bright it makes my test shots look like daytime photographs. I set the intervalometer and tuck back in; after an hour, I take my camera into the tent and drift off to sleep.

     

  • High Sierra Trail: Day 5

    High Sierra Trail: Day 5

    Preparations  |  Day 1  |  Day 2  |  Day 3  |  Day 4  |  Day 5  |  Day 6  |  Day 7  |  Day 8

    Day 5

    We’ve been looking forward to this mid-trip breakfast. Even though the powdered eggs had turned rubbery when overcooked, the vegetarian bacon bits add enough flavor to the dish of scrambled eggs and hash browns. The little packets of ketchup make all the difference. Along with two rounds of French press coffee, this turns out to be our favorite breakfast.

    Before leaving, I suggest that we try singing a song. I’ve done this on many trips, and it gets everyone involved. Another luxury item in my pack is the pocket hymnal, and I turn to “When Peace Like a River.” We do this in parts, with Mickey carrying the melody, Wayne singing alto but an octave lower, and Mike taking the base. I fill in the tenor part. It turns out really nice. “This has got to be my favorite hymn,” Wayne says.

    Soon, we’re on the trail. Because we’re down on the Kern Canyon’s floor, we set off while the sunlight is still inching its way down the cliffs. There are numerous creek crossings along this trail. Being far from sure-footed, I nearly take a spill on one of those fords.

    Wayne and Mark march on at a determined pace. I occasionally catch up but eventually lose them. Along this river valley, between vertiginous cliffs that gradually give way to rounded moraines, I find that the solitude of hiking at my own pace confers a better sense of peace. There is no real need to catch up, and there’s no worry about needing to bring up the rear.

    The five of us convene at Junction Meadow. I find Wayne and Mark studying the map, trying to decide if we should camp higher along Wallace Creek. Mike arrives shortly and tells me that he had seen me nearly fall into the creek after stepping on the unstable log that he deftly avoided, but he witnessed Mickey lose his balance. Here, we have a long lunch and nap. After all, we’ve made it here in good time, and our planned campsite is not too far away.

    Wayne, Mark, and I head off first. There’s to be a vote at the junction. Mark wants to hike east up Wallace Creek so that it would cut off a few miles from tomorrow’s plan. Wayne prefers to stay at Upper Kern Canyon as planned. The trail rises steeply on a rocky slope with little cover except for low manzanita bushes. About a mile into this ascent, we soon approach a stand of mixed conifers and deciduous trees. At the junction, there isn’t much of a vote. Mark doesn’t get his wish, since I, as tiebreaker, had originally outlined our trip plan to stay at the Upper Kern; that’s still my vote today. As Kevin would say, we didn’t want to be off the grid. “So far on this trip,” Wayne says, “Danny’s been able to get us to do everything that he wants—and with a smile.” That’s funny, and I think of my sister, Alice, who does that to me but much more skillfully. We scout out and find the abandoned sheepherder’s cabin. Nearby, there are beautiful campsites.

    This campsite is a pretty one. Situated on a small bluff above the Kern River, one can smell the deep woods and the old campfire. Below, the Kern tumbles along rocky banks lined with quaking aspens that rustle in the afternoon breeze. While we set up camp, clouds appear for the first time, diffusing the sunlight into a soft glow.

    Mark is intent on catching more trout. He tells me that he feels the stress, the pressure, of needing to catch more to make “trout on a stick” so that he can rectify the lack of photographs from yesterday. Above this point, there are no protected species.

    I am intent on getting cleaned up before the sun disappears behind Key Point and the Kern Ridge. There is a nice pool, and I convince Mike to jump in as well. Without the direct sun, it’s cold. The Kern feels like direct snowmelt.

    In this snowmelt water, among the quieter pools a little downstream, Mark catches a trout. Good, the pressure is off. He brings it by to show me and then hooks two more. I gut them—this is my second time cleaning fish—and Mark washes out the cavity while Wayne pours water from the Nalgene bottle. I pick out the kitchen pack and prepare the garlic, lemon, and herbs. Then, I find a few green aspen branches to skewer the fish for grilling.

    To prepare for dinner, I ask Mark to cut up the fresh onion for the Japanese curry. I start the rice and boil up the miso soup. The soup, curry, and rice form a heartwarming trio, much needed when the warm sun is hidden by the tall western cliffs. Mark loves the taste of freshness: “The onion is amazing.”

    By this time, the fire has burned down to glowing chunks. Mark arranges the rocks and carefully suspends each fish. Above the cavity rubbed with salt and pepper, stuffed with garlic and thyme, and drizzled with juice from a fresh lemon, I ask Mark to put dabs of butter. The hot coals melt each dollop, making it ooze through the herbs, infusing flavor into the fish. It doesn’t take long to make “trout on a stick.” I dissect out the aspen branches with chopsticks and slide the triplet onto the pan. Aside from Mark, we’re pretty much vegetarian, but Wayne tries a bite, and I have about a whole fish. This is the pinnacle of backcountry cooking for Mark. “I’m going to have to take my dad backpacking and make him ‘trout on a stick.’”

    We’re sitting there, and Wayne says he has a story to tell, one about me. He had been holding out. Apparently, along the difficult hike up to Kaweah Pass, there was a point where I caught up to him, and stepping aside, he told me to pass. Wayne chuckles: “Danny said, ‘I’m good,’ like I’m fine not passing you, and then he just kept right on going…like a little arrogant comment.” We all laugh. My memory draws a blank, but for the rest of the trip and even afterwards, I would catch myself saying “I’m good” or “We’re good” or “It’s all good” a lot.

    Around the fire, I get everyone to sing a couple more hymns. We sound terrible, and none of us can sight sing the parts well. Only Mike sings well, and the rest of us are horrible. I hid the fact that I had directed a choir for a number of years. To rectify everything, we revert to the old favorite, “When Peace Like a River.” We sound pretty good this time. Mark joins us, and it feels like we’re all in this very special moment together.

    Dessert tonight is dark chocolate cheesecake. After such a good meal, this couldn’t have been more perfect—except, everything might have been even more complete had we been able to do dishes in the pink bucket. Nevertheless, we’re good.

  • High Sierra Trail: Day 4

    High Sierra Trail: Day 4

    Preparations  |  Day 1  |  Day 2  |  Day 3  |  Day 4  |  Day 5  |  Day 6  |  Day 7  |  Day 8

    Day 4

    I’m the first one up on this short rest day. The sky is clear, and I emerge from my tent in time to catch the first light on the distant mountains, where the rays paint the tops a fiery orange. Moraine Lake is a perfect mirror. I step onto the lakeshore to take pictures, tiptoeing between bear tracks that Mark pointed out to me the day before.

    Again, we have French press coffee. This is my second time using Mark’s JetBoil press device to make the coffee, and it comes out full of grounds. “Mark, why are all the grounds on top?” He examines the setup, and apparently I’d assembled the screen disk upside down. We both laugh at how inept I was at making coffee, and I know he’ll be telling his fellow residents how funny that was. Even until now, addressing me has been awkward, so it’s neither Dr. Wongworawat nor Danny, but the conversation just starts off. “So, when you see Lucas, you’re going to tell him, ‘Danny’s inept at making coffee with the French press.’” I make him practice saying that; maybe it’ll get better.

    Then, it’s oatmeal for breakfast. When I was planning our meals, I figured that nuts and seeds would be more calorie-dense, so the oatmeal is fortified with coconut, almonds, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, along with cranberries for sweetness. It’s a hearty breakfast, but I soon find out that Mark doesn’t like seeds. Neither does he like the lighter roast coffee. Anyways, he’ll have to manage for the rest of the trip.

    After breakfast, we hang out by the lake, taking in the warming sun. I switch to contacts and sunglasses. On the boulder where we made breakfast, a Sierra Nevada frog emerges. It’s nearly camouflaged and no bigger than half the size of my thumb. I think this species is endangered, and yet, we’re lucky to see the little creature.

    Soon, we take off on the trail. Shortly after rounding the bend just east of the lake, we try to look for Whitney summit. The map and compass give us confirmation, and between the trees, the climax of our trip is clearly visible. It’s visible again from Sky Parlor Meadow, though for now, we have to descend further into the Kern Canyon.

    At the trail’s bend where it runs parallel with Chagoopa Creek, Wayne spots a bear from behind, drops his pack, and lingers to catch more glimpses. Mickey traipses through a fern field that is beginning to display some fall color. Meanwhile, Mike and Mark are ahead. We soon catch up to them as they wait by the Funston Creek ford. While Mark wants to wait until we descend to the Kern Canyon floor before breaking out lunch, I’m starving and insist that he not ration food. I eat a couple pomegranate-glazed pistachios, and I’m happy.

    The descent is treacherous. We pass through some burn areas, and throughout this section, we keep our eyes peeled for rattlesnakes, since there have been reported sightings. The trail switchbacks and crosses Funston Creek several times before ending on the canyon floor. Having held out for lunch, since there was an earlier ration, I anxiously anticipate a flowing stream and a beautiful meadow by which to have lunch. It wouldn’t turn out that way, though. Instead, we hit what the trail crew calls the “Trail of Tears”—through scree and talus fields flanking the west side of the meadow, far from the Kern River itself. We decide to push onward for nearly a mile, and we eventually find relief below Chagoopa Falls, where the cool stream washes away what that trail section did to our feet and spirits.

    After lunch, Mark takes off first. He wants to get to Kern Hot Spring to soak his feet. The rest of us take our time. Beyond a carpet of manzanita bushes, the trail leads to a footbridge. Trail crew are there doing maintenance. Mickey asks one of them to explain that scree section below Chagoopa Falls. “Oh yea, that’s known as the ‘Trail of Tears.’ It took us four years to build each mile, hammering out each little rock from the blue granite. That blue granite is really really hard.” Apparently, the old wooden boardwalks through meadows would wash out or rot, and this is probably a better long term option.

    Just beyond Kern Hot Spring, we find nice campsites. Knowing that the sun would disappear rather quickly since we’re in a deep canyon, I head down to the hot spring area to take a bath. The tub itself is rather low on water, and the inlet and outlet look like they could be teeming with coliform bacteria. I pass on the hot bath, and instead, take a plunge into the churning Kern. It’s refreshing. Mark finds an area to do laundry, a place that he describes as the power wash cycle. Soon, everything is hanging out to dry.

    I hike back to the tub to take pictures. There are bumblebees among the wildflowers. Below, I find Mickey and Wayne soaking blissfully in the warm pool. What E. coli? Just a few feet away, the Kern River roars down the canyon between boulders and rock piles.

    Mark is off with his rod and reel. He catches one, and I offer to prepare it. I have the kitchen pack of coarse sea salt, cracked pepper, lemon, garlic, and fresh thyme and oregano that I had picked the day we left home. It’s my first time gutting fish, and I felt strange sticking the blade into the fish’s throat and belly. After cleaning, I salt and pepper the fish and stuff it with garlic slices and minced herbs. I thread a green fir branch through its mouth and out the tail. Meanwhile, Mark is getting a second catch; he later says that he wanted to have two fish, since that would make a better picture. It’s getting dark, though, almost too dark for a picture. I wonder to myself if Mark knows the difference between civil, nautical, and astronomical twilight.

    The angler returns with another fish just as I finish making the minestrone soup and boiling the tortellini. He helps me drain the water and add fresh tomatoes, capers, oregano, salt, pepper, and olive oil. There is just enough light for a few pictures of the meal. Click, click, click. Taking pictures of the fish, though, was a disappointment. So, the pressure is on for Mark to catch more later on in the trip.

    After sipping hot chocolate and having tiramisu around the warm campfire, Wayne teaches us how to play Rook with his deck of cards. What a great way to end our short hiking day.

  • High Sierra Trail: Day 3

    High Sierra Trail: Day 3

    Preparations  |  Day 1  |  Day 2  |  Day 3  |  Day 4  |  Day 5  |  Day 6  |  Day 7  |  Day 8

    Day 3

    It’s a lazy morning. We’ve had a tough second day, and to reward ourselves, we decide to not rush it. Mickey had slept under the stars, and that must have been beautiful. Wayne, seated on a smooth boulder, reads his devotional. I take pictures of the stark above-treeline views.

    Mark pulls out his fishing rod, attaches lures, and heads to the lakeshore. In his first cast, he gets a bite. Here, there are no protected species, and regular California fishing regulations apply. Soon, he returns with four rainbow trout. Before this morning’s catch, Mark had been regretting bringing his luxury item. He cuts their heads and tails off and fillets them. With a little melted butter, he pan-fries them. We complete the dish with a fresh squeeze of lemon and a sprinkling of salt, pepper, and fresh herbs from my garden. The trout actually tastes pretty good. I tell Mark that the last time I had fresh trout was nearly a decade ago, with Ryan, who was then my intern, during a through hike from Cottonwood Lakes to Whitney Portal. He had hooked some golden trout, grilled them over a fire, and got me to try some, thereby inducing projectile spitting from this vegetarian. But recently, I’ve been trying to like fish; for some reason, it’s excellent this time. With that, we have scrambled eggs, vegetarian chili, and avocado on multigrain tortillas drizzled with Tapatío sauce.

    I know we’re taking too long for this luxury breakfast when Mickey and Wayne say they want to take off first. Soon, Mike, Mark, and I hit the trail down the Big Arroyo. The sweeping view, the same one that we saw from atop Kaweah Gap, becomes more intimate and beautiful. We get water at the first creek crossing.

    Near the old patrol station in the Big Arroyo, we meet up with Mickey and Wayne. Here, we have lunch.

    “What’s the honey for?” Mark asks.

    “You’ve never had it with blue cheese? Sometimes, they have that at these nice receptions.”

    “I’ve never had the luxury to go to those types of events.”

    Pita chips, blue cheese, walnuts, and a drizzling of honey—that turns out to be heavenly, and Mark becomes a convert. I was going to bring grapes, but I didn’t think they would last that many days.

    From the junction, we climb up toward the Chagoopa Plateau. This ascent seems long. Across the valley, Lippincott Mountain passes further and further behind us to the right but somehow not fast enough. After a long uphill stretch, we crest at a dry lakebed. Across the lip, we can see the triple valley’s intersection of the Big Arroyo, Lost Canyon, and Soda Creek drainage.

    Anxious to reach camp, Mickey bounces down the trail, and Wayne follows suit. I tell Mark that my knees hurt just watching that downhill run. Mike stops to adjust his pack while Mark and I speed-walk. Near a picturesque dead tree, Mark suddenly develops the urge to take care of business, and he finds a perch overlooking the Big Arroyo below. “I had a great view,” he says. Mike passes us while I wait by the dead tree, accidently sitting on this boulder dotted with pine sap.

    Soon, we meet up with the rest of the group at Moraine Lake. Mickey is already swimming. We set up and get clean. Mark walks to the other side of the lake, but there would be no fish for dinner tonight. Wayne and Mickey have curry lentils and mashed potatoes. We had jettisoned our single fresh egg this morning at Nine Lake Basin because it had cracked, so I borrowed some powdered egg from the next breakfast to make egg drop soup. Mickey comes by with his notepad: “Now, what is it you guys are having?” Then, we slurp down spicy Korean noodles with tofu, mushrooms, and sesame oil. After dinner, Mark reminds me how it would have been nice to have the pink bucket to do dishes in.

    Our campsite, situated at the forest’s edge, catches silver rays from the brightening moon. Nearby, the warm campfire casts an orange glow. Even without fish and without the pink bucket, this experience is just about perfect.