Using satellite phones, digital cameras, old-fashioned pencil and paper, and packs sometimes weighing 50 pounds, the journalists hiked the trail and brought us along. Their stories and photos brought to life a part of the country many people will never get to see.
Choose how you'd like to start your adventure:
* Stories from the printed Bee
* Blogs from Diana, Christina, Mark and Marek
* Photos and slideshows from the trail
* Videos of preparing for the journey
* Wallpaper for your computer
During all those nights the Mount Whitney High Country trail map lay open on my dining room table, I spent hours studying the jagged contour lines of Tyndall and Williamson. Tawny Point never once grabbed my attention.
Guess I had to be there.
When I first saw Tawny Point on the afternoon of Sept. 1, after a 10-mile hike over Forester Pass, I couldn't help but notice how perfectly the husky 12,322-foot mountain reflected in the placid water of the Tyndall Frog Ponds. When the sun dropped, I marveled as its crumbling cliffs turned from white to glowing yellow. After darkness enveloped the sky, I sat alone in the forest, gazed at its brooding outline illuminated by a perfect half moon, and felt pure exhilaration.
]]> Compared to better-known places that photographer Tomas Ovalle and I visited along the John Muir Trail, on the fourth and final leg of The Bee's monthlong trek, insignificant Tawny Point hardly seems worth mentioning. Except I can't get those images out of my mind.That's the thing about having a wilderness experience. You never can predict when the magic happens. It just does -- and sometimes where you least expect.
Before setting off on our 70-mile hike, which began in Kings Canyon, the deepest gorge in North America, and culminated atop Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48 states, my skeptical mind wondered how much real wilderness would be out there.
So many people from all over the world trample the John Muir Trail that in certain circles it's known as the John Muir Highway or (even better) the John Manure Trail.
Full confession: Those circles often include me.
Ever since T.J. Osborne and I scaled Kaiser Peak in the summer of 1985 while working as counselors at a Boy Scout camp at Huntington Lake (and earning a two-month stipend of $75), mountains have been an integral part of my existence.
In my late teens and early 20s, I backpacked throughout the Sierra Nevada, including several trips of a week or longer on the Muir and Tahoe-Yosemite trails. Years later, as my tastes graduated to alpine climbing, I began using trails as entry and exit points for cross-country routes.
Even though cross-country travel in the High Sierra is relatively easy, at least by mountaineering standards, few actually do it.
Which, to me, is kind of sad. Trails may reduce the need for backcountry navigation skills, but they also limit the experience. Instead of being free to explore, you end up walking only where others before you have walked, camping where others have camped and seeing what others have seen.
Where's the adventure in that?
So while being tethered to the Muir Trail for seven days as it crosses two 13,000-foot passes and one of nearly 12,000 feet certainly beats the alternative of being tethered to my desk, I'll admit to some initial reservations.
And that was before phrases like "satellite phones" and "daily blogging" entered the conversation.
Modern conveniences
When John Muir ventured into the High Sierra to study the movements of glaciers or wax poetic about wildflowers and songbirds, he carried little in the way of provisions. Often, all he brought was homemade bread and tea.
I was taking two bear canisters stuffed with dehydrated dinners, dried fruit and nuts, beef jerky, oatmeal, energy bars and powdered electrolyte replacement drink.
When Muir made the first ascent of Mount Ritter, solo, in the fall of 1872, he didn't bother with a coat or blankets. He slept in a thicket of pine trees and maintained a nearby fire to stay warm.
I was packing long underwear, a fleece pullover and beanie, a down vest and sleeping bag rated to 32 degrees. Not to mention a tent, foam pad and tiny pillow with its own stuff sack.
Yes, modern conveniences are wonderful. But there's a line I don't cross, and it lies somewhere between digital watches and GPS units.
To me, the allure of wild places centers on a primal urge to "get away from it all." Backpacking strips away the excesses of urban life and reminds us of what really matters: food, water, shelter, companionship. Everything else is superfluous.
I worried that dictating my thoughts into a satellite phone and speaking with folks back at the office would hamper that process. What I came to realize, however, was this hike wasn't about me. This was a chance to actually report from the mountains and take readers along for the journey.
Hearing how colleagues on the first three legs struggled to pick up a satellite signal, the whole debate seemed rather pointless. My ever-resourceful bosses, however, managed to rent a new phone just before I hit the trail. While this new phone couldn't transmit photos, my voice would bounce off the stratosphere just fine.
Oh, joy.
Manure trail
Tomas and I didn't begin our journey on the Muir Trail. To get there, we hiked 151/2 miles from Road's End, meeting up along the way with Jim Hurley and Emily Franciskovich. The 27-year-old longtime friends from Visalia had been part of The Bee's journey since Yosemite Valley.
Early on, foot traffic was light. But the closer we got to the Woods Creek Crossing, 6 miles below the heavily visited Rae Lakes basin, the more people we encountered.
To my surprise, the dozen or so backpackers I met along the trail that afternoon didn't seem like too many. At an unnamed creek tumbling down from Sixty Lakes Basin, I helped Burkhard Kempf, a middle-age German traveling with his brother, Egon, scan the trail for his lost sunglasses.
Burkhard, who carried the lighter backpack, was comfortable in conversational English. Egon, who carried the heavier one, could only manage this sentence: "I'm the sherpa."
At Dollar Lake, I swapped stories and posed for pictures with John Franssen and John English, two buddies from San Diego, as they enjoyed their first multiday backpacking trip.
"I've noticed it's not so much about the scenery and the miles but the people you meet along the way," said Jonathan McAuley, a 30-year-old from Park City, Utah.
As much as I enjoyed conversing with fellow backpackers, something still was bothering me -- and it didn't take long to figure out what.
All I had to do was take a big whiff.
Look, I realize that without horses and mules much of the Muir Trail would never have been built and certainly couldn't be maintained. But why should backpackers be compelled to endure manure every step of the way?
The smelly piles are everywhere: forests, meadows, passes, even stream crossings. Lose the trail? Just follow your nose.
At Arrowhead Lake, I discovered horses aren't the only animals that leave behind messes. In our campsite, I found bits of plastic wrap, scraps of toilet paper and a dried-up tea bag.
Even though there was a metal bear box nearby, required for food storage, a strand of nylon rope hung from the branch of a foxtail pine 12 feet off the ground -- the remnants of where someone had hoisted their bear bag.
As I sat on a granite slab writing my daily blog and wondering how long that rope would be stuck in that tree, my thoughts were interrupted by the thundering roar of a military aircraft.
They call this wilderness?
A day to remember
Every backpacking trip has one day that stands apart. For Tomas and I, (and I suspect Jim and Emily as well) it was the day we tackled 13,180-foot Forester Pass and entered Sequoia National Park.
Forester Pass, the highest crossing on the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail that stretches from Mexico to Canada, haunted me. On my last visit there a dozen years earlier, it took every ounce of my strength and willpower to reach the top.
This time, I ate an extra packet of oatmeal and broke camp early.
The climb started innocently enough, but soon the trail poked above timberline and started zig-zagging above a rocky, unnamed basin with a cluster of snow-fed tarns. Plump marmots watched me from their lookouts, whistling as I passed.
The thin air was beginning to take its toll, robbing my blood of precious hemoglobin, when I got my first glimpse of the summit. It didn't look much like a pass at all -- more like a wall between two peaks.
I swallowed hard and kept hiking, buoyed by clusters of wildflowers called red fringe blooming at 13,000 feet. Amazing how life so fragile can exist under such harsh conditions.
On a switchback that was blasted into the mountain, my eyes focused on an intricate rock wall designed to keep the trail from eroding. I thought about the days of labor it must've taken just to build this wall and offered silent thanks to those who did it.
My head buzzing in this manner, I counted off the final switchbacks and arrived at the pass quicker than expected. Before me in both directions stretched a never-ending panorama of barren mountains, blue skies, deep canyons and forested ridges.
I felt total euphoria -- and a little light-headed. For the first time on the trip, I could see beyond the end of my journey.
Here's how Muir himself described mountain passes like Forester in his first book, "The Mountains of California," published in 1894:
"To the timid traveler, fresh from the sedimentary levels of the lowlands, these [passes], however picturesque and grand, seem terribly forbidding -- cold, dead, gloomy gashes in the bones of the mountains. ... Yet they are full of the finest and most telling examples of Nature's love. ... Fear not, therefore, to try the mountain-passes. They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy, set you free, and call forth every faculty into vigorous, enthusiastic action."
I wasn't the only one feeling on top of the world.
Jim and Emily, who grew up in Visalia, had been told their whole lives that some of the most spectacular scenery on Earth was right in their backyard.
Both were incredulous, dismissing the notion as little more than hometown pride. But now, with Mount Tyndall and the peaks of the Great Western Divide rising in front of them like opposing fortresses, their glowing eyes saw a different truth: This is some of the most spectacular scenery on Earth. And it's in our backyard.
"Of all the places we've been," Jim said as we marched across a windswept plateau toward Tyndall Creek, "Sequoia is the best by far."
I was inclined to agree.
By the time we arrived at the Tyndall Frog Ponds that afternoon, all the horse manure, litter and rope left hanging from tree branches had vanished from my thoughts.
Tawny Point was ready to work its magic.
From Yosemite Valley to Mount Whitney, the Muir Trail passes through a world of towering peaks, deep gorges, lush forests, fragile meadows and literally thousands of lakes, rivers and creeks.
It is a world where man's impact touches only a thin ribbon, so that by leaving the trail you can find utter solitude.
But no matter how splendid, scenery alone isn't the sole reason for the trail's allure. From seasoned wilderness trekker to first-time backpacker, everyone who leaves footprints along its 211 miles is part of the larger story, a human tale.
As an outdoors writer, I often struggle with how to best describe nature to people reading the paper at the kitchen table.
Want to experience the Muir Trail? Get out there and leave some footprints of your own.
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The rest of our hikers blogged, too. Check out their pages as well as videos and slide shows. And don't forget to grab a wallpaper for your desktop. To see a list of what's available here, go to the "Categories" list at the top right of the blog page.
]]>Cancer had just killed him. He died five days before I arrived here.
I am in my early 50s, but I was feeling like a 7-year-old without my dad. I had come to the High Sierra to hike and write about a section of the John Muir Trail. The trip would become a rite of mourning in a breathtaking outdoor cathedral.
When my father was diagnosed in late June with an advanced case of colon cancer, I was already scheduled to hike as part of The Bee's four-leg trek along the 211 miles of this trail.
]]> In June, I imagined I would sweat out the crisis in a deeply spiritual Sierra walk. I would haul my 40-pound backpack 78 miles and return to his side while he fought the disease.But in July, my father had surgery, and his prognosis plummeted. The cancer had spread to his liver and decimated it -- "it's more tumor than liver," the surgeon said. He died Aug. 17. My hike started Aug. 21.
I was crushed, and my emotions were unexpectedly fragile. But knowing this hike had been my dream for a decade, Dad had insisted that I confront the challenge whether he lived or died. I had to go.
In magnificent Evolution Valley under the alpenglow, it occurred to me that I was surrounded by life and death. Mosquitoes, bats, squirrels -- all struggled to survive each day. Even the day itself seemed to die slowly in a blazing sunset.
I turned from Mendel to look west, where shades of yellow and red smoldered above meandering Evolution Creek. I couldn't decide which direction to look -- facing east toward the alpenglow, or west toward the shimmering creek. I suddenly choked up and stared down at my boots.
My God, it was only Tuesday, the second day of the hike. Was I going to lose it at every sunset?
I spent eight days on the trail. It was a good thing, helping me work through my feelings. But, on the first three days -- Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday -- it really was not so good. I was an emotional mess.
Washing my hands in the San Joaquin River the first evening, I chuckled remembering a line from Pulitzer Prize-winning biologist Edward O. Wilson: "There are 4,000 to 5,000 species of bacteria in each gram of forest soil." I think I found every single one of them on my filthy hands.
The first hurdle on my lengthy backpack had little to do with emotion. It was just the obvious: life in the wild for a 50-something guy.
There are no bathrooms, no soap dispensers up here. Taking care of essential body functions becomes a matter of finding a rock or a tree away from streams or lakes.
Nudity happens, too.
If you dive into a cold lake above 11,000 feet in elevation to wash off the trail dust, you want to pull off those wet shorts and get into dry clothes. It's no big deal, but you stumble upon naked strangers.
For me, the much bigger impact came from the physical punishment. Each day, I carried 40 pounds, walking an average of 10 miles at high elevation, sometimes climbing 2,500 feet and often crossing streams and snow fields.
Think of climbing an obstacle course up more than a half-mile of stairs with a 4-year-old on your back.
Twenty-five years ago, I could shrug it off. I'm a different person now. I have four doctors and diagnoses ranging from torn cartilage to lactose intolerance. I have a special section for pills in my backpack.
Don't misunderstand. I am a longtime runner, an experienced backpacker in summer and a snowshoer in winter. At 5-11, 155 pounds, I am still an athlete. So is my 50-something hiking partner, Bee photographer Mark Crosse. He and I have walked to Mount Whitney, Half Dome and other Sierra destinations.
But by Tuesday night, I had blisters on each foot, aching shoulders, a slightly swollen right knee and a touch of tendinitis on the left knee.
The "ouches" were minor. I would be fine after a night of rest, Motrin and blister cushions called Moleskin.
Nutrition was another matter. I probably burned 3,000 to 4,000 calories daily. At the end of the trek, I was eating two dinners a night and running out of food. I lost more than five pounds, which is a big loss for me.
It was worth the pain and pounds.
The sunset in Evolution Valley was a once-in-a-lifetime view. The sights kept coming. We found campsites at two High Sierra lakes where time seems to have stopped.
At Wanda Lake, Mount Goddard juts out at 13,568 feet, complete with glaciers in the chill of primitive Evolution Basin. Boulders are scattered wherever the receding Ice Age left them 10,000 years ago.
Above Upper Palisade Lake, 14,000-foot peaks soar. The trickle of glacier-fed streams plays quietly as night falls. The sky fills with starlight and shooting stars. The temperature hovers in the high 20s. We slept out without a tent to see the stars.
Said backpacker Bernie Tevelde, 65, of Seattle, "I've been hiking more than half of my life. The beauty here is unbelievable. This puts Washington to shame."
But I could enjoy this paradise only to a certain point in those first few days.
Nature haunted me. I saw my father in the gnarled lodgepole pine, the glacier near a ridge line and the emerald pool along an unnamed creek. Grief would sweep over me. At Colby Meadow, I dreamed of my father's death.
Strangely, my dad would not have come anywhere near this place.
Anthony "Rocky" Grossi spent months in muddy, snow-filled foxholes in Korea more than 50 years ago. My dad was a Bronx-born city boy, the son of Italian immigrants. He was drafted into the Army, and his tour in Korea gave him his fill of the outdoors.
However, the frigid Korean winter was not his biggest problem. He had to kill enemy soldiers. It scarred him forever.
He was a sniper and a ferocious soldier, I learned. Twice, his platoon charged an enemy position on a hill. Both times, he was among the few to come back alive.
Dad had trouble keeping the rank of sergeant. When he was promoted, some loudmouth would say the wrong thing to him. Dad would slug him, and the stripe was gone the next day. But he was the guy the brass wanted running the patrols in the meanest firefights.
After his tour, he came home to Bakersfield to my mom, Lee, and his 1946 Ford. He would meet his new daughter, my older sister, Toni. She was born while he was away.
He spoke little of the war as I grew up in the 1950s and '60s. I knew him as a distant, uncompromising disciplinarian.
He worked six days a week, delivering beer. He was an honest, loyal and intense man. And he knew sports, especially his beloved New York Yankees.
That's really all I knew about him. I had no clue how complex he was. Right into my young adult years, we did not know how to get close.
Fortunately, when I launched into my 40s, our relationship warmed. My parents moved to Maui in the late 1980s, but the distance didn't matter. My middle age drew us together. We talked about maturing children, finances, retirement, politics, spirituality, love and hope.
In the last 10 years, I always sought his advice in dark times. My dad was my prized confidant.
His wisdom came to me early in the hike, but it did not calm me. His death was smothering that voice and the trek.
I woke up filled with regret at Colby Meadow on Wednesday morning. I realized I had made a terrible mistake coming up here.
My angst came to a head at Wanda Lake later that day. I wanted to hike faster to numb my racing mind: How is my mother? What will I say in the eulogy? Should I have skipped this trip and gone straight to Maui so they could schedule the service immediately?
That's when Mike Nickau, 51, of Riverside strolled by camp. Nickau chatted with my partner Crosse. He mentioned he had just quit a great-paying job as a chef to hike the trail. Crosse asked him why.
"I just got done with cancer about nine months ago -- Hodgkin's lymphoma. I'm clean," he said. "I say, if you have the opportunity to do something like this hike, do it and stop worrying about everything else."
It was like a bolt. My father seemed to be speaking to me through this cancer survivor.
Crosse sensed the moment, snapping photographs. I tried to interview Nickau further, but he waved me off.
"People don't want to read about me," he said, sounding remarkably like my dad.
I didn't need the interview. With a few words, Nickau had changed the whole trip. Suddenly it was better. Not good. But better.
My mind slowed. But I continued to hike faster, and I wasn't sure why.
I began to notice many of the people we met were 50-plus. In this section of the trail -- northern Kings Canyon National Park -- the closest roads are two days' hike away, sometimes more. It's the highest High Sierra, remote and stunning, and the 50-plus folks know it.
"This is the place we really like," said Bill Edwards, 58, of Orinda.
"We've been coming here for 30 years," said Ann Waters, 55, of Montrose.
We met younger people, too. Three teenagers blasted past us Friday at the Golden Staircase, a lung-searing ascent to the Palisade Lakes. Gasping for air, I asked one teen how he liked the staircase.
"Not bad," he said without a hint of being winded.
I settled into a sweet rhythm with nature for the rest of the hike. My emotional moments toned down. The backcountry finally touched my soul.
Camping Thursday night at Little Pete Meadow, we woke to see a four-point buck -- a deer with a large set of antlers -- browsing in the meadow. We saw marmots, grouse and lizards.
We smelled wild onions and admired the stubborn, stunted wildflowers that somehow survive above 10,000 feet.
We cleared 12,100-foot Mather Pass on Saturday, followed the next day by 12,130-foot Pinchot Pass. The last day, we walked off the trail 15-plus miles from Woods Creek Crossing down to Road's End.
We were so exhilarated that Crosse and I dived into the freezing Kings River. When I surfaced, I knew my father's spirit had never left me. And never would.
By then, I understood why I wanted to quickly finish my dream backpack. I still had thousands of miles to go.
Five days later, I leaned out of a boat in the Pacific Ocean between Kihei, Maui, and a volcanic crescent called Molokini.
The blue salt water foamed iridescent as my brother-in-law, Tom, and I poured out my father's ashes. My sisters, Toni and Leann, my mother, Lee, my wife, Sue, other family members and close friends tossed flowers on the water.
The boat moved on. In silence, we watched the floating flowers and a white halo of his ashes.
A playful sea turtle later poked his head out of the water. A warm, Hawaiian breeze gently brushed my face. My Muir Trail journey had finally ended.
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Mike Nickau, 51, chats with reporter Mark Grossi at Wanda Lake. He is a cancer survivor and he quit his chef job in southern California to hike the John Muir Trail. Mark Crosse/ The Fresno Bee |
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A dead tree reaches for the sky near Blaney Meadows on the way to the John Muir Trail. Mark Crosse / The Fresno Bee |
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Jim fords Evolution Creek while hiking in the Evolution Valley section of the John Muir Trail. Mark Crosse / The Fresno Bee |
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A glacial erratic, a rock that seemingly came from nowhere, sits on top of a ledge with the Palisades as a backdrop. Erratics are rocks that are left behind helter-skelter as a glacier recedes. Mark Crosse/ The Fresno Bee |
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Jim and Emily stop for lunch near Evolution Creek and tend to some sore spots and blisters on their feet. Mark Crosse / The Fresno Bee |
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Wildflowers grow between the granite even at elevations above the tree line near Mather Pass. Mark Crosse / The Fresno Bee |
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Lush greenery surrounds Evolution Lake along the trail. The greenery and trees soon give way to the various hues of granite as hikers approach the treeline. Mark Crosse / The Fresno Bee |
I think the John Muir Trail reminds me how to be myself. How to play. That I'm not God. That beauty can surprise you.
And, the trout up there make grown men crazy.
]]> Beauty as well as breadI dreaded that dirty brown ridge.
Everything I heard about Bear Ridge made me dislike it. More than 2,000 feet of climbing. Dozens of switchbacks. Dry trail.
Of the 58.9 miles I would hike on the John Muir Trail in August, I fretted about the 4.6 miles up Bear Ridge the most.
We first caught sight of the ridge from the top of Silver Pass. Jim Hurley, a fellow hiker from Visalia who was walking the entire trail, pointed it out. It looked unwashed next to the gleaming snow and granite of Selden Pass. A scratchy stubble of trees covered it.
On day six of our hike, Bee photographer Eric Zamora and I left for the ridge with bellies full of toast and eggs from Vermilion Valley Resort. As we ferried across Edison Lake, I whispered prayers written on notebook paper. The wind caught and carried my words away.
An oozing blister on my left foot began hurting as soon as we hit the trail. Dull pain throbbed with every step of my boot. Then we began climbing.
I was in for a surprise. Bear Ridge was beautiful.
I stepped over cold veins of mountain water cutting through the earth. Gaps between tree branches made windows to the blue sky and the white rock soaring around us. The wind blew "shhhhh" through aspen leaves.
My plodding and panting ended with a flat trail through a scented grove. Purple and yellow flowers peeked between pine cones. I sat on a fallen tree and soaked up quiet minutes.
There was more to come. The day we climbed Bear Ridge would be my worst on the hike. And my best.
A golden trout caught Aug. 21 in Bear Creek. The night before, the two Bee hikers and George Andrews cooked trout and licked their fingers, gazing at the stars.
Places to play in
Days before I discovered Bear Ridge's beauty, I learned an important lesson about respecting wildlife in the backcountry.
Don't underestimate the power of fish.
I knew Eric fly-fished. I knew Jim fly-fished. They both loved it enough to carry fishing rods into the middle of nowhere. Fellow hiker Emily Franciskovich and I would swap "there they go again" looks when Eric and Jim began chattering about it.
Then, I saw what these fish do to people.
One morning, Jim, Emily and I stopped at Virginia Lake to filter some water. She crouched by the edge, pumping water into her water bottle. I stood a few feet away, shoving cheese crackers into my mouth.
Suddenly, his eyes fixed on the water, Jim said with metered intensity, "Girls! Don't. Move."
We froze.
Jim rushed to his pack to get his rod. Moments later, he paced the lake's edge with the delicacy and energy of a dancer, never taking his eyes off the fish he'd spotted. He cursed and coaxed. The fishing line zinged back and forth.
Minutes passed. We stared. Emily broke the silence with, "Can I move?"
Jim said no, then, yes -- if she stayed low to the ground. Emily crawled basic-training style to another water bottle to fill it. Eventually, we left Jim to the fish madness and continued up the trail.
Soon, Jim will pour his wiry energy into the suit-and-tie work of real estate law. I believe he'll be good at it. But on the trail, he got to play. He dueled with a fish.
That night, we camped on the other side of Silver Pass. Emily sat bundled in cap and coat, watching the mountains around Selden Pass blush as the light faded. Jim wrote in his trail journal. He announced that the fish showdown was his favorite part of the day.
Emily kept her eyes on the mountains.
"This is mine," she said.
Emily taught me the names of wildflowers and delighted in reading about place names along the trail. She joked that she embarked on the JMT to justify her purchase of a giant new backpack. In truth, she likes the physical challenge and the silence.
"The noises are straight from the earth, you know?" she said.
She and Jim both graduated from Redwood High in Visalia, and they often swapped stories about which classmate dated whom and who got wasted when. The rest of the time, they joked like siblings. Jim teased Emily about her novice fire-building abilities. Emily teased Jim about his expert fire-building abilities.
Playfulness counts for a lot in the backcountry.
I got teased for constantly sucking on Jolly Ranchers. One guy we ran across called them "hill pills."
The day Emily and I climbed to the top of Silver Pass, much more slowly than Jim, we noticed scratches in the hard-packed snow against the rock. We realized someone had scrambled up there and written something.
Then we realized what it said.
"Got Jolly Ranchers?"
Places to pray in
I need to throw away the box of alcohol swabs in the cabinet under my bathroom sink.
I bought them a few days before I left for the John Muir Trail, intending to use them as antiseptics for any blisters I might get.
A few days into the hike, a blister bulged from the side of my left heel. I decided to cut it and keep it clean.
One morning, I sat on a rock and propped up my foot. I used a knife to slice open the blister. As it drained, I readied a bandage and tore open an alcohol packet.
That's when the smell hit me. Raw alcohol. What was I thinking?
After sterilizing the wound, I slowly lifted the swab to my nose, closed my eyes and breathed in the fumes. The ghost of a craving stirred in my guts.
I wish I could say that's the only time I did that. I would be lying. I did it every morning thereafter when I cleaned my blister.
I'm a recovering alcoholic. I got drunk for the first time at age 17 (cheap rum) and took my last drink at age 25 (Bushmills Irish whiskey).
During those years, I did the things alcoholics normally do: drive drunk, lose memories and disappoint people who love them. I deserved to lose my job, home and freedom. Instead, I got something I didn't deserve. Sobriety.
My first weeks without drinking were hell. I couldn't get alcohol out of my mind. Numerous times, I slept over at a friend's apartment to avoid going out and drinking. I hated myself for being so weak. But, I kept attending a recovery group, and I didn't drink.
That's about the time I signed up for the first hike I ever took on the John Muir Trail, a walk up the side of Mount Whitney. The five-day hike would be my first real backpacking trip.
Besides looking for distractions from my own misery, I went on the trip for bragging rights. I pictured myself as powerful and self-sufficient, standing atop the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states. I'm rolling my eyes just thinking about it.
The mountain did me a favor. It beat the tar out of me.
The trip began about eight months into my sobriety. By then, cravings didn't dominate my thoughts.
But I felt savaged by emotions no longer blunted by alcohol. I cried more, I loved more, and it frightened me.
In early September, we left the Valley for the Whitney hike in 100-degree weather. We arrived in Horseshoe Meadow at night, and snow flurries were falling. As I unrolled my sleeping bag with numbing fingers and crawled into it, I suddenly felt unprepared and a dread of what was to come. Fear was a familiar emotion.
I didn't know that fitful night, as I tossed under bright stars, what this trip would mean.
Without my 2004 walk on that segment of the John Muir Trail, I don't believe I could have loved this summer's John Muir hike the way I did. Whitney redeemed my hiker's soul.
The trip was harder than I expected.
Heat and cold turned my skin raw. My body hurt. I put all my clothes on each night and shivered inside my bag. One night, I cried inside my tent to the sound of the wind, desperate to pray and too empty to utter a word.
God taught me prayers on that trip that didn't have words. When I wasn't exhausted, I was dazzled. I feasted on crag and meadow, barely able to absorb the raw color around me.
Drinking alcohol taught me to be selfish without caring for myself. I was arrogant in my self-sufficiency and a stranger to grace. But along the trail, I grew to cherish the shouts of encouragement and quiet "Good mornings" from my hiking companions.
On the way down Whitney the final day, I know I looked terrible. I hadn't washed, and the skin on my face was peeling away. As I passed one of our hikers on the way down, I paused to say hello.
She beamed at me and said, "You look gorgeous." I've never forgotten those words or what they did to my heart.
During those five days, in some moment, Whitney stopped being something to defeat.
I stopped worrying about being strong enough, and I learned to visit wild places with gratitude instead of expectation.
With that illusion gone, I was free to fall in love.
After coming off Whitney, I wrote: "This trip stripped away all of my identifiers -- job, house, cat, car, family, friends, city. It punished my body, removing food, warmth, cleanliness, rest. And it exposed me, unflinchingly, to beauty that I cannot put into words."
Strength to body and soul
I crashed hard on the other side of Bear Ridge.
That August afternoon, Eric pushed ahead while I stopped in shade to drink water, scarf down trail mix and take ibuprofen.
Dehydration and fatigue hit me hard, and for two hours I just focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Late in the afternoon, Eric and I made camp at mosquito-infested Upper Bear Creek Meadow. We ran into George "Tin Man" Andrews there, a JMT hiker from North Carolina whom we had befriended at Vermilion.
As night set in, George announced he was going fishing. A few minutes later, Eric and I heard a loud yelp from Bear Creek.
George had just spotted his first golden trout. He later described the moment lovingly -- a sudden rainbow flash beneath shallow waters.
He said the trip paid for itself in that moment.
Eric and George caught four golden trout and built a fire. As mosquitoes fled the smoke and the air grew cold, George wrapped the fish in tin foil with oil and spices. We sipped hot drinks and sucked plastic straws filled with honey as the fish cooked in hot coals.
After a time, George asked if we thought the fish were done.
"I eat sushi," Eric said.
"In North Carolina, we call that bait," George replied.
The fish skin peeled away with the foil. We used camp silverware to floss the meat from delicate bones. It wasn't more than a morsel, and it was wonderful.
The three of us lay on our backs. There was the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, the Milky Way. Eric and I saw shooting stars.
My sleep that night was the best of the whole trip -- deep and dreamless. Eric told me it was the trout.
Maybe it was.
Believe it or not, after 28 days of walking the John Muir Trail, neither Jim nor I ever did "smell the barn." We both got a kick out of the fact that we were completely content with taking our sweet time hiking the John Muir Trail.
Not surprisingly, each of the four legs was like a new chapter of a very rich and somewhat comical novel. Chapters one, two, three and four all brought exploration, entertainment, wonder, challenge, insight and unbeatable company.
One thing about backpacking is certain -- the core of your trail mates comes out in a hurry. Good manners, ruggedness, patience, calm, generosity and flexibility all matter in a big way. While hiking the Muir Trail, one cannot hide behind a fancy car, a stylish suit or a nice house on the hill. Make no mistake, there are no US or People magazines to confuse reality in the backcountry. In fact, it is my opinion that there is something fiercely equalizing about taking backcountry journeys like the Muir Trail. At the end of the day, everyone looks a bit dirty, smells somewhat ripe and feels pretty hungry. In the backcountry it is all about good old fashioned human interaction. It is this element, this element of rawness that makes backpacking so special.
Each day of hiking the John Muir Trail I felt as if we were walking through a gigantic classroom. Although they accounted for all of my "discretionary weight," I was quite happy that I had decided to bring along several books about the Sierra Nevada. I must admit, even though I am a young woman who prefers to "carry her own weight," by the tail end of the journey, my "discretionary weight" soon became Jim's "discretionary weight." Yes that is right; I finally surrendered to my tremendously chivalrous hiking partner and gave him the honor of carrying all three of the Sierra Nevada books - Sierra Nevada Wildflowers, Place Names of the Sierra Nevada and Natural History of the Sierra Nevada!
Jim and I both agreed (I think) that my "discretionary weight" turned out to be a huge asset as we were able to learn so many cool things along the way. For example, we learned that Sequoia National Park was founded in 1890 and that Kings Canyon National Park was formed much later in 1940; that the leaves of the pennyroyal flower can be used for tea; that feldspar, mica and quartz are the three main elements of granite; that Mt. Bolton Coit Brown was named after a famous Stanford professor of art who provided paintings and drawings for the Sierra Club's early publications; and that mature foxtail pines often have trunks that appear to be twisting. Jim and I had a ball quizzing one another and, of course, our Fresno Bee companions on these and many other fun Sierra Nevada facts.
To me, the Sierra Nevada is a huge landscape that offers beauty, peace, adventure and perspective. Extended walks in the Sierra Nevada such as the John Muir Trail allow for a complete emergence into a world of natural wonder. Every mile brings new perspective as new forms of beauty unfold with each step. After 28 days in this environment, we grew accustomed to living in complete harmony with natural rhythms-we rested at sunset and started moving with the rise of the sun.
Hiking the entire expanse of the Muir Trail reinforced the notion that we are all quite small and simple in comparison to the mighty Sierra Nevada mountain range. I am a firm believer that time in the backcountry restores and revitalizes ones spirit. During my time in the backcountry, I felt so grateful for all of the special people in my life that had been hugely supportive of my dream to hike the John Muir Trail. I also felt extraordinarily thankful to have the health and resources to take such a trip. More than once, I thought about the young kids that had lived across the street from me back in Sacramento. Would these beautiful kids, so chalk full of life amidst such unstable conditions, ever have the chance to explore the Sierra Nevada? Thoughts on how I and others might be able to provide backcountry opportunities for people in less fortunate situations continually floated through my mind.
Having had the good fortune to hike from Yosemite Valley to Mt. Whitney, I am very proud to report that the best of the John Muir Trail lies just east of the Southern San Joaquin. That's - the beautiful Sierra Nevada backdrop (Kings Canyon and Sequoia Parks) that we south valley residents see on cool clear winter mornings is the queen jewel of the Sierra Nevada. Although I would be open to hiking the entire John Muir Trail again, my first preference would be to spend time off and on trail exploring the country in and around Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks.
My sincerest gratitude to my faithful and fun loving hiking partner, Jim Hurley, and the entire Fresno Bee backpacking crew - Diana, Darrell, Christina, Eric, Mark G., Mark C., Marek and Tomas. We are truly fortunate to have had the opportunity to travel down such a beautiful path together. It is my hope that we all continue to explore things simple and true.
No, I never did "smell the barn." Believe it or not, after summiting Mt. Whitney, I could have probably walked back up to Yosemite. However, I will admit that after 28 days of Folgers Crystals, a nice strong cup of brewed coffee (with a little cream and sugar, of course) tasted awfully good!
Throughout my years of backpacking, avid backpackers have described the JMT as being "too crowded" and scoffed at what they termed the "Interstate-5" of Sierra trails. This reputation has given me apprehension about hiking the JMT because I have enjoyed and grown accustomed to some of the isolated trails of Kings and Sequoia National Parks. However, during my journey along the JMT, I discovered that, while heavily used, the JMT is not overly used, and hikers are afforded opportunities to find at least moments of isolation. Additionally, I realized the pessimistic comments about the JMT failed to address the unique communal bond among hikers and how this sense of community enhances and intensifies the trail experience.
]]> Unlike on other hikes, trekkers on the JMT do not limit themselves to the obligatory "hello" and "good-bye" but pause long enough to share personal backgrounds, trail stories, and their inspirations for hiking the JMT. For most of the journey, Emily and I leap-frogged over 200 miles with several different groups. There was the charming middle-aged couple who displayed their mutual love by playfully tossing snowballs or flirting openly, he displaying flexed muscles and she striking a coy pose. Two old friends from New Mexico and Marin County greeted all passers with a quick joke or a song to serenade, but also managed to negotiate with me the sale of a $20 imaginary cheeseburger. But the trail experience would not be complete without the sprinkling of foreigners, mostly Europeans. Two brothers from Germany reminded us at each meeting that the 60 year old dragged his 50 year old brother across the world only to carry the heavy load. Such is life on the JMT: cultivating relationships out of shared experiences, old and new.While most hikers suffer from nagging blisters and endless food cravings, the conversations with our groups of trail friends never focused on the suffering but always centered on the special trail experiences we shared alike or the anticipation of the journey ahead. On the trail, peoples' personal characters emerge in their truest and purest forms, and I valued walking with new friends who share my admiration for the majesty of the mountains and a drive for healthy self-fulfillment.
This JMT community also included the eight Bee journalists. Every seven days, Emily and I were treated to new personalities, stories and laughs. The shaved, clean, and well fed journalists shared their fresh enthusiasm and exuberance for each leg of the trek and patiently listened to Emily and I, sitting somewhat haggard in well-worn dirty clothes, when we eagerly attempted to convey all the stories and beauty we had encountered on earlier legs.
Thank you Diana and Darrell, Christina and Eric, Mark and Mark, Tomas and Marek, and all the other hikers I met along the JMT for a marvelous trip. You have given me endless memories and, without a doubt, lifelong friends.
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Wildflowers thrive at the base of Mist Falls on the trail to Upper Paradise Valley. From Road's End at Cedar Grove is where Tomas and Marek began their leg of covering the John Muir Trail. Tomas Ovalle/ The Fresno Bee |
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Hitchcock Crest is reflected in water below the summit of Mt. Whitney, which is the terminus of the John Muir Trail and the end of the month-long journey for Jim and Emily. Tomas Ovalle / The Fresno Bee |
I'm sitting in my carpeted living room, staring at my empty backpack. For seven days it has been my constant companion. My burden. My shell. My home away from home. Now it sits alone by the wall, empty and dirty.
And I feel strange about that.
I'm answering the doorbell, forking over a $20 bill and not bothering with the change. The aroma from the flat cardboard box tantalizes my nostrils and waters my mouth. After seven days of oatmeal, trail mix and dehydrated gruel, I offer silent thanks to whoever invented delivery pizza.
]]> I'm examining my feet, which emerged remarkably well considering what I just put them through (73 miles on the trail, up and over two 13,000-foot passes and one 12,000-footer). Not a single blister or hotspot, but one of my toes is puffy and purple from a middle-of-the-night collision with a boulder at Trail Camp below Mount Whitney.I'm lying in bed flat on my back, feeling every muscle in my body ooze with relief. It is the most soothing feeling in the world. I can lie here forever - and practically do.
I'm thinking about the wonderful reunion I witnessed Monday about a half-mile above Whitney Portal. Ahead of me on the trail are two middle aged-couples that I can tell aren't planning a long hike. Russ and Joanne Hurley and Dean and Susan Franciskovich rented a mini-van and drove around from Visalia to see their son and daughter emerge from 28 days in the mountains, and I know who they are before I even meet them. I can see the smiles on Jim and Emily at the instant of recognition, the heartfelt hugs and kisses. Russ Hurley commenting on his son's scruffy facial hair, which Tomas and I have been teasing Jim about for a week. Emily giving Mom a tour of her scraped legs and swollen hands. Nothing beats family.
I'm picturing the rocky summit of Mount Whitney, which I stood upon Sunday afternoon. How the view stretched all the way from the Great Basin to the Coast Range. How the sky seemed so blue and almost close enough to touch. How the summits of distant peaks shimmered in sunlight and darkened in shadow.
How little this place has changed over the years, and how much I have.
I'm looking at myself in the mirror, running my hand through my beard and wondering how long I'll let Grizzly Adams stick around.
I'm typing on a keyboard instead of scribbling into a notepad. And when I'm done, I'll just hit "Send." No satellite hookup necessary.
I'm thanking those who gave me the opportunity (and even paid me) to hike the final leg of the John Muir Trail project, and those who shared the journey with me.
]]>I rambled about the wonders of my mini espresso maker and then failed to say whether it was worth lugging the gadget into the wilderness.
There's a simple answer to that question: Yes. Yes, it was.
]]> I should probably qualify that. I don't know if I'd bring the espresso maker on an extended trip again. The weight wasn't an issue, but the machine's a little more than I want to hassle with on cold mornings. My hands, which take on the temperature of a corpse in air conditioning, quickly turn useless in colder temperatures (especially if I'm spending a lot of time handling an icy metal coffee maker).Some blog readers have suggested I try boiling up some straight "cowboy coffee" using just grounds, water and heat. I think that's going to be my next Sierra caffeine-imbibing experiment.
All that said, I used my espresso gadget every morning of the trip except for the last two days. The final day, Eric and I skipped a cooked breakfast. The second to the last day, I didn't feel like messing with it.
When I did mess with it, the espresso machine dutifully spouted out dose after dose of caffeinated bliss. I tried a straight coffee shot the first morning, then began mixing the espresso with a full cup of instant cocoa.
It was good enough to drink in civilization.
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