Blistered Kind Of Love (22 page)

Inspired by the previous evening's vicious display, we got up at sunrise to start our ascent of the nine long switchbacks that wind up Whitney's rocky slopes. For speed's sake we left our tent and other nonessentials behind. Cold wind blasted our faces. The only sound was the gritty churning of our trekking poles. Soon, the crunch of snow underfoot and our labored breaths were added to the orchestra. The path ahead was largely gray and white except for small patches of blue flowers tucked into rocky crannies.

Atop Whitney, at 14,491 feet, the world seemed like an ocean of granite and snowy peaks. Layers and layers of mountains spread into the horizon. And the air, in the words of Mark Twain, “the air up there . . . is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? It is the same the angels breathe.”

The photographs we have from that day are among my favorites. Grinning from ear to ear, Duffy and I stand with our arms wrapped around one another on the precipice of the earth. Behind, like a timeline, sprawls the crest we'd already traversed. Bright-eyed, we look onward—to Canada.

To celebrate the moment, Duffy pulled our Nerf football out of his pack.
We were going to play the highest game of catch in the continental U.S. For the past 761 miles, we'd received some funny looks whenever we brought out that football. It was a luxury, but in the words of a four-year-old (quoted in
Backpacker
magazine after completing a hike in the Grand Canyon), “If you don't bring toys, all you'll have to play with is rocks and sticks.” After a few passes, however, our recess was cut short by the sight of clouds looming over Mount Russell (a nearby 14,000-foot peak). Not wanting to risk getting caught in lightning, we began a rapid five-mile descent. As the sky turned black we bumped into Just Mike, still on his way up and determined to reach the summit no matter what.

“That your blue tent down there?” He asked in curt military fashion.

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

“There're marmots clambering all over it. Sure hope you didn't leave any food in there. Those critters'll chew through cement.”

“Yeah, one of ‘em already got a strap on my pack.” I'd left my pack a thousand feet from the summit at the junction with the Mount Whitney Trail. When we descended from the peak, I found my sternum strap gnawed in half. A fat, white-whiskered marmot sat on a nearby rock looking pleased with himself. Marmots often chew hikers' clothing and backpacks because they like the salt left by perspiration. As we hurried down the mountain, I worried about all the trail sweat we'd brought into our tent.

Thankfully, we made it back to Guitar Lake before the foul weather caught us and in time to save our gear from sharp marmot teeth. We packed up quickly and scurried back to the PCT.

Our next mission was to conquer 13,180-foot Forester Pass, the highest point on the trail. After spending the night at Tyndall Creek (which was the first of many formidable and frigid fords), we approached Forester in the morning, when the snow was still firm. Ahead of us, a wall of granite jutted toward the sky. Somehow the trail would lead us up and over it. We reached switchbacks, chiseled into the rock, which led to the pass—a small notch in an otherwise solid gray fortress. Laboring and lumbering, we ultimately reached the PCT's apex. We took the requisite photos and began a tradition of eating a snack in every major mountain pass. I quickly discovered that Snickers are
particularly delicious when eaten while looking back on a successfully completed 4,000-foot climb and ahead into a lake-speckled valley.

After successfully going up and over Forester, we set our sights on the town of Independence for food, fuel, and a rest. Reaching Independence required branching onto a trail that led nine miles over Kearsarge Pass and down to the Onion Valley trailhead. From there we caught a ride down to the hot valley floor, where we found hiker-friendly lodging at the Independence Courthouse Motel. Fish and Ryan were already there, hosting Chris and Stacey (who'd set up camp in a nearby park) for the afternoon. Fish had purchased a Wiffle bat at the local market, and it wasn't long before we'd started up a spirited game in the motel parking lot. After I struck out for about the tenth time, I called it quits and jogged over to the post office.

Even though Independence wasn't a planned re-supply stop, I hoped to find a card from my mother. At each of our re-supply points (planned and otherwise) thus far, I'd found her cards waiting for me—colorful cards with pretty French sentiments printed on the front. And inside, in her neat script, were inspiring, encouraging notes from my mom. Given the tension prior to my departure, these nurturing messages meant a lot to me. Even though she didn't agree with what I was doing, the cards showed that my mother was reaching out, giving me support. But there was no mail for us, just Meadow Ed, checking up on who'd signed the trail register.

“No mail, huh?” he said.

“Nope, not today. But we hadn't planned on stopping here, so I shouldn't really have been expecting anything,” I responded, feeling a little stupid.

“Lotsa folks think they can get from Kennedy Meadows to Vermilion in one shot, but not many do. It's a shame; now you'll have to make the climb back up to Kearsarge.”

The steep climb over Kearsarge Pass to rejoin the PCT was just as difficult as Meadow Ed had predicted. But our radios were getting clear signals, so we passed the time and miles by yelling station numbers to each other and singing
along to the songs, which included the appropriately titled “Higher,” by Creed.

With Whitney and Forester behind us, we felt quite accomplished, but really we'd only just begun, We had five more high passes to go before our next re-supply. That day we tackled the rocky flanks of Glen Pass and camped at the emerald-green Rae Lakes with Fish and Ryan. The mosquitoes were swarming, and despite slathering ourselves with the potent (and potentially toxic) repellent DEET, they engulfed us, flying in our ears, up our noses, and even deep into our throats. Duffy swatted himself mercilessly, yelling
“Yes!”
whenever he killed one of the “blood-sucking bastards.” In desperation, I put on my rain pants, jacket, and mosquito-netting hood. I sweated profusely as a result but at least was able to stall the buggy onslaught. Duffy tried another tactic. While Fish, Ryan, and I were cooking dinner, we heard hollers and then a large splash.

“He didn't just do that,” Ryan said, incredulous.

“That's one crazy son-of-a-bitch.” Fish looked out into the darkness toward the lakes.

The water in Rae Lakes was fresh from the snowy peaks and the coldest thing this side of the North Pole. Duffy's evening swim did ward off the mosquitoes temporarily, but its more lasting effect was to leave him shivering like an outboard motor for most of the night.

The next morning we were back at it again, continuing our new routine—climb up to a high pass all morning and then embark on a long afternoon descent. Interspersed were numerous icy stream crossings that were both nerve-wracking and aggravating. The mosquitoes seemed to take our slow crossings (via logs or rocks, and sometimes wading) as invitations to snack.

While the mosquitoes tested our patience and all of the high passes tested our endurance, Muir Pass, with its elusive summit and snow-covered trail, taxed us the most—both mentally and physically. It took us six hours to cover six miles, and I think I can remember every labored movement. With each step, my foot crashed through crusty ice, crystals scrapping and burning my bare legs, then I'd wobble to the left and wobble to the right before submerging a trekking pole into the snow to catch my balance. When we reached
snow-free ground on the other side of Muir Pass, we dropped to our knees and lay on our packs, unable to find even enough energy to eat an energy bar. But the endurance test wasn't yet complete. We still had Selden Pass to tackle before the much-anticipated Vermilion Valley.

Targeting this 10,900-foot pass, we charged ahead, with five miles ahead of us to reach the top and then thirteen miles to Edison Lake and the ferry across to Vermilion. We'd have to move quickly if we wanted to be there in time for the boat's final afternoon trip.

At first we made good progress, but in midmorning we were abruptly blocked by a wide, swift expanse of frigid water—Bear Creek. Fear washed over me like snowmelt over rock. The memory of our difficult crossing of Evolution Creek just the day before was still unnervingly fresh in my mind.

When we'd arrived at Evolution early the previous afternoon, we found a note left by another hiker. “BE CAREFUL,” we read. “Water chest-high. Current strong. Find a better crossing.” Heeding the advice, we headed upstream to look for shallower water. A quarter of a mile up we thought we found a good spot and began to ford arm in arm. The bed of the stream was a solid sheet of slippery rock, but we located a long crack and, step by step, wedged our feet into it. The water wrapped around my ankles and thighs and tugged like an army of small hands. While deliberately sliding my feet along the crack, I tried to ignore the mosquitoes that were feasting on my arms. I didn't dare let go of Duffy to slap at them. If I fell, I'd either break my ankle or be washed downstream toward the rapids. We made painstaking progress through the bitterly cold water until, at last, we were safely on the opposite shore. Creek fords can be the most dangerous aspect of hiking through the Sierra.

Now we were faced with another, deeper and scarier, creek ford. After some discussion, Duffy decided to go across the creek first without his pack, in an attempt to gauge its depth and find a safe route. The floor of Bear Creek was a tangled mess of slick rocks, and as Duffy crossed he stumbled like a college kid leaving a keg party. Once safely on the other side, he crossed back over, grabbed his pack and my arm, and we stepped into the torrent together. The water reached up to my waist and sent its freezing fingers through my entire body. My hands rapidly turned white-blue and my feet felt wooden. Within
seconds I was having one of the most severe Raynaud's attacks of my life. Given the depth of the water, we'd decided that I should cross the stream packless, hoping that without its extra weight I'd be able to fight the strong current. This meant that Duffy would have to cross for a third time. When we made it ashore, I jumped around to warm up while Duffy strode back into the creek to retrieve my pack from the other side. While I watched him wobble his way across Bear Creek for the final time, I realized that I wouldn't have been able to safely cross without him. He wasn't always the most attentive boyfriend, but challenges like Bear Creek seemed to bring out the protective and valorous side of him. I envied his strength, but more importantly, I loved him for it.

After the delay, we really had to move to make the Edison Lake ferry. Duffy, spurred by the thought of the “first beer free” policy at the Vermilion Valley Resort, led at a trot. We cruised along Bear Ridge through a hailstorm and then started down fifty-three pine-sheltered switchbacks. Glancing at his watch, Duffy broke into a gallop and I kept up as best I could. We had to make that ferry; if we didn't, we'd have to walk an extra six miles around Edison Lake. The High Sierra had been wondrous, but we were spent—so spent that the idea of six extra miles sent us into a frantic race against time. As we glimpsed the lake, we sprinted over rocks and roots. We were going to get that boat or break a limb trying.

FOR AS MUCH AS WE'D FRETTED
about the possibility of needing to perform ice-axe self-arrest in the Sierra, in reality my axe had pretty much been deadweight. Lashed to the back of Big Red, spike jutting toward the heavens, the green chunk of aluminum had traveled hundreds of miles through
The
Mountains, but I'd only unstrapped it once, on the downhill traverse of Forester Pass. This wasn't due to safety concerns—the snow was soft and the steps deep—but rather for a photo opportunity. We needed at least one mountaineer-esque shot for our scrapbook, and I needed to put that axe to some use. After all, I hadn't used it to dig fire pits, fight off bears, or even to hunt wild marmot. So far, the only useful thing that axe had done was allow me to wrap some extra Duct tape around it.