By SPENCER HEADLEY | Moonshine Ink
Elizabeth sat inside our chilly little world, deflating her Thermarest while thumbing through our weathered bible, the John Muir Trail guidebook. I was outside the tent heaving up the aluminum stakes driven deep into the ground, dampened from the rain the night before. “It snowed on the pass,” I said, my frozen breath pushing the words towards the Jetboil as I heated the water for an instant oatmeal packet. A single packet constituted both of our breakfasts for the third day in a row. We started packing up camp so routinely it felt like muscle memory before slowly ascending out of Vidette Meadow. We were in search of the horizon that could be seen from atop Forester Pass, nearly 190 miles and more than two weeks after my girlfriend and I started hiking the John Muir Trail in September.
The JMT, dubbed America’s most famous trail, is no stranger to many Tahoe residents. Stretching from the Yosemite Valley to the summit of Mt. Whitney in eastern California, at 211 miles it offers world-class hiking with views to match. Having such a stretch of land nearby is truly remarkable. Conveniently unemployed in the fall, it was our time to hike the trail.
A month before the frosty autumn morning in Vidette Meadow, we sat in our room near Tahoe City preparing for the trek. Determined to send out our food drops the next morning, we repackaged boxed food into Ziploc bags that we had purchased during a WinCo shopping spree.
“Cheez Whiz? Does Cheez Whiz make the cut?” I excitedly asked Elizabeth.
“No,” she said.
There it was, our first argument about our adventure. The sorting and packaging continued silently. We sent the packages, addressed to their respective drop points, hoping our future selves would appreciate dehydrated mashed potatoes and refried beans.
In the final steps of preparation, we entrusted our fate to the two most reliable sources of information on the outdoors I have ever known: the Internet and my father. After all the thought and planning, the fruits of our labor took form as two 60-plus liter packs stuffed to the seams and sitting on my parent’s ping pong table in Dollar Point, the table sagging under the weight of what was about to be on our backs for the next three weeks.
The never-ending rocky terrain of Kings Canyon National Park in the southern Sierra, enveloped by the cloudy horizon, awaited us. A sense of humility only mountains can cast through sheer magnitude lay just beyond our reach. But first, Yosemite. Elizabeth and I were greeted to the trail by a stream of tourists who passed us on a 2,000-vertical foot climb up to Nevada Falls, commenting on how heavy our backpacks looked. The trail had already conquered us after only 6 miles, and we still had 215 miles to go to reach Mt. Whitney, our end point. But the sheer beauty overrode any lingering doubts, and we dropped our packs in search of a creek. We vowed to pick up the pace the following morning and pitched the tent, hesitantly testing the durability of its ultra-light poles.
Days later, we spent the night in Lyell Canyon, bundled up as we watched the full moon rise between the trees as the moonshine cast frigid rays onto the valley floor. The following morning, Little Yosemite Valley billowed an amber river of smoke snaking through the sky, created by the Meadow Fire. We watched in awe while ascending over 11,056-foot Donohue Pass, stepping into the dimming light of Ansel Adams Wilderness and out of Yosemite National Park.
The JMT undoubtedly attracts people with like-minded reasoning behind getting lost to find themselves. In other words, to explore the wilderness is to explore one’s self. The landscape for me was half the trip. The other half of the adventure lay in challenging my own judgments that I all-too-often hold against people. My time on the trail made me look at how we all create ideas about who someone is based on first appearances.
I did not know Craig, a scruffy yet well-kept man, before we started on the trail. I hesitated to set up camp near his campsite because he seemed the type to prefer solitude. Only after several nights did we discover he actually had 50 lofty goals at the age of 50. Hiking the JMT was one, and growing a beard for a whole year was another. He camped near us several times, not only providing good company but reminding us to follow our hearts, no matter what.
I also did not know Miles, a 21-year-old UC Davis watershed science major, before the JMT. Being older than him, I underestimated, and was taken aback by, his savvy instincts and knowledge of nature. I expected him to be like me at that age. Miles came to our rescue in times of hunger later on the trail and showed us generosity in the face of scarcity. The stories we shared over pea soup and bagged tuna stand out more in my mind than some of the grueling passes we climbed.
Sadly, meaningful conversations do not hold caloric value. And so we stood, overshadowed by mountains surrounding Forester Pass, elevation 13,153 feet. We decided to speed up our trip during the day. It was a decision based on hunger, for we had rationed out approximately 600 calories each for five days in a row. We spilt everything and inhaled every meal. We did receive a few handouts from hikers who packed better than we did. They were saints, and saints who clearly shopped at Whole Foods.
On our last night, following the advice of a good friend we camped at the Mt. Whitney Trail Crest Junction, a mere two miles short of the summit. The following morning, with full spirits yet empty stomachs, we dawned our headlamps and hiked. It was 4:30 a.m. and pitch black. We set off on the final day of our trek. The sun rose and struck our numb faces at 6:36 a.m., casting rays of light onto the top of the contiguous United States. Standing at 14,508 feet above sea level, Elizabeth and I stood in awe, closer together than ever.
Three weeks in total, a combined 12 pounds lighter, we arrived at Whitney Portal. My father greeted us with snacks in hand, a reminder of his constant support.
Scenic photos and a sore Achilles tendon remain after our meanderings in the wilderness, but so does a sense of gratitude. I was finally able to throw some heavy judgments to the strong winds, whipping over the highest peak in the Sierra.
