John Muir Trail Day 2: Gear Gone Wrong and Mountain-Themed Mental Struggles

Day 2 of our thru-hike officially began the minute I gave up trying to sleep at 3 a.m. Who knew that one tent stake would mean the difference between a silent rain fly and one that serenaded us all night long? I felt myself starting to bob my head to the beat that resembled a kid who had just been gifted a pro-level drum set by his cool, childless, cat lady, thru-hiker auntie. 

(Want to see the people, places and all-around mayhem mentioned in this post? Here’s the Instagram Reel I might regret posting…)

Gear Gone Wrong

By 6 a.m., my husband, Cliff, and I were both bobbing our heads at our beat-boxing tent, still hoping for just a few minutes of sleep. We officially declared the entire effort a lost cause, though, when the condensation-covered tent ceiling started to rain on our faces and sleeping quilts. We climbed out of our damp cocoon and into the cold, blustery morning as our bladders prodded us to get a move on or else. On the way back from rescuing my urinary tract, I grabbed the undisturbed bear can, stashed a good ways away and lugged it back to camp.  

Bad Food Choices

We immediately set about heating up water for coffee and pulled out our baggies of breakfast. My husband and I both made a valiant attempt to eat as well as we could by using breakfast to squeeze in whole foods, protein and green vitamin powders, a mistake I would regret every morning starting with this one. 

I took one look at the baggie contents tinted green and my stomach roiled a solid NOPE in response. I respected that obvious gut reaction and tossed the rejected bag of breakfast (yuck, wtf was I thinking) back into the bear can, opting for a ProBar instead. I walked to a nearby rock and watched the sun’s first rays make its way over the surrounding mountains as I ate.

When Your Gear Needs Another Shakedown

After breakfast, we dug our new ultra-light toothbrush heads and toothpaste bits we bought off of Garage Grown Gear out of the bear can and attached them to our two equally light camp spoons. I wandered off to drool toothpaste away from camp but noticed that the toothbrush head had come loose from my spoon. I fished around my mouth for the parts and pieces and realized that the little rubber band that held the head to the spoon had popped off. After digging around my mouth in search of the band, I finally gave up and spat everything into my palm.  There was the toothbrush head but where…? 

“Hey!” I yelled to my husband across camp. He looked up, used to my antics after 20 years, as I hollered, “I just swallowed the rubber band that holds the brush head to the spoon.”  He nodded that he heard me, unruffled as always and already mentally finding a fix.

Cool, I thought to myself. It’s Day 2 and we were already trouble-shooting gear gone wrong. We’d previously completed a 70-mile shakedown hike a month before on Section J of the Pacific Crest Trail in Washington state. As a result, we replaced problematic gear and we should have been good to go. I belatedly thought about the fact that our gear replacements also needed a shakedown hike. 

Cliff finished brushing his teeth and ambled my way while saying, “Meh, I hate this toothbrush already so we’ll just deal until we can go into Indepence for our first re-supply.” In the meantime, we would share the remaining miniscule rubber band between the two of us, trusting that I could refrain from swallowing a second one until then.  No promises, I thought.

Testing My Mental Toughness

I turned to my gear, scattered around camp and managed to somehow gather the entire yard sale-style spectacle into my 55L backpack. With the last snap of a buckle, I wrestled my bulging backpack on and finally, finally we set off to tackle our first high-elevation challenge of the trail: New Army Pass. 

My nerves were threatening to hijack my stomach as we hiked towards the beginning of the climb. I fell silent. We were already at 11,045-ish feet and about to gain 1,355 feet of elevation over 3.5 miles. I looked up the ascent and the tiny hikers off in the high-altitude distance who resembled ants.

Hiking closer and closer to the start of the actual climb, my labored breathing kicked into overdrive as it worsened with the running mental ticker-tape commentary rolling through my head…

I’m not ready for this. 

This is not possible.

I am going to fail myself. 

Succeeding at this altitude is impossible.

There’s an insane amount of mountain passes and summits on the JMT and you’re still 17 miles away from even stepping foot on the official trail. 

You’re not the kind of person that can do something like this. 

You don’t have the kind of body that can complete this. 

You’re not mentally tough enough.

You’re not enough. 

You will never be enough.

…and then I remembered a moment, months ago at the gym, while suffering fantastically on a stair mill machine. 

Calling Myself on My Own Shit

My breathing was labored and I was draped over the display console in front of me. I was just barely able to go on when, out of the blue, the coach side of my brain said to the high school theater student side, lounging on a nearby fainting couch, “Annnnnd END SCENE. Enough with the theatrics. Stop being so dramatic.” 

The Academy Award-winning scene dissolved to reveal the reality of it all and my breathing became easier. Somehow, I had uncovered a switch buried deep inside my brain that controlled something so basic, yet so needed, when a person is intent on doing hard things. 

Faced with the first mountain pass of our thru-hike, I remembered to flip that switch to the off position, and told my brain, I am safe and I can take it from here.

My stilted steps forward snapped confidently into my zone two pace. I chose a song from the catalog of music floating around in my brain and matched my steady stride to the tempo. When thoughts threatened to sabotage my progress, I twisted the mental volume knob higher and locked onto the magic of momentum.

I kept my eyes on the trail, looking up every now and then to check my progress. Each time I hit the sharp u-turn of another switchback, I would look up to appreciate the scene unfolding before and behind me. This. This beautiful world and using my own two feet to explore as much of it as I can is the reason I am here. I felt myself smile from the high of it all and willingly got back to making upward progress, excitedly anticipating the view at the top until I was finally there.

I took a deep breath and thought, I’m actually doing this.

Nope, We’re Not Doing Mount Whitney…but What If?

Standing next to the New Army Pass sign, I looked back down the ascent and tried to spot Cottonwood Lake #1 and where we woke up just hours before. Turning towards the hike ahead, we took our first official steps into Sequoia National Park and the 7.5 mile descent toward our next campsite as I said to my husband, “Thank GOD we’re not doing Mount Whitney. I couldn’t imagine…”

But what if…?

Stats for us hiker nerds

Day 2 – August 18, 2024

Cottonwood Lake #1 to Rock Creek Campgrounds

Mountain Pass/Summit: New Army Pass elevation 12,400’ (according to the U.S. Forest Service)

Elevation Gain: 1,355’ (from Cottonwood Lake #1 to New Army Pass)

Mileage: 11.0

Want to see all the people, places and all-around mayhem mentioned in this post?  Head on over to my TikTok account at @a.wanderfull.life  

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Comments 2

  • Dee : Oct 5th

    I really enjoyed the comical and honest way you described your day on trail. I look forward to following you on your journey.

    Reply
    • Bernadette Rankin : Oct 5th

      Thank you so much for taking the time to read it AND leave a comment! You’re my first EVER on The Trek website! I’ll be back for another dose of comedic honesty ASAP!

      Reply

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