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“Beauty…Comes At A Price”
Forester. Kearsarge. Glen. Pinchot. Mather. Bishop. Muir. Selden. Silver. Mammoth. Island. Donahue.
At 942.5 miles on the PCT, these are the names we’ve come to know and suffer. Each name represents a pass, a day, an experience, a friend and a foe.
We left Kennedy Meadows South on May 1st in our best effort to hike in the “secret season” of consolidated snow and snow bridges that span over water crossings. Likely due to global warming, the Sierras have experienced a low snow year and increasing overnight temps this May. The secret season has already blown right by us. Now…we are in the midst of the thaw. The snow melts quickly. It becomes softer earlier in the day making it difficult to traverse. To this, streams and creeks are upgraded to bogs and waist-deep river crossings with the snowmelt. There’s the potential to sweep you and your gear far downstream.
My wife, Basecamp, and I are ultra runners. In 2020 we ran a race hosted by Sean Blanton and Run Bum called “Quest for the Crest”. The slogan of the race read, “Beauty Comes At A Price.” Those words applied to the 50k race without a doubt, but have utterly resonated with us throughout the Sierra Nevadas and these passes.
For the last 240.5 miles our lives have been dictated by 2 things: snow and temperature. Each day we hike is either in an effort to climb a pass or set ourselves up for a pass. Overnight temps are just under (if we are lucky), at, or usually over freezing. What does this mean? Since each pass is covered with snow a few miles before and after the summit, we have to cater to the whims of it. We have two choices: we can either hike on top of or posthole (step and sink several inches to feet) through the snow. The former is ideal. The latter is risky and can be hazardous. By 8:30-9:00AM on any given day this May, the sun and ambient temps have been high enough for us to begin sinking straight through the winter wonderland fluff. If we are lucky and the overnight temps are cold enough near freezing, we can walk on consolidated snow and ice before 8:30AM turns around and the sun begins its daily thaw.
Does this sound simple? Maybe. For those who’ve never had to experience it, what does it mean for a hiker? Well…you go to bed early and wake early to hike early. Pretty basic. However, the practicality piece doesn’t always fit easily. On average, you hike anywhere from 1-2 miles per hour in snow, be it consolidated (hard like concrete) or soft. Some passes are higher than others. With increased elevation comes colder temps which can be good if you want consolidated, but that usually means a longer, more arduous climb to the top of the pass. Longer climbs mean earlier start times so you can make it up and over the snow-covered sections safely. Earlier starts mean finger numbing cold while packing gear and making coffee at 3:00AM. If you had a long day prior and only managed 4 hours of sleep…too bad, so sad. You just do what you have to, otherwise you may be risking your safety in poor snow conditions.
There’s a price to pay for the beauty you witness on the PCT. Mountaineers manage far worse, while day hikers usually suffer less. Thru-hikers sit somewhere in the middle, but the suffrage is still there, and it’s a price we are either willing, or not willing to pay at the end of each day. If you’re a wise hiker, you carry a P.L.B. or S.O.S device to “call it quits” in a difficult or threatening situation. Be it a button or an easy exit off trail, it’s extremely easy to quit, but even more difficult to stay. To complete a thru hike, you choose to stay each and every day. You pay the daily price- you suffer and persevere. This can either be physical or mental.
Creature comforts are difficult to leave behind, but the trail provides and teaches you that you don’t need what you think you do. Simple things like an inflatable pillow or hot dinner are enough to make you smile when you reach camp. The longer you coexist with the trail, the easier the relationship becomes, and the tribulations become a part of your routine.
To this, life on trail is amazing. We bare witness to some of the most stupendous views North America has to offer and experience life in a way few are privileged enough to live. I realize just how fortunate we are to live the 5-6 month lives we do on trail. It’s a complete blessing, Leaving camp at 12:00AM to summit Muir Pass by 6:00AM…only to witness sunrise glistening off each individual ice crystal as you crest the pass and see Muir hut…it’s a feeling you can’t bottle. You can’t buy these experiences, these feelings, with money. You buy such experiences with all that you are, your blood, sweat, and tears. Creeks lull us to sleep at night. The sun is our companion throughout the day. Birdsong wakes us in the morning. Society says men aren’t supposed to cry, but these moments have brought me to tears.
Each pass we’ve climbed has been unique- each approach and descent specific to the pass. Some take hours, some have been a delightful breeze, some a slush-fest to the bottom of the snow line. Mather had us hanging onto 3 points of contact as we climbed a 50% incline, while Selden had us grateful for baby saddles. We rejoiced at the views from Forester and scrambled downhill from Muir before the snow softened. Pinchot was a long haul up 7 miles of snowfields while Mammoth was only speckled with drifts. Bishop was the most intense pass for us as Basecamp postholed to her chest in the 4PM snow. The error was ours in hitting it so late, but the presence of a frozen deer graveyard near the chute is evidence of how hazardous it can be.
Difficult or easy, each pass and each day has been beautiful in it’s own way. Painful, yes, but it’s a tolerable pain that paves the path to becoming a better, stronger, healthier version of yourself. You choose to pay the price for the beauty that exists in the experience and the beauty that exists in this world. As we crested the final pass of this stretch, Donahue, we made our descent downhill towards Tuolumne Meadows, and the beautiful majesty that awaited us, Yosemite Valley. It’s been a trying journey so far. Have we considered quitting? Never. Have the hardships been worth it? Absolutely. Life is so very good.
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Comments 1
So well written, and so very descriptive of what you are experiencing. Thirty-eight years ago this summer, we made a rookie mistake by setting up our tent in a dry wash on the PCT in Kennedy Canyon just south of Sonora Pass, not too terribly far north of where you are now. If you’ve never been there, Kennedy Canyon is about as serene a place as you can imagine on the PCT, so very different from what you two have been experiencing so far in the Sierra. I am talking about a lovely, wooded area with a tiny creek running through it, birds chirping, protected from the wind; you cannot imagine a more serene place to spend the night. I remember very clearly how cozy we felt in this beautiful place, and how quickly we drifted off to sleep.
We awoke sometime in the early dawn to hear the drumming of rain on the tent and looked down with groggy confusion to see a strange, undulating bubbling of our tent floor that was lifting it off the ground. Perplexed, we looked out through the tent door, and were horrified at what we saw. It looked as if our tent were itself a tiny island in the middle of a roaring river that was rushing on either side of our island! I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as my brain tried to process what I saw. We could barely see the gear that we had foolishly left outside the night before being swept away through the rapids of this new river. It was already 25 yards downstream and bobbing quickly away! Adrenaline kicked in, I guess, as we jumped from the tent and splashed through the rain and rushing river that surrounded our tiny tent-island to recover everything. Returning to our campsite, we threw the soaked stuff sacks, hiking poles and sandals we had recovered in through the tent door, and then we each took two corners of the tent and lifted it from the river, carried it to dry ground, and hustled back in to tear off now-drenched clothing, which we fortunately were able to replace with dry clothes from our backpacks. We waited inside the tent until the rain passed. We watched in wonder as the river quickly dried to a trickle and then, so very quickly, the wash looked as benign as it had the night before when we were happily setting up camp in the middle of it. I remember thinking at the time that there were many situations on the PCT that seemed so timid and benign, but they could suddenly and without warning become dangerous and even deadly.
One nice thing about hiking on the PCT is that you can pack everything up and make your way up the trail until it is sunny and warm. You then take any wet items out and spread them on a big rock somewhere in full sun, and within an hour, everything will be dry. I’m sure you discovered this yourself long ago.
To state the obvious, we learned not to set up our tent in a wash ever again. At the time, neither one of us thought it was very funny. Now, 38 years later, we are able to laugh about it and remember it fondly as just a humorous part of a much bigger adventure. You are making memories that will last a lifetime. I feel honored to be able to read about them. Thank you!