Travel

The Young Heroes Museum

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The city of Voroshilovgrad, in the Soviet State of Ukraine, differed from the images presented in my State Department pre-departure debriefing. The buildings were not massive and block like, there was no hustle and no bustle, and more greenery existed than the gray drab photos I had seen. Furthermore, churches and onion domes decorated more of the skyline than I expected the Soviets to allow. There were many pleasant things about this city, but the details of those city buildings and historical monuments are not what I remember most. I remember a single day, or more exactly, a single place. A place I think about now and again.

I entered the Young Heroes Museum looking for a distraction from the speeches and conditioned interviews with various city officials. I knew nothing about the museum and knew not what to expect. The bright red carpet, typical of many patriotic buildings, covered the floor. A few dioramas interrupted the empty feel of the sparse interior. Portraits hung on the walls. Just beyond the entrance a giant statue greeted visitors. Below it, a plaque outlined the contributions of young people from this city during the German invasion.

My eyes rolled – another war memorial. I usually avoid war memorials. I understand the sense of loss felt by the families, but I cannot ignore that many become soldiers by choice. All soldiers receive training on how to kill and avoid being killed. Their trainers often provide them with weapons to carry out their duties. The format of most memorials vary little: lists of battles, statistics about lives lost, medals won, plaques and busts of those who died, and quite frequently treatises on the justness of the war to ensure that no one died in vain. As a pacifist, I derived little value from such commemorations. However, I was in the door and my Kopecks paid.

There did not seem to be much, and I believed would be quick, so I continued onward.
As I moved closer to the pictures, instead of seeing portraits of soldiers who died in battle, I saw faces of young boys and girls. With the docent’s help, I read that they ignored the evacuations and used acts of sabotage to thwart the German advance and occupation. Far from being conditioned and hardened Soviet soldiers with orders or training, they were children doing what they could to defend their homeland.

Unlike other museums, seeing the faces of those who died allowed me to establish a connection. Theses faces seemed similar to the faces of my old classmates – the bully, the popular kids, the outcaste, the clown.

I spent most of the day examining the faces. Some appeared in old photographs, while others were in paintings or sketches. Each face beamed with innocent earnestness. Some looked mature and ready for adulthood, others looked young and mischievous. Eyes full of dreams, and dreams lost, looked back at me. Captions below the faces spelled out their names, dates of life, accomplishments, family history, and quite frequently method of death.

Here the horrors of war and the depths of man’s inhumanity toward man revealed themselves. Girls prostituted themselves for information. Boys and girls stole foodstuffs, made makeshift fire bombs, and used stolen guns to kill the invaders. When caught, the lucky ones were executed quickly while the others, like Klava Kovaleva were tortured to death.

“Klava Kovaleva, 17 years old is taken swollen, the right breast is cut off, left leg burnt and left foot cut off,….to be buried in a communal grave of heroes on the central area of Krasnodon.”
Not all stories ended in hideous torture. Some died in battle, like Vasily Borisov who died the day after his seventeenth birthday trying to disrupt German communication lines. These children attempted to shoulder the defense of their homeland. Hundreds were killed, nearly a hundred were identified and immortalized in this museum. Although posthumously awarded various medals, as if to point out that their sacrifice was not in vain, I spun from the realization that too many of these children were too young: Seventeen, Sixteen, Fifteen, Twelve.

At the end of the day, I walked out of the museum with my feelings of disgust for war reaffirmed yet subsumed in conflict. The actions of the invaders were cruel and horrific. In the final analysis the sacrifices made by the youth were futile – not affecting the outcome of the war. So were the children courageous or foolish? Did they have resolve or did they lack self worth? World events thrust these children of Voroshilovgrad into making decisions without the orchestration or manipulation of some lofty principle. They acted on elemental feelings of self preservation and defense. They organized themselves and fought back. Do these reasons alone merit glory and commemoration? What of those who feel so marginalized that their only course of action, their only way of defending their way of life, is to explode themselves? The faces and questions plagued me then as they do today.

The most passionate amongst us are youth. Without knowing all that life offers, they frequently set their own well being aside for the sake of a cause. Forces of good and evil tap into this reservoir of eagerness to fulfill the most expendable positions in their schemes. From suicide bombers to front line war conscripts, the best hopes for any nation’s future often ends in brief acts of violence which in turn breed more hatred and resentment.

In the years since, the city changed its name to Lugansk, the Soviet Union dissolved, and a stable peace developed among the USA and Russia and the previous Soviet states. However, the world still knows war and the devastation it brings. As I hear reports of young people who fight and die fulfilling someone else’s vision of the world, I think not just about the justness of the struggle, but also about the cost. Some are on the right side of battle and some are not. Sometimes, there is no right side. Regardless, I have faces to put to the young that die in battle. They are the faces of boys and girls hanging on the walls of the Young Heroes Museum.

Some of the stories from Wiki:

Ulyana Gromova


Ulyana Matveevna Gromova was a Ukrainian Soviet member of the Soviet underground resistance in World War II, executed by the Nazis. She is a posthumous Hero of the Soviet Union. Gromova was born to working-class family on 3 January 1925 in the village of Pervomaysky in what is now Luhansk Province of the Ukraine. Gromova’s father, Matthew Maximovich Gromov, was born in 1880 in Poltava Province of Ukraine part of the Russian Empire. Gromova’s father served in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905 moved to Krasnodon and worked as mineworker, retiring in 1937. Gromova’s mother was housewife. In March 1940 Ulyana Gromova joined the Komsomol. At the German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, Gromova was 17 years old and in tenth grade. Like many of her classmates, she worked in agriculture to replace farm workers and took care of wounded soldiers in the hospital, she was graduated from high school with good to excellent marks on 3 June 1942. When her home province was occupied by German troops, which began on 17 July 1942, Gromova was not able to evacuate because she needed to care for her sick mother.

Together with Maya Peglivanovoy and Anatoly Popov, she organized a group of patriotic young people in her village of Pervomaysky who became part of the “Young Guard” of the underground resistance Komsolol organization in September 1942. In October 1942, Gromova was elected a member of staff of the organization, she took an active part in the preparations for armed resistance, the creation and dissemination of anti-fascist leaflets, collecting medicines, campaigning among the population, urging them to not obey the enemy and to disrupt plans to supply the Germans with material and impress Soviet youth to work in Germany. On the night of November 7, 1942, Gromova and Popov hoisted the red flag on a pipe shaft at Mine Number 1 in occupied Krasnodon. Mass arrest of suspected underground figures began in the city, the Young Guards developed an escape plan for Gromova, but she was arrested by the German authorities on 10 January 1943, she was beaten and tortured during interrogation, but she stayed true to her oath to her motherland and comrades and did not reveal details of the underground’s activities.

She was hung by her hair, burned with hot irons, had a five-pointed star cut into her back and the wound rubbed with salt, suffered a broken arm and broken ribs. She endured her suffering stoically, cheered her imprisoned comrades by reciting Lermontov’s epic poem Demon, which she knew by heart. In the note which she managed to pass secretly to her relatives, knowing her death was near, she expressed faith in victory and called for her brother Elisha to stand for his homeland. On 16 January 1943 Gromova, along with other Young Guards, was executed, her body thrown in the 58-meter pit of Mine Number 5 in Krasnodon. After the liberation of Krasnodon, Gromova was buried with military honors on 1 March 1943 in a mass grave of patriotic heroes in the central square of Krasnodon, where a memorial to the Young Guards was erected. Hero of the Soviet Union Order of Lenin Medal “Partisan of the Patriotic War” 1st Class Gromova is a character in Alexander Fadeyev’s 1946 novel The Young Guard, included in school curriculums.

 

Oleg Koshevoy

Oleg Vasilyevich Koshevoy was a Soviet partisan and one of the founders of the clandestine organization Young Guard, which fought the Nazi forces in Krasnodon during World War II between 1941 and 1945. Born in Pryluky, a city in the Chernihiv Oblast of present-day north-central Ukraine, Oleg Koshevoy’s family moved south to Rzhyshchiv and Poltava before settling in Krasnodon in 1940, where he attended secondary school. In July 1942, Krasnodon was occupied by the German Army. Under the leadership of the party underground, Koshevoy organized an anti-nazi Komsomol organization called the Young Guard, becoming its commissar. In January 1943, the Germans exposed the organization. Oleg Koshevoy was soon apprehended, he was tortured and executed on February 9, 1943. On September 13, 1943, Oleg Koshevoy was posthumously awarded the title of the Hero of the Soviet Union, the Order of Lenin, the Medal “Partisan of the Patriotic War” 1st class. Many mines, sovkhozes and Young Pioneer groups in the Soviet Union were named after him.

citation: https://wikivisually.com/wiki/Young_Guard_(Soviet_resistance)

Getting lost on the JMT

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The John Muir Trail is well traveled.   Where there is soil, there is a well worn path.  Frequently, there are logs or boulders on either side to help delineate where to go.  Also to help travelers, there are giant carved marks in the trees along the trail.  There is not reason to get lost.

Except in a year where the snow was 185% of average, and travelers are foolish enough to forge ahead without waiting for that snow to melt.

True enough, there are tracks in the snow.  However, these can be mountaineering routes created by seasoned snow trekkers out-rigged with snow spikes and a set of ice axes.   Also, there were large snowfields full of suncups.

courtesy of aspin Matis

I don’t see a path through this; frequently there wasn’t!  You make the road by walking.

In the tree line snow falls can covers the trail.  Aside from these snow drifts, the trees obstruct clear viewing of landmarks.

Given this….I got lost a lot.    The trail was totally obscured and I could not find foot paths or tracks.  Sometimes I lost tracks on rock outcroppings.    After Silver Pass I glissaded down which put me on the wrong side of warrior lake. I was lost.  Was the trail higher up on the valley wall or lower.  Every time I paused to look at the map, I was swarmed by mosquitoes.  I trudged through swampy muck and snow drifts….down and eventually found something that looked trail like.

On the way to Silver Pass, tracks took me east of the trail and I eventually lost the tracks, I wandered from rock outcrop to rock outcrop falling and sweating until I finally gave up on finding evidence of human passage and focused instead on the mountain ahead of me and going over that.  Eventually, I saw someone coming down, and aimed for that.

After Pinochet, there were a series of frozen lakes and elevated rock outcroppings.  I lost the trail and the tracks and zig-zaged back and forth. Until I was exhausted.  I collapsed on a flat rock out crop and laid down, thinking this is it.  This is where I end.   I laid there for a half our, than decided no, I don’t end here and kept walking North until I fund some tracks and a trail.

Coming down off of Glenn Pass, I headed into Rae lakes.   I crossed ice bridge after ice bridge and found myself in a campsite, but not where I wanted to be.  I followed some tracks that took me to an ice cliff.  I had to turn around and go back.  I headed towards the lake and the path led me to a lake crossing.  I was not expecting a crossing.  And being late in the day, the water level was high.  If I went all the way in, it would have been chest deep.  I saw a boulder in the water.  If I walked along the top of that boulder I would only be waist deep, and then I could make a two foot jump from the boulder to land.  I did this, but I could see no trail on the other side.  There were tracks everywhere, but none that seemed like a trail.  I wandered on the island for 30-40 minutes trying to find a way across.  I then found the trail on the other side of the island, partially submerged in water lake side.  I quickly got through after that.

Shaken from my Mather ascent, I was trying to make up time.  Into Palisades canyon, I could not find a trail.  I knew I needed to get to the end of the canyon, but I didn’t know whether to go high, or low.  Ramses and Nosebleed passed me here.  I decided on a high road.  I found a pine bed not covered by snow.  I set my pack down and rested.  A buck walked a across the snowfield next to me.  Inspired, I kept going.  The high road was the wrong call, as it let to an ice sheet.  I climbed down the ice sheet to the trail below, and then to the golden stair case.

It seems that whenever I got lost, I found my way.  Don’t panic.  Look at the big picture.  See the mountain through the trees and snow.  It was ok to not be on a trail, but see and follow the topology.

I’m Alive

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I’m back.  I’m in one piece. I’m a little scruffy and a little lighter. It was an amazing trip, and much harder than I had planned for (partly because I’m wimpier than my self-image, and partly because the conditions were more challenging than my rosy-colored projections allowed me to see).

 

My first night in a tent was on 6/29 at 9,800 feet at Horseshoe Meadows (South of Mount Whitney), to acclimate to the higher altitudes.  I was feeling fine the next day so I hiked to my first pass: New Army (12,000 feet+).  I camped below the accent to attempt at first light.  It took me some time to get near enough to the summit to realize that I would not be able surmount the 40 foot cornice….even with my ice axe and crampons. I had no mountaineering experience and was too chicken to try.  So I had to detour around to Cottonwood Pass which added an additional 20 miles on to my trip.

 

Frustrated, I tried Whitney a few days later.  After climbing for about eight hours with my 50 pound bag, I ran out of water and time about a mile and 1,500 feet lower than the 14,500 foot summit. I decided to turn around and fail for a second time. I was frustrated and was beginning to think I wouldn’t be able to complete the trip.  I was passed everyday by about five Pacific Crest Trail hikers who were lean mean hiking machines.  Some of them encouraged me and gave me lots of positive
energy.  If they could do it, so could I.

 

I dug in.  In the next few weeks I managed to walk 283 miles, climb over 11 passes above 11,000 feet (6 over 12,000) most of which were covered with snow.  I managed to do snow accents and descents, glissades, ice traverses, and managed to cross sun cup fields.   I was truly terrified getting over some of these passes with Glenn, Mather, Muir, and Pinochet taking me more than six hours to get over.  On some of these, I was alone and no one to rely on but myself to get over and get home to
family.

 

River crossings were also challenging.  While the vast majority had log or ice bridges, or boulders to jump to and from, some tested my metal.  Some crossings were chest high with slow moving ice water, other were raging fast and thigh deep.  The South Fork Kings River was fast moving and gut deep, but there appeared no way around it. I found a spot were the river forked and tried to cross.   Leaning full weight into the flow it still pushed me backwards.  I managed to ford it.  It dragged me a little – a brush with a fate I’d rather not imagine.   Snow made the path hard to find.  Boot tracks were everywhere, and then disappeared.  I found
myself lost in the wild for at least an hour before and after the major passes.  Massive amounts of Avalanche damage required navigation over downed trees, boulders, and swampy conditions from rerouted streams all while fending off mosquito hoards with nothing better to do than feed on my blood.

 

Harrowing experiences aside, the beauty of our planet amazed me daily. Whether it was watching a humming bird give itself a bird bath in the trail in front of me (causing me to wait until it was done), or watching a buck walk by me as a rested under a tree, or the majesty and presence of the Sierra’s dominant geological features, or even the hydrological power put out by all the snow melt, our planet produces some amazing places.  It has encouraged me to keep working in whatever ways I can to preserve them.

 

It was an emotional trip for me.  I slipped from frustration one moment to wild euphoria the next, to intense pining for my family throughout the day.   I finished with a 20 mile hike down from Long Meadow, up then down Half Dome finishing at Happy Isles 7/21 at 7pm.   I wept with a joy that is hard to explain in words for my accomplishment.  I then caught my breath then walked another mile right into the Curry Village shower house for half hour shower.

 

I am grateful to be home with my family whom I missed so intensely.  I am grateful for the many hikers on the trail who rooted me on and gave me oomph when I didn’t think I had any left. I am grateful for the support and love and positive thoughts of all those who crossed their fingers or said a prayer to whatever intangibility they believe in to keep me safe, whole, and courageous enough to finish something that was well  beyond what I should have been able to do.  I am most grateful for
Sharleen, Alyssa, and Kylie who loved me enough to let go, and trusted me enough to make the right calls to come home.

 

I had no great revelations except this:  Being on the trail without a safety net strips away all the unessential.  It forces you to be absolutely mindful of the moment (where will I step, can I cross here, is that a safe route for me, where can I poop) all the superfluous stuff that fills and a clouds our
thoughts slips away and becomes nonsensical.  There is inherent value in this.  There is also value, I believe, in pushing oneself to and beyond what we believe we were capable of, as it allows us to be capable of more.  After all, isn’t that what we all want – to be more than we were?
Peace and Love
to you all,

RIP Rika

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Rika (a.k.a. “Strawberry”) first passed me as I ascended Kearsarge Pass for the first time.  I was putting on my spikes and huffing and puffing on a rest stop.  She checked in with me and then walked off. Step-step-step-step  no pauses for sure footing, no crampons or micro spikes – just boots. Step step step.  I was impressed.  I finished my ascent and looked down and she was just disappearing into the tree line on the East side of the pass.  She was fast.

I saw her again as I descended out of Rae Lakes.  I had just finished crossing Baxter creek and was putting my boots back on: “Hi I’m Rika and I from Japan, I walk 20 miles a day.”   Bold and fearless, she made me look like a rank armature grade A backpacking wimp.

I crossed the wood creek bridge, started up and she passed me again.  We said hi, but that was it.

When Nosebleed told me that no one had seen her I was surprised and worried.  She seemed so with it.  When I returned home I looked up her case immediately and saw the post by the National Park: “Any one with any information please contact the 800 hotline.  Within minutes of leaving a descriptive message I received a call from a detective.   “She was found dead 400 yards south of the trail crossing of South Fork Kings river.”

Holy crap, that’s near where I crossed.  And that river almost got me.

“I’ve been in search and rescue for nearly 10 years, and before that I was a navy seal.  Can you help me get into her head?  All of her texts home seemed preoccupied with the dangers out her and she didn’t know how to cross certain rivers.  I’ve gotta tell you, if that was me, I would have stopped until I got an answer.  Why did she continue forward?”

That is the question isn’t.  Why do any of us move forward?  Some of us stay paralyzed in fear of the world.  Afraid to travel, afraid to talk with different people, afraid to face the unknown. When does foolhardy and begin and courage end?

I didn’t have a great answer for him, but I told him:

“On the trail, after a few accomplishments, people become more courageous and overestimate what they can do.  That was the case with me.  I underestimated the trial and overestimated my abilities.  I guess I was just more lucky.”

 

Rika wasn’t the only fatality this year:

 

Article after article warns people to stay away.

 

The trip home

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After packing my gear, I headed to the Lodge for some breakfast.  Perhaps my appetite had returned…..nope.

The bus was at 9am and fiddled around for a bit.  I found some souvenirs and hung around the village.  I sat at the bus stop watching the comings and goings of people.  It was my first time being to Yosemite and not seeing a bear….ironically doing something more in nature than I had ever before.   I watched tourists line up for a valley rafting tour.  Giving their information, getting on a scale, then paying money.  I flashed back to a brief discussion I had with a fellow hiker near Garnett lake.  “If you aren’t eating, you are definitely loosing weight”.  I looked at the scale again.  I hadn’t thought about it at all.  I thought about my pack weight but not mine.  I set my pack down and walked over to the scale and stepped on:  175.  That can’t be right.  I stepped on again and it read 175.  I asked the people if their scale was accurate, and they said it was just calibrated for the season.  I started my hike at 240, which means in three weeks I lost 65 pounds.  I went back to the bench and waited for the bus.

As the bus drove out of the valley I saw the parades of people and cars swish by.   Grand views, fierce streams, and glorious scenery.  The bus drove up and south through Wawona and towards Fresno.  I kept straining to peer through the canopy at the distant mountain range: “I hiked through that.”

The bus stopped for a lunch break.  I got a burrito.  It was incredibly awesome.  There was a lot of for sale signs around.  No doubt people who fell in love with the mountains, moved out here, and then found mountain living hard and are now trying to sell.

In Fresno I waited for train and took my last photo the of trip.

Before and After

 

Reflecting on my trip proved fruitless.  Instead I just stared out the window as the train passed by abandoned houses, junkyards, piles of garbage, burnt-out-cars, homeless encampments, dumped washers and driers and refrigerators and other large appliances.  We use far more than we need and at what cost.  What is the cost of gluttony and sloth?

The train rumbled into the last stop.  I walked to the bus line and caught a bus that took me close to my house and walked home and knocked on the door.  My wife cried.  With tears down her check, she hit me and said: “why didn’t you call so I could come get you.”   She hates surprises and likes to plan everything out.  This surprise felt good.  She said: “look at how skinny you are, we are going out to an all you can eat buffet right now.”

It was good to be home and sit and hug my family.

 

 

I finished and no one was there

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Day 23 (7/21/2017)

Packed up, fed, and ready to finish, I started down.  I hit sunset camp around dawn, when the hikers were still snoring, well one was up watching the sunrise.    My thoughts were filled with finishing, how to get home, and I was 1 day ahead of what I told my wife.  How was I going to surprise her?  How was I going to surprise my kids?  I fantasized about homecoming as I proceeded.  I needed to refill my canteen and wash my socks so they could dry.  There was a small stream just after sunset camp.  It was cold, in the shade, so the mosquitoes were not bad at all.  I set my pack down and stepped across the stream which couldn’t have been more than a foot wide.  I walked upstream a little looking for a place to take a knee where I could wash things easily.  I spotted one on the other side of the stream and crossed again.  Stepping on some wet grass, my right leg went out from under me and I fell on my back twisting my knee.  STOP.  Body check: was I wet, could I move my feet, my legs was I bleeding?  I stood up.  Could I place weight on my knees.  Holy crap that was close.  One momentary lapse of concentration was all it took to create a situation that could have been disastrous.

It was time to regain focus.  I thought that since I was skipping cloud’s rest, maybe I could hit half dome instead.  It had been at least 20 years since I’d summitted the iconic Yosemite peak.  I passed a few meadows and entered into a sparse forested area, where I just had to set my pack down again.  In order to escape the mosquitoes, I set my pack down on a log and walked about 20 yards from it.  It was my only respite from those little goons.

Back to the trail and series of steep switchbacks down.  I passed quite a few people on the way up who were absolutely miserable with the up.  Keep going I told them.

I crossed a stream and entered into the remains of a great fire — The meadow fire. At first there were some lightly burned trees and shrubs, but after clearing a ridge, it was absolute desolation.  Very few ferns and shrubs.  Blackened spires were everywhere.  Despite the fire happening three years ago, in the three mile area I did not see one living tree, not even saplings.  But I did see Half Dome through the haze.

 

Closer and closer, and before I knew it I was at the junction.  I decided to go for it.  I sped up the gentle incline to the base of the ascent where a ranger checked my permit again to make sure I was cleared to ascend.  I stayed for a while and watched some hikers get turned away and listened to stories about the growing Mariposa fire.

I started up.  It had been a long time but I remember the steep switchbacks where one slip meant a long trip down the smooth granite.  What I didn’t remember was the switchbacks ending, and having to just scale up the rest.  I made it to the cables and was stunned to see how few people were there.  My last journey here was with my brother when there were easily 200 people trying to go up/down the cables simultaneously.  Now, maybe 25 people were making a go of it.

With a full pack, I grabbed some gloves from the pile, and huffed up the cables.   Sheer adrenaline got me up.  I wanted to take some triumphant pictures of me on Half Dome.

Instead, all I could think about was my wife and kids. Why was I even up here? What time was it? Could I make it to the bus by 6pm? I decided to go for it. I hustled down the cables, and scurried down the sheer face to find the switchbacks.

 

Down through the forested areas to the JMT junction. The rain and snow had clearly eroded much of the trail from my last visit. Instead of dirt path, it was mostly rocks that I had to navigate.  I sped past people, leaping from rock to rock, using my poles to keep me balanced.  The sand in little Yosemite slowed me down, but took the Mist Trail shortcut to get down farther.   To be clear there was no hurrying here.  The trail was steep, and for whatever reason, I got disoriented.  I found my self at the Vernal Falls headwaters.  I had been moving a solid clip and needed a rest.  I dunked my head in the waters and had a bar.  I couldn’t make sense of the map I had, but I continued down and captured on of the most amazing shots of my trip:

Stunned, I paused here. How amazing is this place? Just a few hours from the city, people could come here and witness such raw beauty. How lucky was I?
Back to business. Down.

As I hustled by people the sweat dripped off my brow and into my eyes. I became aware of my stink. My shirt was drenched, and I could tell as I passed people they were talking about how bad I smelled. I didn’t really care. Although their lotions, perfumes, colognes, and suncreens filled my nostrils. I hadn’t smelled anything like that for weeks. I was starting to reenter civilization.

The sun was getting low and knew I wasn’t going to make the bus. I slowed a little and tried to have some significant reflections on the trip as I sauntered down. No good. I smelled. I missed my family. How was I going to get home?

And then I was at the bottom. It was evening and no one was there.

I did a little silly dance, and with tears streaming down my face I kept telling myself I did it. I stared at the sign for a little and I thought about what exactly I had accomplished. With little experience I had hiked 280 miles, through some of the roughest trail conditions in a decade. Sure people were doing far more than me, but I did this. This could never be taken away from me. I needed a shower. I sauntered across the paved bridge to Curry Village Half Dome village. I passed a bus stop full of pleasantry dressed people smelling wonderfully. One of them had seen me on Half Dome and asked:

“Where are you hiking from?”

“I just hiked 280 miles from south of Mount Whitney.”

“Holy Shit! Can I buy you a beer?”

“No thank you, I need a shower, and I want to get home to my kids!”

He and everyone in the bus stop clapped and congratulated me. It was a small gesture, but it was the first time, that I felt someone acknowledged how much I had actually done. I don’t think they actually knew how much and how hard it was but I appreciated the gesture. I stumbled through the tented cabins turning heads. Children steered clear moving closer to the parents, people gave me wide berth as I stormed down the tented allies.

I came to the showers under the pool:
“Closed at 6pm, opens tomorrow at 7am”

I saw then and was broken. No way. I missed the bus and I don’t even get a shower. While staring at the sign a worker said, as if sensing my dilemma:

“The doors are not locked, no will stop you.”

I raced in to the empty wash room, found a stall and striped down. MMMMMMM warm water. MMMMMMM apricot shampoo.
For 15 minutes I watched the grime and dirt from three weeks of being on the trail go down the drain. I washed my hair three times and scrubbed my body twice.

I put on my pajama tops a pair of swim trunks I never wore. The rest of my stuff stank too much. I shoved my hiking clothes into a plastic bag and tied it into a knot and headed up to the lodge for food.

I walked in and perused the buffet a few times. I ordered three vegan entrees and picked up some orange juice and some fruit and two salads. I sat down to eat. I wasn’t hungry. I nibbled at my food as people around stared at their devices and computers. Then to my surprise Nosebleed walked up and gave me a hug: “I knew you could do it!” We talked for a while and caught up.

“Have you seen Strawberry? No one’s seen her and she’s over due.”

I had seen her, and told him where. He said that he would tell Ramses as Ramses was updating people via his social media posts.

I couldn’t finish my meal.  I had no appetite.  I went to lounge and found an open chair in a back corner.  Everyone was on a device.  Kids fought over chargers.  A group of nuns was showing an older woman on how to use some apps.  The light were blaring and I realized how far from nature I was….even though it was right out the window.

I tallied my trip accomplishments:

  • 19 miles on the day.  2100 feet of up and 7420 feed of down (what  a day!)
  • 43612 feet of gain.
  • 48677 feed of decline.
  • 2 failed ascents (Whitney and New Army)
  • 11 successful passes
  • 22 days straight of hiking.

Around 1opm (The latest I’ve stayed up in 3 weeks),  I saw nosebleed head off to the campsite.  I asked him to show me where the backpacker site was.  I setup my tent in the dark and went to sleep amidst all the backpacker noises.  Snoring, people shuffling about organizing their bags for the start of the hikes, conversations about food, and navigation.  I heard all the questions I had, and now had answers to, but I let them figure it out for themselves.  That’s part of the journey.

 

Almost, but not quite.

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Day 22 (7/20/2017)

My excitement about getting home got me up early.  I had finished all the major passes.  It was all down hill.  No more ups.  I had already decided to bypass Cloud’s rest and that would save me time.   My predawn start looked like this.  Morning mist with a mild smokey smell surrounding by birds chipping everywhere, no doubt heralding my triumphant finish.

Signs dotted the path instructing me to take an alternate path to help with restoration efforts.  I thought I was close, but in reality, I was about 6-7 miles out from Tuolome Meadows.    It wasn’t strenuous, but it long due to my heightened sense of almost being done.

At the Rafferty Creek Bridge I a ranger stopped me and asked for my permit papers. Wow.  The first time.  They also wanted to check my bear canister model.   I was getting close.

At the Lyell Canyon trail head I met two hikers hiking with kayaks on their backs.  Wow.

I stopped the Tuolomne Wilderness station to throw away some trash I had been picking up.  About 40 people were in line for walk up permits.  I walked around with a rather unbecoming smugness of: “Hey I already did it.”  It was there I found out about the Mariposa fire and that roads were closed.  The Lodges were closed which contributed to the low numbers of people.  7/20 and the Tuolome lodge was still closed due to snow damage.   I took the long walk through Tuolome Meadow looking in awe at Cathedral Peak

Due to it’s pointy nature, geologists reckon it was above the glaciers in the last glacier period, whereas most of the other peaks were under  the glaciers.  I came upon two bucks eating spring time buds along the river. Careless about my presences, they carried on with their business. Just 100 meters down stream a large family frolicked in the river. Throwing rocks, splashing each other, yelling, and completely oblivious to what was just upstream from them.

I crossed the meadow and then the street to start down to Little Yosemite, my planned stop for the night.  But something was wrong.  I was walking up.  Up?  It was supposed to be all down hill after Donahue.  I continued for about an hour and then stopped, exhausted.  More up?  I pulled out my map, and found that I had one more pass: “Cathedral”  What the heck?!   No one ever talked about this and it slipped my calculations.  I had to go over what I took a picture of in Tuolome meadows.  Oh the irony!  Arggggg.    I stopped every hundred meters.  Clearly my lack of nutrition and fatigue was catching up me.  Family after family of day hikers surged past me.  After every turn there was more up and switchbacks.   Finally after making past the cathedral lakes cut off, it leveled out.  I dunked my head in a stream, which felt incredible.  I felt so rejuvenated!   Up through the pass, I went forward to Finger point.  I passed a few senior hikers who were headed for upper Cathedral Lakes.  I gave them as much positive energy as I could muster.  The smoke became more intense as I descended down from Finger point.  The air became hazy and sun turned wondrous colors through the smoke.  The up put a serious damper in my stride and I was too far from Little Yosemite.  I started to look for a campsite and found one in Long Valley, not too far from creek side.  The site was sloped but I didn’t care.  My legs hurt from the incline.

I cooked dinner and tallied my daily progress:

14 miles on the day with 1170 feet of up and 670 feet of down.  I only had about 20 miles to go to the valley floor.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was almost done!

Into Yosemite

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Day 21 (7/19/2017)

In the morning the wind had dissipated.  Aside from the mountain chill, the fantastic beauty of thousand island lake shone forth in the morning sunrise.

Two passes to do today.  I fueled up and was off.   Island Pass came up much quicker than I thought, I just couldn’t find it.  No trail, boot marks everywhere.  Lakes were frozen and the signs were unclear.  I went up and high to get a vantage point.   In the distance I could make out an ice traverse around the mountain.  I shot for that.

That led me down to Rush Creek where I met Southbound Traveler.  We exchanged information and I started the ascent to Donahue Pass.   Open with few trees, marmots, squirrels, and chipmunks made their morning meals ignoring me completely.   Up alongside Rush creek I continued until the creek became submerged under ice.   It was time to cross some snow, then some rock outcroppings, then some snow, then some more rock outcroppings.   After rounding a bend I saw some people coming down from the summit.  They went in a much different direction, but by now, I knew that was the nature of things.  After a short ascent I was on Donahue pass.  My second pass in one day, and all of a sudden I was in Yosemite.  Euphoric and blubbering to complete strangers about how excited I was to see my girls and wife.  One hugged me and shared in my elation of almost being done.   There were quite a few people starting out their hike.  “I do this hike every year, I call it fat camp.”  “I’m a vagabond, just out wandering.”

I snapped this image of the promised land: Lylle Canyon

I could barely contain my excitement.  A few minor crossings and a lot of down.  At upper Lylle Fork bridge I came across a hiker with just a day pack.  I asked how much farther to the summit.  He said he was out of Tuoloume Meadows.  I told him it was a lot more up and was surprised how far from the day camp sites he was.   I left him and continued down and eventually hit the valley floor.  The path was well defined here and the mosquitoes were not too bad.  The first few sites were taken, but I kept going.  My goal was to get as close to Tuolomne as possible.  As evening crept in, I noticed the air becoming smoky.  It was a lot, and I figured it was due to the Happy Isle and Tuolomne campground folks and their evening campfires.
A deer in the trail signified my new campsite.  One of the small pleasures on the trail was how much of the wildlife just didn’t seem to care that I was there.  They’d look and then go back to what they were doing.  I hiked up the ridge a a ways following deer tracks through the mud to a flat area.  I pitched the tent, washed my socks, filled up my water bottle, and made dinner.  Sitting on boulder overlooking a creek, I panned right to find a giant turd wrapped in reams of toilet paper half covered by a rock.  How pleasant.   It was a gentle reminder that I was returning to civilization.  Returning to people who cared, but whose caring had obvious limitations. Limitations that were visible just near where I sat.

In the last light, I saw the day hiker from earlier.  Heading back towards where he came from.  This set my mind at ease as now I didn’t feel obligated to describe a missing person or look for one.

I did my nightly talley: 13.5 miles on the day, with 1641 feet of gain and 2781 feet of decline.  Trip mileage 250.  Every time I did this the overall mileage surprised me.

I started moving into reflection mode.  I had three mantras I would tell myself as I climbed and pushed forward:

  1. Each step is one more step closer to my girls.
  2. Each step up is one less foot of elevation of elevation I have to climb.
  3. I don’t get anywhere by stopping.

 

 

 

Thousand Island Lake – Almost Home

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Basking in the light

7/18/2017 (day 20)

I started out this morning just north of Johnston Lake outside of the Devil’s postpile.  Many of the night sounds (bear cubs, cats, owls, critters, etc), as I slept in off trail deep in a wooded area, kept me from a restful slumber.  My goal for the day was to get to Ruby Lake. A long gradual mosquito filled grind up started my day.  Up up up to Rosalie lake.  It was beautiful, but I didn’t stop as I was in a rush to get home to see my girls.  After Rosalie Lake there was a long and steep downhill full of switch backs to Shadow Lake.  Exhausted at the bottom I collapsed for 15 minute rest letting the mosquitos have their way with me. I started the climb out of the Shadow Lake basin up towards Garnett lake.  I had no energy going up these switch backs.  After every stop and turn, there was more up.  It was here that I knew I couldn’t handle much more of this long steep up.  I decided I would not attempt cloud’s rest, and focused my spirit on finishing.  I asked every person I passed how much farther and each said, quite a bit.  I reached the Garnett Lake pass at 10,000 feet, and descended a 500 foot ice sheet to a frozen Garnet Lake. After an ice traverse crossing an ice sheet that extended over the lake, I had more up.  I had to stop and rest four times in the short 600 foot ascent.  I consoled myself that Ruby Lake was near.  I descended down some switchbacks to Ruby Lake to find the sole camping space occupied.  I pushed on.  I traversed an ice sheet above Emerald lake where I saw that someone’s gear slid down to a rock outcropping.  It looked like a sleeping bag or a ditty bag.  I contemplated going down to retrieve it, but then wondered what if someone came back for it, which way were they going.  I opted to leave it there.  I ran into another hiker that I had been passing a few times.  We stopped and talked on an overlook to both Emerald Lake and Thousand Island Lake.  He complained how the shrapnel lodged in his shoulder made him ache. He shared with me how much hiking had changed his life and helped him when he came back to civilian life.  The day was getting late, and I still had no campsite.  He had to wait for a friend who was hiking slowly, so he wished me luck and I was on my way.  The campsites around Emerald Lake were closed and I pushed towards Thousand Island Lake.  The wind whipped off the lake blowing into my face.  The stinging wind in conjunction with the sun low in the sky made my face burn and lips crack.  I didn’t want to go along the lakeside path to find a campsite.  I wanted to stay closer to the path as the next day I was going to try two summits in one day and I knew I needed an early start.  Key to success in summiting a pass is camping as close to pass ascent as possible.   I started to ascend out of Thousand Island Lake basin towards Island Pass.  My legs were getting tired, I felt fatigued.  I hiked farther than expected, and there was a few thousand feet of elevation changes that were just too much for me that day.  At the first switch back, I decided this was it.  Rocky, sloped, windy, cold, no water….I didn’t care I needed to make camp.  I found a semi-clear area and decided this would be good enough.  I remembered my lesson from Star Camp (“Just walk a little farther off path…”) and sure enough there was a beautiful site.  I made came, started dinner.  The wind’s bluster nearly whooshed my tent off the mountain, so I piled some more rocks in my tent.  I looked out over Mount Davis and Banner Peak.  The vast expanse mesmerized me.  Words cannot capture how big the Earth felt in that moment.   Even though it was only three miles as the crow files to Banner Peak, I felt so small in this large basin.  Even though I saw people during the day, I felt alone and at one with where I was at.  I had climbed back up to 10,000 feet and the fresh air blew away all the mosquitoes.   I had so few pictures that captured the majesty of what I experienced everyday.  I rushed to take this picture before the sun went down.   The white haze in the picture is not an effect, it was visible.  This was the first realization that I would accomplish my task.  I would make it.  My body was weak, but I felt strong. Marmot poop be dammed!

From Here to There

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Looking North from Seldon Pass

Looking South From Silver Pass

Mid day 7/13/2017 – Mid Morning 7/15/2017

I had over 20 miles to go to get from one pass to the other.  I had 4900 feet of downs, and 4000 feet of ups.  Eight major river crossings lay ahead of me (West Fork Bear Creek, Upper Bear Creek, Bear Creek, Hilgard Fork, Mono Creek, North Fork Mono Creek, Silver Creek, Silver Creek Cascade).  Seldon Pass (10,800 feet) to Silver Pass (10,800).  Get to work, or go hungry.

After the best nap ever atop of Seldon Pass I look onward to my up coming task. Down a step descent to frozen lakes below, I saw the headwaters of upper Bear Creek.  This was the point of no return (not quite, I could walk down to bear creek, turn around and walk back, but who wants to descent two thousand feet, turn around and ascend right back).  Along bear creek, I would descend again bear creek ridge, then up to pass in the distance.  The mountain in the far left in the picture on the left.   A glissade down, and navigating through the wild and trackless wilderness, down again until the snow melts disappeared.  I then found the trail and walked along upper bear creak.  I came to upper bear creek crossing and walked up and down stream.  Down stream was steeper and more dangerous, up stream was deeper and wider.  Decisions decision.   I crossed, waist deep, and continued down.  At lower bear creek, the river was wide and fast.  I had heard there was a down tree people were using.  I walked downstream, crossed an inlet to an island in the middle of the river.  At the end of the island was a down tree that was three feet short of the island.  Travelers placed a hodgepodge of sticks and branches to make up the difference, but I was not going to put my weight on that.  I leaped to the top of the down tree and hugged the branches and trunk when I got there.  I made it across and walked along the north side of bear creeks gentle down ward slope.  The air was thick with mosquitoes, so I trudged on.  The water in Hilgard Fork was fast, and the slippery rocks almost caused a wipe out.  Just before the Bear Creek Junction ascent, I stopped for the evening and camped by the now raging bear creek.

The next day I awoke before sun up, packed my gear, skipped breakfast and was on the trail.  A slow trudge up to bear creak junction where I rested for a while reading notes carved in the dirt for fellow travelers.  Around the bear creek ridge, through quiet and open pine forest to the bear creek ridge descent into Edison Lake and Mono Creek valley.  The switchbacks on the descent were amazingly steep.  Some of the steepest I’d seen.  I paused by a waterfall to replenish my water.  I crossed the mono creek bridge, and then had to cross mono creek later by log.  More up.  It was hot and dry.  I stopped many times trying to catch my breath.  Thankfully there were less mosquitoes, so stops involved less swats.   I came to silver pass creek and pondered continuing, or jumping in.  I waded in allowing my feet to ease into the soft mud.  I sank up to my stomach in cold mountain water.  I ran my fingers through my hair.  Dirt and gritty greasy grime prevented my fingers from going through it.  I dunked my head once, then again, and again. Refreshed, I exited the river and started up the path again.  I got lost in the snot drifts.  The ice bridges over Silver creek were gone and I looked for a safe crossing point.  I found a log down stream and and a rock scramble on the other side.  A few zig zags and I confronted the Silver Creek cascade.  This was a challenge.  A narrow mountain path with a raging waterfall washing over it.  The path lie thigh deep under water.  If the water pushed me off, I would plummet a few hundred feet down.  I zipped up my camera, took my hiking boots off, and put on my river crossing booties.  I got wet, but I crossed it!  Can you see my ebullience?

Soaked, I climbed more switchbacks to the plateau before the silverpass lakes.  Back in snow, I was lost again. I followed silver pass creek looking for tracks and a cross point.  The sun was low and the temperature was dropping.  I found a site, setup the tent, and cooked some dinner.  I started early, and wanted again through the snow towards silver pass.  I found tracks, then lost them,  I couldn’t find the trail anywhere.  The tracks I did find let away from where the location of the trail on my map.  I kept falling in the sun cups.  At last I saw people descending down Silver Pass, and made a B line for that point.   I scurried up the mountaineering path and after an ice ascent and traverse I snapped this picture looking back.  In the distance I could see Seldon Pass.

From here to there: 20 hard miles. 8 hard river crossings.  Thousands of feet of up and down.  Lost in the wild more than once.  Thigh deep in snow and stomach deep in ice water.   Just another 2 days on the JMT…from here to there.