Sierra Solitude
Discovering the wild side of California's Yosemite National Park
While advocating its ordination as a national park
in 1890, John Muir described Yosemite as, “glorious, and sure
to be crowded with joyful and exciting experiences…days spent
sauntering in the broad velvet lawns by the river, sharing the pure
air and light with the trees and mountains, and gaining something
of the peace of nature in the majestic solitude.”
These days, Yosemite is more likely to be crowded
with something else. Over 3.5 million people visit the park every
year. Although it is well managed and absorbs these vast numbers with
little tarnish on its world-renowned beauty, its solitude has not
been so well preserved.
To many, it is still the perfect park; home to some
of the grandest and most accessible of our continent’s scenery.
But with each of my visits over the years, I have felt that I was
missing out on the feeling that so inspired John Muir and his kin.
Fighting like a scandal-hungry paparazzi to get a photo of Vernal
Falls on a busy holiday weekend is not my idea of an inspirational
experience. But there is an alternative.
On September 3rd of 1964, the Wilderness Act initiated
a new era in land management. The plan was to create a place where,
“…in contrast with those areas where man and his work
dominate the landscape, (a wilderness) is hereby recognized as an
area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by
man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” The
act prohibits mechanized equipment, structures, roads, commercial
enterprise and even aircraft landings. They were to be places that
were free of every vestige of modern civilization, somewhere that
is still as the first explorers and pioneers would have seen it.
Two of California’s most beautiful wilderness
lands – The Hoover and Ansel Adams Wildernesses – directly
abut the eastern border of Yosemite, just a couple of hours drive
from the valley itself. They occupy tens of thousands of acres of
lofty snow-covered peaks, glacier-polished granite gorges, dazzling
mountain lakes and peaceful alpine meadows. Their many winding rivers
are home to an abundance of rainbow, golden and brook trout. Deer,
black bears, coyotes and bobcats patrol the quiet forests.
Yet, relatively few people visit these areas, put
off perhaps by the images that the term “wilderness” engenders
in the mind. It sounds remote and unexplored, even a little dangerous.
Many assume that it takes a wealth of backcountry knowledge and camping
experience even to contemplate entering such an area.
However, this is far from the truth. Most of the
areas described in this article can be reached without the necessity
of a night spent in the wilds. And if you are willing to spend even
one night camping out, a vast area of unparalleled scenic beauty will
open itself up to you.
It was on the week of the 4th of July that my companions
and I set out in search of some Sierra Nevada solitude. We wanted
to do some serious hiking, but none of us had been out of our comfortable
city surroundings in a long time. So, by way of a warm up, we opted
to start with a short day trip in the Hoover Wilderness.
Our first destination was Barney Lake. We started out in Mono Village
(a small camping resort about half an hour from the town of Bridgeport),
following the path of Robinson’s Creek through a wide valley.
Throughout the morning, the river dictated our route through the landscape.
Equally, its ever-changing temperament shaped our moods.
At first the river was wide and shallow, babbling
through a fragrant meadow of sagebrush and chamise. The trail was
flat and easy to follow, winding its way through a field of cheery
yellow mule’s ears that grooved slowly to the rhythm of a gentle
mountain breeze. The whole place had a very civilized feel. We could
almost have been taking a stroll through a carefully cultivated garden.
However,
everything changed as we began to climb the valley headwall. The bucolic
atmosphere of the meadow was supplanted by a landscape of soaring
granite walls and huge stone monoliths, topped by the jagged silhouettes
of Kettle Peak and the Sawtooth Ridge. The river became a fierce torrent
of whitewater, rushing energetically up its banks, barging aggressively
between large boulders and hurling itself from cliff tops with little
regard for what lay below. If the waterway we had known before had
been stately and respectable, then this one was young and reckless.
We too underwent a change. We bounded excitedly up
the trail, our enthusiasm rising with our heartbeats. Beads of sweat
gathered on our brows and a pleasant warmth began to rise in our energized
leg muscles. We devoured crisp mountain air by the lungful. It scrubbed
out our insides and blew the dust from our brains, giving our bodies
a long overdue spring-cleaning.
By the time we reached the top of the valley, close
to the shores of Barney Lake, everyone was a little tired. Fortunately,
we found the river in the perfect mood to receive us. Its pace had
calmed drastically and it now meandered lazily between the banks of
soft green grass that grew at the lake’s outlet. Cooling shadows
flowed over us and the formerly dazzling sun now only winked at us
timidly through a dark canopy of trees. Finally, we arrived at a beach
of soft orange sand that was lapped by the sapphire-blue waters of
Barney Lake. Our hot shoes and clammy t-shirts came off immediately
and the cold water of the lake welcomed us with open arms.
Barney
Lake was constructed in the classic Yosemite style. Bare walls of
glacier-polished granite rose up from hidden depths. High above it
was the imposing figure of Crown Point, its twin peaks still laced
with a coating of winter snow. Beyond the lake, the trail continued
all the way up to the crest of the mountains. 4 miles farther on was
Peeler Lake and the remote Kerrick and Matterhorn Canyons, jewels
of northern Yosemite. It was a perfect slice of mountain magnificence,
and we had it all to ourselves.
After a quick lunch at the waters edge, we set out
to enjoy what nature had bestowed upon us. One of us climbed the sheer
wall beside the lake and spent the afternoon gazing out over the long
sweep of the mountains from a precarious ledge. Another braved the
glacial chill of the water, diving into the lake’s inky depths
and sunbathing on the secluded far shore. I selected one of the tall
granite domes high above the water as my ideal spot. I slid around
on the smooth rock, found a spot where the contours of the surface
perfectly matched the shape of my body, and lay back for a well-earned
siesta.
We returned to Mono Village after an idyllic afternoon
and proceeded farther south to the town of Mammoth Lakes – one
of the eastern slope’s most popular resorts. Mammoth Lakes is
one of a new breed of year-round mountain resorts, popular with skiers
and boarders in the winter, and hikers and fishermen in the summer.
It is also the perfect starting point for exploration of the Ansel
Adams Wilderness.
This time, we had a slightly more adventurous trip
planned – a fifteen mile round trip with an overnight stay on
the shores of Thousand Island Lake. The lake, and the Ritter Range
beneath which it sits, was a favorite of John Muir. He included the
whole range in his original plan for the boundaries of Yosemite. Only
to his great chagrin was it later removed.
We began our trek at the pleasant Agnew Meadows campground,
just north of the Devil’s Postpile National Monument. There
were three routes we could have taken – the popular River Trail,
the scenic John Muir Trail, or the rugged Pacific Crest Trail, also
known as the High Trail. We were feeling pretty energetic and fully
warmed up after our previous day’s excursion, so we elected
for the toughest route along the Pacific Crest.
We began to question our boldness as we left Agnew
Meadows. A long series of switchbacks traced their way gradually up
the side of San Joaquin Mountain, disappearing over a ridge far above
us. They weren’t joking when they called this the High Trail.
Fortunately, spirits were high. After just an hour of climbing we
arrived at the top of the ridge and from then on coasted high above
the valley, enjoying the magnificent panorama of the Ritter Range
that lay before us.
The
trail led us through a lush carpet of green fed by a myriad of sparkling
streams. It was early July, and a shameless a riot of colorful wildflowers,
alive with the buzzing of bees and the flutter of butterflies, covered
the slopes. Broad-leaved lupines filled whole meadows, their long
purple flowers reaching skyward like the jeweled fingers of aristocratic
ladies. The tiny crimson heads of Lemmon’s Indian Paintbrushes
popped and fizzed like fireworks, while the trumpet-like heads of
penstemon and scarlet gilia blew a silent fanfare to our passing.
Delicate silk chalices and frenzied purple afros - mariposa lilies
and swamp onions - dotted the banks of each river.
We spent the better part of a day moving through
this peaceful landscape. Finally, in late afternoon, the first sighting
of Mt Banner heralded our arrival at Thousand Island Lake.
The
lake itself was unlike any other I had seen in the Sierra. It was
about ¾ of a mile long and ¼ of a mile wide –
like a shallow sea dotted with tiny, forested islands. Its calm waters
were as colorful as an artist’s palette: sapphire blue at the
depths, cobalt at the shallows and a regal purple where spits of orange
sand protruded out into its body.
But it was Mt Banner – a 12,945 ft slab of
volcanic rock – that dominated the scene. Rising some 3000 ft
from the lake’s shore, it cruised though the blue sky like an
ocean frigate with all sails to the wind. Its presence was one of
effortless might and majesty.
To our tired eyes it was almost too good to be true.
We wandered awestruck along the lakeshore, unable to consider anything
other than the spectacle before us. It was at least half and hour
before we even remembered that we were supposed to be looking for
a place to spend the night.
Fortunately, campsites abounded by the lakeshore.
We found a wonderful spot high above the water that was sheltered
by the trees and had a perfect view of all that surrounded us. We
dined as the sun went down, excited about what the following day would
bring.
I awoke early the next morning and wandered down
to the lakeshore to watch the sun come up. Everything was different
in the pallid pre-dawn light. The mountains were gray and wan, looking
flat and unreal on the horizon. The formerly dazzling waters of the
lake were dark and still, like a mirror of polished obsidian.
However,
all this began to change as the first rays of sun bled up the San
Joaquin Valley from the southeast. Warm fingers of light caressed
the jagged face of the mountain, spreading their ardent luminescence
across the full extent of the range until it glowed from within like
fire trapped within a glass prism. It was John Muir’s “Range
of Light” at its best.
The hour following sunrise was my favorite time.
The calm, heavy air held us in a soft, yet icy embrace. Long cold
shadows and bands of warm light streaked the ground as the sun filtered
slowly through the forest canopy. Each tree was a halo of gold around
a dark, crystalline interior.
As the temperature rose, clouds of flying insects
filled the air. They poured from every tree, forming great twisting
clouds in the first rays of sun. It was a magical effect, as if vortices
of gold dust were spinning through the forest. However, the aesthetic
was soon lost when one of the clouds spun my way and a thousand bloodthirsty
mosquitoes began a blitzkrieg on my exposed flesh, forcing me to retreat
within my mosquito net.
While it is perhaps the most beautiful time in the
high Sierra, the month of July is also the time when mosquitoes reach
plague proportions. Each morning was the scene of a fierce and bloody
battle, in which we were the prize.
We spent the following day exploring the lakeshore
- a labyrinthine network of narrow streams and tranquil lagoons. Each
pool was a rhapsody of color and form. Irregular boulders of orange
and gray protruded through glassy surface of the water. Beneath them,
each submerged stone and pebble formed a subtle mosaic in a thousand
variations of blue. Monumental slabs of white granite rose up from
a verdant carpet of grass. Each one was splattered with countless
varieties of colorful lichen – black, red, green, orange and
yellow – as if Jackson Pollock himself had been set loose on
them.
As
we climbed beyond the lakeshore, everything began to slowly change.
We had entered the transition zone between the grassy fringes of the
lake and the stark, exposed face of the mountain. – the border
of life and death. A wide grassy valley gave way to the rocky chaos
of a glacial moraine. Soon all vegetation was gone, excepting the
occasional dwarf pine, hunched over from its annual burden of snow
and the constant scouring of the wind.
Progress slowed as we continued to ascend. The rapidly
dissipating atmosphere provided meager fuel for our exertions, every
breath left us wanting more. We picked our way over an ocean of loose
boulders, interspersed with narrow couloirs of brilliant snow. The
edge of each rock was as sharp as a knife and each face was as smooth
as glass.
Finally, at just over 11,000 ft, we stopped to admire
the view from our new vantage point. The whole of Thousand Island
Lake was spread out before us – a splash of azure on a white
granite canvas. For the first time since I had arrived, I became aware
of other people. A handful of day-glo tents flecked the lakeshore
like tiny gems. A pair of naked bodies splashed about near a sandy
beach. A lone fisherman waded into the shallows, casting off for his
evening meal. At the far shore, a train of packhorses, as tiny as
ants, was arriving with day-trippers from Agnew Meadows. Each person
was enjoying their own perfect wilderness.
Once again, the words of John Muir came to my mind:
“Camp out among the grass and gentians of glacier meadows. Climb
the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow
into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own
freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will
drop off like autumn leaves.” Finally, I understood.
