The third and final stretch of the Sierra began as any other—try and get a hitch to the road the hike back to the trail. The hitch was easy enough though the ensuing road walk back to the trail was exhausting. Still with eight days of food and all of our winter gear, boots still a size too small and killing my feet, trudging uphill on pavement was miserable.
When we got to the PCT we immediately stopped to filter water. Moments later we heard voices and Gaper’s group came around the trail. The stopped to chat and during the course of our conversation told us about an alternate to the PCT that might possibly avoid some water crossings. Sunkist airdropped me the maps then the group took off.
A swollen Tuolumne River.
It didn’t take long before we had our first creek crossing. Then another. Then another. Three creek crossings in a single mile of trail. This would be the theme of the next hundred miles.
A bridge over the Tuolumne River—or rather over part of the Tuolumne as wading was required to get on and off of the bridge.
Being now mid June much more of the trail was actually open. Our best estimate was that two thirds of the trail was still completely covered by snow and the remaining third was split between submerged trail and relatively dry trail. Not ideal but we hoped that meant we’d be able to move a little faster.
The first few days weren’t so bad. We crossed Donahue pass into Yosemite and met the first John Muir Trail hikers we’d encountered during our time on the trail. This was the last time we’d be above 11,000 feet. Looking north we could see Tuolumne Meadows with the Tuolumne River snaking through the snow free valley far below.
I did not understand at this point how hard the trail was about to become.
That night we camped just before a raging creek. Overnight the water level fell in excess of two feet allowing us to cross on a log. Shortly thereafter there was another stream we would have to ford so we took our boots off and made our way across. On the other side we dried out feet, put our boots back on, then walked another fifty feet only to find another creek. We’d gone less than a mile all morning so I said screw it and walked straight through.
My boots would not dry out again.
Claire crosses McCabe Creek.
That afternoon we had to cross McCabe Creek and Return Creek. We met McCabe at the junction of the two. We scouted out the trail quite far upstream but there was no great spot to cross so we crossed in somewhat mild looking rapid. Water was moving quickly but it was relatively shallow. With ease we made our way across. I talked some smack to the creek about how nature “ain’t got nothing on me.”
Next up was Return Creek. Water was swift here but with far more intimidating sections up and down stream we decided to cross.
I went first. As I side stepped across the creek the water was dark and I couldn’t see the bottom. Feeling around blindly for a solid spot to step I made my way, little by little, farther across the river. The current was strong—my trekking poles were shaking violently and I was hinged forward trying to resist the force of the water crashing into me. About three quarters of the way across there was a large wave coming over a rock. At this point the water was above my belly button and it took everything I had to stay upright. I stepped to my left and suddenly the water ripped me down.
In 2017 two PCT hikers passed away in river crossings. This fact had been oft discussed in the desert and here I was now, being swept downstream by a raging river. I thought to myself, “don’t be that guy. You’re not seriously going to let this river kill you.”
I opened my eyes and tried to grab a rock but it was too slick so I started to swim as hard as I could towards the shore. It wasn’t long before I was close enough to grab onto a tree branch. I popped up to see Claire with her hands on her head in disbelief.
Smiling, I gave a thumbs up. How could I be upset? I was alive and I’d made it to the other side. I unpacked my bag and laid everything out to dry. My legs had some scrapes and I’d chipped a few of my nails. My GPS and knife were gone and I could see water sloshing around inside my camera.
Forage, Mule, and Claire cross Return Creek.
On the other side of the river Claire, Mule, and Forage searched for a better place to cross the creek. After finding a spot it took them over an hour to make it across with Claire getting knocked down multiple times.
Once across they dried out a bit and I packed my belongings we were off as if nothing had happened—we still had to make our miles.
Claire evaluates Paiute Creek.
The next few days saw more and more river crossings. At times we walked miles upstream to find an appropriate spot; other times we tried to cross, getting in excess of four fifths of the way, only to decide it wasn’t doable and turn back. Sometimes, with a wide and slow moving body of water, we had to swim. At the unnamed creek in Stubblefield Canyon we swam across only to find ourselves, wet and cold, in a thunderstorm once on the other side.
Forage crosses the deep Wilma Lake outlet on a submerged log. Normally the outlet can be crossed dry on the log bridge.
Dorothy Lake.
When we went over Dorothy Pass and out of Yosemite it was as if a switch had flipped—suddenly the water went away. The trail went from hundreds of small creeks to almost none. We had one small creek to cross but it didn’t even get to my knees. Knowing the worst of the water crossings was an incredible relief.
As we hiked out towards Sonora Pass it became real that the Sierra section was over. Behind us stood dramatic snow-covered peaks but in front of us we only saw green, rolling hills. On top of the ridge and only a few miles out from the pass we stepped off the snow and onto a dry trail. The snow wasn’t done yet but it was clear the Sierra was—we’d finished the most challenging section of trail in a particularly challenging year. Whatever lay ahead of us would not compare to what we’d already accomplished.
Forage and Claire lead the way towards Sonora Pass on a dry section of trail.
At Sonora Pass my mom met us. She had a new GPS so that I could continue to let her know each day that I’m still not dead.
We gave her our bear canisters, crampons, and ice axes as we bid farewell to the Sierra.
Leaving Bridgeport was easy. We had Tahoe in our sights and it was only a few days away. Our pace over those next few days increase by almost fifty percent.
In Tahoe we again took zero after zero. My dad smoked brisket and we ate pint after pint of ice cream. I walked into town weighing 183.3 and walked out weighing 196. Still light but doing my best not to be.
Forage journals in camp near Tamarack Lake.
Desolation Wilderness was incredible. Graham and I were last there in September with a completely snow free trail. I was here again with a mostly snow covered trail but it was still relatively easy going. Temperatures were moderate enough that I cowboy camped daily for the first time since the desert.
Forage writes in the register at the Peter Grubb hut.
Forage forages.
What’s more is that since we have more snow free trail there’s tons of spring growth so Forage has been finding all sorts of food for us to eat. There have been ferns, cow parsnip, loads of onions, and many more.
We have only had to get our feet wet once in the drainage tunnel under I-80.
Forage wades through water beneath I-80.
The ensuing days had even less snow. Our most recent day, heading into Sierra City, was a twenty two mile day with less than a hundred yards of snow. That’s basically a snow free day! It’s been five hundred miles since the last snow free day and my joy at the prospect of more snow free days cannot be overstated.
Sierra Buttes from camp.
Hiking into Sierra City brought us to our lowest elevation since the desert. We found ourselves in much denser forest.