On my laptop, I had stored my JMT photos and video diaries, dramatic retellings of my hiking woes and wonders. In them, I recounted daily encounters, great and terrible, and spoke despairingly about my blistered feet. The photos—you’ve seen them all. Beautiful as they were, they were missing my voice. I had planned to create a video/audio slideshow to tell my story, a final note of closure for a summer experience that will remain in my memory much longer than any object will remain in my possession.

I am sorry to deprive you and myself of this. The photos that follow, which I pulled off Facebook, are poor quality and the videos, nonexistent. I will rely on my first love, my ability to tell you a story through words.

For now, I return to the final chapter.

_______________________

“You should have seen my quads this summer.” “And your armpits?” —me and a friend, discussing the physical effects of hiking for 21 days

Day 18: Some junction to Vidette Meadow

When we woke up, the British guys had already left. Hiking with Andy and Rob was a nice change. They threw some Type B personality into our mix, encouraging us to enjoy the scenery and take longer and more frequent breaks. It was awesome. Up until then, I’d been reading short stories I had mailed to myself with each resupply. Each time I got a new installment, I tossed the old stories. Toward the end of the journey, I was running out of reading material. Some nights, I resorted to the guidebook. Luckily, Andy was hauling two books across King’s Canyon National Park. One was as thick as my fist. That night, I allowed the enchanting prose in Let the Great World Spin wash over me and spin me to sleep.

Day 19: Vidette Meadow to Lake South America Junction

Forester Pass’s bite was almost as bad as its bark. Everyone warned us about the formidable 3000 foot snowy elevation gain. Then again, everyone warned us about everything.

We scrambled and postholed, and at one point I postholed while scrambling. The trail was indistinguishable. Like with other passes, we took directions from footprints, landmarks, and of course our map and compass. Though this meant we could avoid several portions of snow by steering toward non-snowy sections, it also meant we then had to scramble over the boulders covering the non-snowy sections. At one point, just after crossing a cluster of boulders, I stepped onto the snow toward the footprint path. Oh yes, I postholed. My weight shifted forward and the snow under my foot collapsed. I sunk down to my thigh and my foot lodged itself under a nearby rock. When I tried to lift myself, I couldn’t. The snow had packed itself back on top of my foot. A good ten or fifteen minutes later, after much digging and heaving by John and Andy, I was finally back on both relatively steady feet.

At the top of Forester Pass, I met a solo-hiking female geologist. So of course, I asked her about the rocks. The type of rock in this region, she told me, is sparkly which means it was formed by slow-cooling lava. The only way lava can cool slowly is if it remains inside the volcano. This means that this area (highest point in the contiguous U.S. included) was once underneath an entire mountain range that has fully eroded. This thought blew my mind. “All of this was once under an entire mountain range?”

Apologies to my geology friends if this graphic is completely wrong. At least it’s cute.

The whole day, I was tired. My left knee started hurting so I tried to only put pressure on my right knee. It was refreshing to hear John, Rob, and Andy banter and talk about home. Physically and mentally, I was ready to go to my own home.

Daily discoveries: Peanut butter in oatmeal. Enough said. Also, my sleeping bag has a pocket you can stuff clothes into so it becomes a pillow. This would have been a great discovery on Night 1.

Day 20: Lake South America Junction to Guitar Lake

Dun dun duhhhhn… the day before the big one. We hiked past flat, grassy meadows, bare redwood trees, and a wag bag pick-up box. We arrived at camp hungry and early and made a feast with almost all the food we had left, after which I felt indescribably disgusting and happy. All afternoon, the strikingly beautiful Whitney beast towered over us. Every time I looked at it, it took my breath away. Tomorrow, I thought, I would be on that mountain. The boys and I tried to locate the summit and trail winding across the mountain, but it was nearly impossible. We would just have to see where it took us.

Day 21: Guitar Lake to Whitney Portal

We woke up at one a.m. and headed out of camp at 2:30, hoping to see the sunrise from the top. When I stepped out of the tent, I gasped. Whitney’s surreal face was completely white, lit up by an almost-full moon. As we began hiking, we quickly turned off our headlamps and let the moonlight guide us. We kept pausing to look around us. To our west, the moon shone brightly on wisps of incandescent blue clouds. The silhouetted mountain faces below the moon were draped in shadows, contrasting Whitney’s white face. Occasionally, headlamps bounced into and out of view below and above us. We weren’t the only ones who wanted to see the sunrise from the top of the world. As it got closer to five a.m., the waking sun began to brighten the eastern sky. I was going particularly slowly. In some places, the trail was precarious, requiring that climbers climb over boulders and navigate ledges next to steep slopes. I knew I wouldn’t make it to the top by sunrise, so I told the boys to go ahead. At one point, I saw them waiting. As soon as I neared them, there was a break in the mountain through which we could see the sunrise. I had already accepted the fact that I wouldn’t see a Whitney sunrise. I did not expect this small blessing. The sight took my breath away. It was fantastic. We passed at least two other sunrise views on our way up. It was eerie to see morning to my east while it was still night to my west.

When I finally neared the top, I saw people headed down the trail. They were our friends! First I saw one of the boys who I didn’t really know. He was very nice to me even though I didn’t recognize him. To be fair, he was completely covered except for a tiny hole for his face.  Then I saw Moody, then a boy who had offered to give his food to his friend if they ran out. Ines and Tim greeted me with huge smiles. I talked to them for a while. (They were my favorites.) Then came Kyle, who I again thanked for saving my life in the river, and the boy who told great campfire stories.

Ines and the boys had slept in the teeny tiny hut at the top of Whitney. They kept warm with body heat and woke up to watch the sunrise.

When I finally got to the top, five miles and 3,000 vertical feet later, the light was beautiful. John, Rob, and Andy had been there for a bit. I took my time and checked out the hut, then headed for the real summit. We had been referring to the summit as the “top of the contigs,” a term coined by Rob and usually followed by “baby.” As I sat there, on top of the world, this is the only phrase that came to mind. I looked around at all I could see, which was everything. To the west, I saw the “fake Whitney” that we had taken pictures in front of a couple days before. To the northwest, I recognized nothing but knew Yosemite Valley lay some 200 miles away. Then I laid down and stretched out my arms out. It was the best feeling in the world. We had done it, and it was beautiful.

We took our time on top of the mountain. Took lots of pictures. Just sat there. The geologist sat on a rock wrapped in her sleeping bag for warmth. She’d made it by sunrise. She pointed out someone’s frozen pee on top of a rock and I took a picture. It was disgusting. We ate tortillas and peanut butter and cheese. I froze and faced my body toward the sun, letting its growing warmth sink into me. Soon, some rowdy day hikers joined us on top and cracked open champagne bottles.

We sat in the graffitied hut for a while and signed a rock. I wrote my name and a lyric from my favorite Santogold song in the register. Eventually, I was ready to go down.

Now that the sun was up, the trail down was heavily trafficked with east-side climbers looking to summit and make it back down in a day. The ones I encountered were friendly, encouraging, and amazing. I tried to return the favor. We ran into our British blokes, who we thought had left camp before us. As soon as they saw us going down Whitney, they exclaimed, “You cheated!” We explained to them that we wanted to see the sunrise but they wouldn’t have any of it. They laughed and chatted, and we caught up and said our goodbyes as a line of hikers accumulated behind them. They very courteously expressed their enjoyment to have met us and shook each of our hands in turn. I was very sad to see them go, but I know the impatient hikers behind them weren’t.

If standing on top of Whitney was the best feeling in the world, going down it was one of the worst. My knee pain was killing me. It was 11 miles and 5,000 vertical feet down to the Portal. The trail is notorious for the number of switchbacks—nearly 100. It never ended, and I was slower than ever, dragging it out. Eventually Andy and Rob went ahead to the portal while John, despite my urging him to go ahead, was suspiciously slow and “took breaks” whenever I did. Again, as usual, I almost broke down, mostly from knee pain and partially because I was exhausted and ready to be eating a cheeseburger at the Portal. Every time I though we were close to the bottom, we weren’t. I knew we were close enough to civilization to not worry about running my iPhone battery down, so I finally asked to borrow John’s headphones. After three weeks of craving music, I can’t tell you what a difference it made. It took me out of my pain and my head.

I smelled civilization in the form of a recently-showered, well-dressed family. Their scent was too clean to be of our kind. Within minutes, I saw signs and cars and people. The café smell overwhelmed the clean smell. Like a madwoman, I trudged towards Rob, Andy, and Alex, a friend who had come to pick us up. I collapsed and ate a cheeseburger as we watched birds dive-bomb our food. I sat at the table—grumpy, tired, and sore— and then in the car as we drove back to campus. We listened to music, I read a book, and I awkwardly tried to sleep in the middle seat.

I decided to surprise the friend I’d been crashing with all summer. When I got to her room (on the third floor; my muscles were not happy) she was gone so I left a note on her door, threw my stuff in the hall, and took an exceptionally long shower. She was surprised. I spent the rest of the evening eating a freshly baked batch of cookies and recounting my summer tales to a hall full of friends. When I mentioned I had woken up at one that morning to climb Whitney, one of my friends, aghast, responded, “What? You were on top of Mt. Whitney today?” In less than 24 hours, we had climbed up 3000 feet to 14,500; hiked down 5000 feet; and then driven to a near-sealevel elevation. It had been quite a day.

My journey ended much as it began, eating my friend’s food, sleeping in her bed, and falling asleep to the sound of her chatter. Then waking up and realizing she was still chattering. I was back to what was familiar, what was comfortable— home.

“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night, in the dusty recesses of their minds, awake in the day to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes to make it reality.” —T.E. Lawrence

___________________

-Lauri

By this point in our journey, my mind had accumulated countless random thoughts. (Duh.) Each time a clever or interesting one popped into my head, I would remind myself throughout the day in hopes of remembering that night so I could scribble it in my journal. Soon, my journal entries became a series of lists. Be proud, Rory Gilmore.

When John Muir was especially moved by “grand alpine vistas or the sight of firelight reflecting off lofty silver firs,” he would dance around shouting “Look at the glory! Look at the glory!” His friends refused to join in. (The Life and Adventures of John Muir by James Mitchell Clarke)

Day 15: LeCont Meadow to lower Palisade Lake

Things I’ve Noticed:

• Or, things I couldn’t help but notice: A deer kept circling our campsite last night. Deer as I drink my tea. Deer as I brush my teeth. Deer inspects tent; deer makes eye contact; deer walks straight towards me then turns away. Is it curious or domesticated? Can you domesticate deer? Oh dear.
• Many granite faces have black teardrops down the side. I suspect it’s from water runoff, but I think these mountains have had much to mourn over their long, long lives.
• Water flows so clearly here.
• I still haven’t figured out the right, “environmentally conscious” way to spit after brushing my teeth. (“You don’t spit. You spray.” -John)
• Flowers say hi to me as I pass. Sometimes I say hi back.
• I think I’m good at zoning out. This would explain my high pain tolerance, ability to ignore bug bites, and, mostly, ability to go down imaginary paths when the real one couldn’t be more obvious.
• I’ve lost weight. (Don’t tell my mom!)
• I miss music so much.
• I also miss my mom.

_______________________

I didn’t journal about Day 16 until Day 17 because Day 16, I wanted to die.

At 10:30 a.m. on Day 17, I lay on a rock under the scorching sun, solidified my tan lines (which would last until… now) and did nothing. It was a much-needed break—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Day 16: Palisade Lake to some junction

The Golden Staircase: We’d heard stories from fellow hikers. The name says enough. This path, leading up to Mather Pass, was steep and seemingly endless, but we beasted it. The night before, we’d camped near Ines and the boys, who spent a good part of the afternoon trying to fish in Palisade Lake with a tent. They were unsuccessful—although they swear they almost caught one.

Originally, we had planned to cross Pinchot the next day and meet up at the junction with Andy and Rob, John’s brother and friend who were resupplying us and hiking the rest of the JMT with us. We crossed Mather Pass early and decided, spur of the moment, to take on Pinchot Pass and see how far we got. So we kept trekking.

As we went up Mather Pass, I kept thinking, this should not be as hard as it is. I mean, we just went up the Golden Staircase. This should pale in comparison. I couldn’t understand why I was trudging even slower than usual and needing so many breaks. Our friends were a happy sight at the top of Mather Pass. They were an excuse to dawdle at the top and enjoy an especially long break. We headed down before them and hiked and hiked, and hiked. I didn’t ask John how far the junction was out of fear that it was far. As we descended lower, I kept hoping to be happily surprised by the junction sign. It never came.

I was tired. Frustrated. I could only think about my misery and how much I wanted to lie down. Why did John keep hiking? What kind of sadist was he? Was he also a masochist or did he just feel no pain? The sun crept down to the west. The junction was always just out of reach. I tried so hard to hold my tears back. We would never stop. We’d be hiking in the dark. My poor, poor feet. I wanted to collapse, but I couldn’t get the courage to tell him that I was not okay. I was dangerously teetering on the verge of a break-down.

It was about 8 p.m. when I cracked. I demanded a break. I sat down on a rock, tried to stop the tears (stupid coping methods) and gouged gluttonous amounts of peanut butter straight from the jar with John’s spoon. I vented at him, told him how tired I was, complained that we never talked, told him to stop telling me to do things. Then he threw up his hands and said something about how he was flipping out because without warning, after two and a half weeks of no similar behavior, I broke down and started eating all our peanut butter. “We might need that peanut butter!” he said. I told him “sometimes I’m going to break down” and he said, “We only have four days left. How many more times do you plan to break down?” He told me I should let him know if I need a break or warn him if I’m near a mental/physical collapse.

… He was right. (About some of it.) As hard as it is for me to admit when I’m not okay, I realized it wasn’t fair to him.

I was so angry at him but I was glad he vented right back at me (with wildly waving hands). He put things into perspective. The situation was so ludicrous it was comical. I still think it was inevitable. About a mile later, we reached the junction and set up camp in the dark. The next day, I looked at the junction sign and calculated our previous day’s mileage: 20.3 miles.

Day 17: some junction, all day

A “zero day” is what they call it. A day where you don’t hike at all. I tried out several different rocks, on which I lay all day soaking up the sun, journaling, reading, and listing. Andy and Rob would arrive that afternoon. Ines and the boys hiked past us. We said our goodbyes, knowing we wouldn’t see each other until summit day.

Things I Crave:

• a milkshake, from Dairy Queen perhaps. I don’t know the last time I had a Dairy Queen shake but that is exactly what I want
• a massage from my friend Winona and her fingers of steel
• a cheeseburger and pancake at Whitney Portal. (The pancakes are supposed to be twice the size of your face.)
• music!!!
• friends
• a cold shower (right now, because it’s hot)
• a hot shower tonight when it’s cold
• the beach and its warm, lazy sand
• toilets, beds, and other such luxuries
• cheese and peanut butter. As if our diet for the past two and a half weeks hasn’t consisted of this.
• a peach
• just food. lots and lots of food

I wandered over to a nearby campsite full of tents and struck up a conversation with two British blokes. One of them shared my name—Laurie—and I’m sad I don’t remember the other one’s name. When I met them, they were making tea. How British is that. They were running out of tea bags and had begun to share one bag between them both. We talked about the passes we’d just crossed and Laurie showed me a huge gash covering his right calf. Going up Muir Pass, he’d postholed into the rushing water beneath the snow.

They’d both served in the British military and gone adventuring around the world. They told me about hiking in Europe, which apparently doesn’t require carrying such heavy packs. The JMT was quite difficult for their 50- or 60-year-old limbs, they explained. With all the weight from both their bodies and their packs (60 or 70 lbs each, they said), they postholed very easily, hence Laurie’s Muir Pass souvenir. We talked about healthcare in the U.S. and Great Britain, and about what I wanted to do with my life. They were sarcastic, chatty, and wonderful. I wanted to adopt them into my family.

Rob, John, and I eye-feasting off our food resupply. photo courtesy of Andy

I left them with a promise to return. When I reached our tent, I saw Rob and Andy had just arrived and brought with them an entire grocery store! It was Christmas! They had peanut butter and Honey Bunches of Oats and trail mix and tea and cheese and lots and lots of oatmeal. They even brought luxury food that would only last a few days. That night we feasted on sausage, potatoes, Ramen, hot chocolate, and marshmallows.

Things I am Happy with Here

• my sleeping bag (my cocoon!)
• nature noises
• brushing my teeth in front of a majestic peak every morning and night
• waking up early and not dreading getting out of bed. “Look at the glory! Look at the glory!” -JM

Now I return to the trail, procrastinating homework in order to relive my summer adventure.

Urban Dictionary’s definitions of JMT: Jedi Mind Trick, Jamaican Mean Time, Just My Type

Day 11: Rosemarie Meadow to Muir Trail Ranch

I sat down in a creek on our way to Muir Trail Ranch, our second-to-last resupply halfway through the trail. Muir Trail Ranch was thoroughly disappointing: no bathrooms, no showers, and only one friendly worker. The hiker boxes were decent, but John and I had more than enough food in our resupply package. We met up with Ines and the Boys near the ranch and then camped near them. We considered heading to the nearby hot springs but decided against it—a good decision, I realized when it started raining. This was our first real weather. When the rain let up, the Boys made a large fire which we sat around, listening to stories until late.

Day 12: Muir Trail Ranch to McLure Meadow

It rained all day. We’d been warned about Evolution Creek, which was supposed to be very wide and deep. I was still shaken after my last big creek experience. The bats in my intestines were at it again. When we finally got to Evolution Creek, we saw a sign that said if the current was too fast, hikers should walk up the trail a bit to a wider, calmer section. We trudged through the rain until we reached the spot. The creek was huge and daunting but significantly calmer. We hadn’t seen lightning or thunder for a few minutes, so John was ready to cross right away. I was way hesitant; I hadn’t yet built up my courage. I didn’t feel good about it as we approached the creek. “Let me try it out and see how it feels,” John said. Ok.

Moments after he stepped into the creek, lightning flashed. Immediately I knew: I was not ready to cross the creek.

John rocketed out of the water when he saw the lightning and we headed into a forested area. As we sat, the lightning and thunder died down, then disappeared. The rain fell relentlessly. “The longer we wait, the rougher the current will become,” John reasoned with me. I knew he was right but I was still terrified. “Not yet,” I said. How would I know when I was ready, and when it would be wisest to cross? Would the two happen simultaneously? When should I listen to my terror and when should I listen to my brain? I had no answers; I just hoped one would come. My watch ticked and the rain continued to fall.

In the distance, two middle-aged women bustled up to the creek and began inspecting it from different locations. John and I realized they were about to cross and they meant business. We emerged from the forest, greeted them, and helped them scout a good section to cross. They went in with gusto, took every step deliberately, made it three-quarters of the way across, and turned back. The current was too strong. “Some vacation!” one yelled back to me when they were back on our side. Again, we looked. John tested a spot and fell in. We helped pull him out, but his backpack and clothes had been submerged in the water. Not until later that afternoon did he finally stop shivering.

We found a new spot. It was deeper but smoother. They jumped in and made their way across without a problem. After seeing them do it, my confidence shot up. Later, John pointed out they had major advantages over me: they were taller and weighed significantly more. At the time, though, I felt if they could do it, so could I. John and I went in together. Though it was deeper than any creek we’d crossed yet (it was almost to my chest, and freezing) it was very manageable. The current didn’t put up much of a fight, though I still used John as a human blockade against it.

We got across that section and another branch of Evolution Creek. We were close to the campsite and all I wanted to do was dry off and be warm. We got to the campsite and went by the ranger station to ask about predicted weather conditions and conditions on Muir Pass, which was our next big challenge. A woman had been helicoptered out of the pass that day because she’d gotten lost, he told us. Weather was expected to clear up, and if we crossed the pass in the morning and navigated smartly, we’d be fine. He told us it would take all day, that there were about six straight miles of snow and slush. We’d been warned about Muir Pass by PCT hikers who had postholed into the snow and into the runoff water below the snow.

But for now, I was happy. We’d crossed our last big creek and it had stopped raining. The sun greeted us and dried our clothes and cold bodies. Then it set, offering a beautiful apology for being absent all day.

Day 13: McLure Meadow to Evolution Lake

I woke up dry and content. I didn’t want to move.

Despite scattered storms, we got to camp early. Just before we arrived, we noticed two familiar faces walking towards us—the PCT hikers we met in the Angeles Forest, Gordon and Kevin! We had told them we might run into them on the trail and here they were. Seeing Gordon and Kevin reaffirmed my idea of a small hiker world. We chatted about the pass, our blogs, and what they’d done since we last saw them. They warned us about the ferocious marmots on top of Muir Pass. One had tried to chew through Gordon’s pack as he sat on it. Their aggression was even noted in our guidebook. They’re fat and fast! Lightning-marmots.

Marmot in action!

My mind soundtrack during the previous few days: “Here Comes the Sun” -Beatles / “Rain” -Mika / “Blue Skies” -White Christmas / “Landslide” -Dixie Chicks

Day 14: Evolution Lake to LeCont Meadow

Muir Pass! Not as bad as expected. John did posthole into the runoff water once, but he didn’t hurt himself. I “sat down” in the snow several times. Standing back up with my pack on was quite difficult. We saw Tripod guy and gear guy hit the trail as we were eating breakfast. When we were packing up camp, our friends (Ines and the Boys) passed us and waved. A few other hikers hit the trail early, and several were trailing behind us. It was going to be a crowded mountain. One man we passed even remarked, “It’s like an LA freeway up here!”

After a laborious trudge, we made it to the top. The hut at the top was so cool!! It was built to provide hikers shelter from unexpected storms (a father and son we’d passed told us they’d used the hut the day before when thunder and lightning broke out) but many hikers choose to camp there. We didn’t see any marmots and the weather was sunny and beautiful. My blisters didn’t hurt; the mosquitos weren’t bad; we didn’t cross any creeks. It was a good day. We chilled with our friends on the pass and may or may not have climbed to the top of the stone hut. The view was spectacular.

-Lauri

Day 7: Red’s Meadow to Deer Creek

*

The Dutch girls saved my life, or my feet.

In the morning, John and I headed to the Red’s Meadow cafe for breakfast. As we waited for our food, I bought athletic tape at the store and wrapped up my troubles. Walking to the restaurant, and throughout the day, I could barely feel my blisters.

After a huge pancake-egg-hot chocolate breakfast, we picked up the resupply package we’d mailed to ourselves and began sorting. Mashed potatoes, granola, and trail mix all went into our packs. Unnecessary olive oil packets and extra toilet paper went into the hiker box. (Thru-hikers fill hiker boxes with excess stuff they receive for other thru-hikers to rummage through and take as they please.) We bought a block of cheese and fresh fruit from the store. I’d been craving fresh fruit for days. Nectarines=bliss.

Before we sorted the food and supplies, I chatted with a PCT hiker eating Sour Punch Kids outside the cafe. As we talked, the shuttle pulled up and another PCT hiker got off, greeting him like a long-lost friend. Though both were hiking the Pacific Crest Trail solo, they apparently knew each other. Within the next hour, at least seven solo hikers arrived. Each time, the PCTers would spot them in the distance, scream their trail names, and cheer their arrival. I started chatting with the group and asked how they all knew each other. None of them started hiking together, but they passed each other so often they got to know each other. These hikers weren’t strangers. They got along like a group of loud, boisterous best friends, a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants reunion. They asked about other hikers on the trail, alluded to inside jokes, and knew each other’s trail names even if they didn’t know each other’s real names. (One girl’s trail name was “Hmm.” I never learned whether other hikers actually called her by that name or gave up in the confusion and difficulty of shouting her name with pursed lips.) The strong sense of a community among the PCT hikers blew me away. It even stretched to the Appalachian Trail, which some of them had hiked before and where they also seemed to have formed a community.

I watched this scene develop the entire time we sorted and packed. As we did this, Gear Guy and Tripod Guy, who we’d met at Tuolomne, ambled into Red’s. Then we were greeted by Ines, a girl we’d played tag with over the past few days—she’d pass us, then we’d pass her. And there it was: our very own community. Just as the PCTers made unlikely friends on the trail, so had we. And this wouldn’t be our last encounter with them.

We hiked a few miles and reached our campsite early. It was an easy, relaxed day. The Dutch girls set up camp near us too. I spent the night chatting with them and found out they were giving up the trail. It was difficult figuring things out from Holland, so they’d made Red’s their first and last resupply point. They were planning on carrying 17 days worth of food—all the way from there to Mt. Whitney. By the end of Day 7, they’d realized it would be nearly impossible. Their packs were far too heavy. I was sad to see them go, but they planned to do shorter hikes in Mammoth and head to LA to enjoy the beach and the end of their summer break.

Day 8: Deer Creek to Cascade Junction

I knew that today my sister Cristi would be on her own 4-day summer adventure to Yellowstone. I also knew she was a bit opposed to the gross sanitary precautions rangers urge you to take (regarding toilet paper and the monthly curse). I laughed to myself, the cruel sister/human being that I am, as I wondered how she was faring. It made me feel better to know she was going through the same thing I was going through, that she suffered as I suffered. I realized that, selfishly, I want people to share in my misery, which is one reason I love the PCT and JMT hiker community. Everyone was in the same vote. We all had blisters, we’d all traipsed through snow and water, all gone up steep, miserable paths and woken at ungodly hours to do so. Any complaint we had would surely be met with complete understanding from another hiker. I loved it.

Day 9: Cascade Junction to Vermillion

I found my Paradise Spot #2: a rock partially submerged under an aqua-clear lake. Another easy day like Day 8. We crossed Silver Pass, which was very steep at one point but otherwise fairly simple, and arrived at the ferry stop almost three hours before it arrived. I laid on the rock and let the water lap at my feet as I napped. The waves were my sound system, letting me fall into my own world with no pressures, no pain, and most of all, no hiking.

After a long, long time, the ferry’s horn woke me from my world. The small boat carried us with several other hikers and fishers to the Vermillion Valley Resort, where we were greeted warmly and offered access to a hiker box, a tent cabin, and toilets. That night, I chatted with more PCT hikers. When I asked one why he chose to hike 2500 miles, he told me “There’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now,” that hiking for six months is infinitely better than working a 9-5 job in a small space under fluorescent lighting. I found myself almost agreeing. My 9-5 job had quite a large radius. I did my work by the light of the sun and never got restless. I despise being restless. It’s something special to be in this situation, I thought.

That night, a bear rattled the bear box outside our tent cabin. It wandered past the workers’ trailers and the resort owner spent a good hour chasing it away. I never woke up.

Day 10: Vermillion to Rosemarie Meadow

I ate breakfast at the cafe with John, Ines, and a woman hiking the PCT. Throughout the journey, I’d been shocked to find so many solo female hikers. I told them how much I admired them for doing it on their own, although neither of them had planned to do so. The PCT hiker had started hiking with a friend and when he ditched her after the first couple hundred miles, she kept going. “I can’t stop now,” she said. Even if this wasn’t the way she wanted to do it, she refused to surrender her goal. I realized even though these women were essentially on their own, which takes incredible mental strength, they weren’t hiking alone. The PCTer was frequently hiking with, camping near, or passing other PCTers in the community. Ines kept playing tag with us and with other JMT hikers. Eventually, she latched onto a group I called “The Boys,” two merged groups of six college-aged boys we played hiking tag with too and who she finished out the trail with. This community takes care of its own. Knowing this eased my mind tremendously. I’d seen people go out of their way to help us and knew if I was in a dire situation, they would likely do the same.

That “dire situation” came much sooner than expected. That afternoon, we were warned about a difficult river crossing by northbound hikers. “Stay together,” one told us, eying me gravely. We’d crossed so many rivers by this point that we no longer bothered to take our shoes off. I wasn’t too intimidated by the prospect of a difficult crossing but I certainly took it seriously. When we came upon it, we stood on the bank for a while strategizing the best section to cross. We could see the current was strong. When we decided on a route, we each grabbed a trekking pole and began inching our way across. A little ways into the river, as I waited for John to find a stable path next to me, I looked up and saw Ines snapping photos of us. Oh Ines. I was highly amused and glad she was documenting our intensity. She moved out of my peripheral and I didn’t see her again until I was on the other side.

photo by Ines. A few steps from the middle and the "hard" part.

I was halfway through the river. The water was to my waist and splashing to my chest. The current was unforgivingly fierce. I slammed my pole into the ground and tried to move my right leg further to the right. It wouldn’t budge. I tried again. Nothing. I pushed with all my force. Again, nothing. I was stuck.

I could not foresee how I could get across. The rocks under my right foot were slippery and uneven. It took every force in my body just to stay still much less fight the current. I grunted and used all my momentum to throw my right leg out. The water scoffed and pushed me back a few steps. I tottered across the rocks and regained my balance, faced my body upstream, and pushed forward again. I was frozen. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.

The panic alarm was going off inside my head though my brain remained calm and focused determinedly on centimeter-ing my way across. I took a breath and another. By this point John had worked his way back and stood in front of me trying to divert the current. I have no idea how long I stood there, frozen, trying to calm myself, trying to get the courage to push again, pushing and failing, and returning to step one. I was terrified.

In the corner of my eye, I saw The Boys saunter across the river, packs on their heads. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I thought to myself. I half remember them whistling but I’m sure I made that up. They dropped their packs and came back to help me. There’s nothing so comforting as a strong hand reached towards you. I’ve come to appreciate it tremendously. No matter how much I want to do things on my own, sometimes I can’t.

I sat on the bank and semi-hyperventilated as they helped Ines, who I soon discovered had fallen into the river. It took several minutes for my body’s uncontrollable shaking to soothe, for my breathing to return to normal. Ines’s leg was bloody from scraping it as she threw herself onto the bank after she fell in, but she was all smiles. She’d gone into the river knowing it would be difficult, fallen, scraped her leg badly, pulled herself out, crossed again, and stood unshaken before me.

I aspire to her bravery and the bravery of so many hikers I’d met, yet I knew that what I’d just done was bravery beyond measure too. I’ve learned bravery mostly from the women in my life- my sisters, my mom, my grandma. They’ve shown me their strength, adventurous spirits, and courage to walk into the unknown. I’d faced my beast head-on, on my own but not alone.

-Lauri

Check it out!

*edit* Also, check out all the JMT photos I posted on the Facebook page here. Get a sneak peek at what’s to come!

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“What is this disgusting yellow crap I’m coughing up? Should I be concerned?” - Brett Maune, hours after creating a new JMT speed record of 3 days, 9 hours, 58minutes

Day 4: Tuolomne to Lyell Forks Bridge

Lyell Forks is the most beautiful river I’ve ever seen. The water is clear as glass and the blue-green that I picture when I think of Caribbean waters. The fish were so happy with their home they were jumping for joy. John would have loved to fly fish in the river, he said. Harness some of that joy.

In the morning, I called Cristi and my parents from a pay phone at Tuolomne to inform them of our decision to keep hiking. The day was fairly easy, mostly flat. The bats in my intestines fluttered a bit knowing we would be crossing Donohue Pass the next day. John and I decided that as soon as we crossed Donohue, we would achieve Superbad status.

We crossed our first river. We carefully took our shoes off, inched slowly across, and arrived victoriously on the other side. River-crossing amateurs, ha. We had no idea then what would lay in store for us as we journeyed further down the JMT.

That afternoon, I tried to convince myself of two things. First, that we would be fine crossing Donohue Pass. There were plenty of hikers on the trail, we’d been reassured by numerous people, and we had the wisdom and bravery (I hoped) to turn back if it was too bad. I would need to be constantly alert, though. It would not be a good day to head down imaginary trails, as I sometimes do. “We need two heads tomorrow,” John had told me. “Not one and sometimes one.” Focus, right. Second, I needed to convince myself to stop being so miserable. Misery, though often unavoidable, is sometimes a decision. My blisters hurt and I hated going uphill, but most of all, I was pushing myself so hard to keep up with John’s pace that I was missing so much—stunning sights, interesting people, thoughts that centered around anything other than how miserable I was. I didn’t want to miss out, but I also wanted to make our intended mileage every day. And I didn’t want John to be frustrated or burdened by my slow pace.

The first, I achieved to some extent. The second would take a very long time to make progress on.

Day 5: Lyell Forks Bridge to Thousand Island Lake

We were prepared for a difficult day of trudging through snow and ice along a hidden trail. It ended up being fun.

Panoramic view from Donohue Pass

As we crossed the pass, we weren’t hiking so much as navigating. Once we reached the long stretch of snow, the trail wasn’t visible at all. We took note of cairns, footprints, and peaks and watched the paths the hikers ahead of us chose. There were at least five separate groups visible on the pass when we crossed, some ahead of us and some behind. We got to the top, where a wooden sign marked the entry into the Ansel Adams Wilderness, and we celebrated. We were officially Superbad. As we stood up to leave, John suggested I lead the way. I turned and walked the opposite direction of the trail. *Sigh* I’d been doing so well at navigating.

That night, we camped at the stunning Thousand Island Lake. The water, a perfect mirror to the surrounding beauty, was only interrupted by tiny islands that dotted it. This lake was absolutely the most beautiful thing I saw in the first half of our trip and one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. We chatted all night with an uncle and nephew camped next to us and awoke to a breathtaking view of the morning light reflected on the lake’s glass ceiling.

Day 6: Thousand Island Lake to Red’s Meadow

This day was hell. Let me repeat: This day was hell. At no other point on the hike did I consider the possibility of dropping out because of pain. My blisters were excruciating. Every step I took, pain shot through me as the raw skin on my heel nuzzled my shoe, as the moleskin on my big toes rubbed out of and back into place, as the blister that swallowed my pinkie toe inflated and deflated. I do not exaggerate when I say this pinkie-toe blister was the same size as the toe.

Pain is normal, I kept telling my body. Accept it. Keep walking.

This pain was not normal.

I recited poems and song lyrics in my head to distract me. I soon noticed a trend in the themes.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Rage, Rage against the dying of the light

-Dylan Thomas

If I were dead and buried and heard your voice,

Beneath the sod, my heart of dust would still rejoice.

-Mary Shelley?

I can say I hope this will be worth what I give up.

-Santogold

After 16 miles of pure misery, we reached the Devil’s Postpile, where we had planned to camp. We got there and couldn’t find the campgrounds at first, then discovered all the sites were taken. I did not want to walk a step further. I used the bathroom (glorious toilets!) and sat down. Please, don’t make me move. We were going to have to hike to Red’s Meadow, our next resupply point and what I believed to be a three or four mile hike. Miserable me.

A shuttle was stopped to take visitors to other campsites. As I used the pay phone, John asked the driver if the shuttle went to Red’s. It did, and it was free and about to leave. Beautiful shuttle, my saving grace! We hopped on and rode all the way to Red’s, where we were deposited and soon directed toward the backpacker’s campground. Red’s was a resort with a store, a cafe, friendly workers, and free hot springs–fed showers. I’d arrived in Paradise.

From left: My blistered, mangled feet; the glorious shower house; outside the cafe at Red's; the PCT/JMT hiker register; new foot wrappings, courtesy of the Dutch girls.

The backpacker’s camp was one site all the backpackers shared, and all the campers that night (about eight of us) were JMT hikers. We camped next to a young couple who had just received their resupply package, which was filled with far more food than they could carry. They offered us anything and everything. That night, we feasted on sausage, Wheat Thins, yogurt-covered raisins, and espresso beans; listened to Bob Marley on their portable iPod player; and were entertained by great stories from them and other JMT hikers around a communal campfire. I noticed two Dutch girls at the site had wrapped their feet in athletic tape. I told them my blister woes and they suggested I wrap my feet. They were not planning to take off the tape until they came down Whitney. I decided I would buy tape from the store the next morning and try it. I had nothing to lose.

After dinner, I headed for the shower house. The water is scaldingly hot, I was warned. Perfect.

The inside of the shower house was sketchy. There was no light, only my dim headlamp hung from a hook on the wall to illuminate the dank, mysteriously stained bathtub. The water was hot; the water pressure, decent. I first washed my clothes, then hung them from the hooks. I stepped across the damp wooden boards, into the bathtub that in no other circumstances would I stand within five feet of, and finally under the steaming stream of water.

It was the best shower of my life.

-Lauri

The JMT. 211 miles beginning in Yosemite National Park and ending on the highest mountain in the contiguous United States, Mt. Whitney. 21 days of stunning sights, daily frustrations, fascinating people, almost-breakdowns and actual breakdowns, hunger and soreness, feeling like crap and feeling on top of the world. I can give snapshots, but I can’t sum it up in a few sentences. It’s just too much.

So I’ll start from the beginning.

I kept a daily journal which will be guiding my blog entries. I’ve broken the journey down into segments, each of which will have a blog entry, and each entry will be littered with some of the amazing images I was able to capture.

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“I think,” said Christopher Robin, “that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan’t have so much to carry.”

Day 1: Happy Isles to Half Dome Junction

Catching up on the World Cup under retro blue Virgin America lights

July 5. We’d had a great Fourth of July. We took a super retro and cheap flight to San Francisco where we crashed a pool party with my sister Cristi and watched fireworks from Coit Tower at night. The next day, we drove to Yosemite Valley, where the John Muir Trail begins. By chance, the backcountry office had permits available to start that day—two days earlier than we’d expected. I noticed a sign hanging above the ranger’s head: “100% snow above 9500 ft”. “Do you have ice axes?” the ranger asked. No. “Crampons?” No. “Gaiters?” No. It’s pretty bad out there, he said. This was a record-breaking snow year. While early July is usually the beginning of the summer, it had just become spring at that elevation. You will be on steep passes, he said, and you’ll need to know how to self-arrest or the consequences could be dire. I didn’t understand half the vocabulary he used (Gaiters? Ice axe? Self-arrest?) I had no experience hiking in snow, and if you look at the elevation profile John posted you can see a good chunk of the JMT is above 9500 feet. I flipped internally, Cristi flipped externally, and John (though I think he flipped a bit too) came up with a plan: We could hike to Tuolomne Meadows, which was three days away; talk to the rangers there and the northbound Pacific Crest Trail hikers, who’d just come through these passes; and then decide whether to continue with the rest of JMT.

I felt sick. I had been reading a book that described the feeling you get before an adventure not as butterflies in your stomach but as raging bats trying to claw their way out of your intestines. That was it. This was clearly an adventure, but would it be a fatal adventure? I knew JMT would be hard, but I never seriously considered it could be life-threatening.

Wait. Breathe. Process. We would talk to the rangers and decide at Tuolomne.

We started hiking at 4 P.M. with 6 uphill miles, 3000 feet elevation gain and only a few hours of sunlight to go. Somehow we made it to camp before nightfall. I’ve managed to block most of that hike from my memory but there’s one moment I remember distinctly. Minutes after we started hiking, a couple stopped us and asked where we were going. (Our packs were huge and the heaviest they would be for the entire journey: We were carrying 9 days of food and 4 liters of water each.) We explained our situation and the guy could not stop marveling. “JMT! You guys are an inspiration to me! I wish I had done something like that when I was younger!” He spoke with such enthusiasm, smiled so widely, and made me feel so warm and fuzzy. “It’s never too late, right?” he said, nudging his wife. She chuckled. When we finally parted ways, I couldn’t help smiling. What we’re doing is pretty awesome, I thought, if we decide to do it.

mutilated backpack

We made it to camp at the Half Dome Junction where we were greeted by a mutilated backpack, probably stuffed with food for bears and abandoned by Half Dome climbers. John set up the tent and I volunteered to get water. The map showed a creek just a little bit south of us. “Take your headlamp,” John said just as I turned to leave.

I started walking south and soon realized this would be much trickier than I’d anticipated. The bushes became denser and taller and I was soon confronted with a mass forest of indistinct, intertwined, impenetrable bushes. There was no way around them and if I tried too hard to find one, I would end up far from our campsite. So I dove in. It was just like the scene in Snow White when she’s running through the forest and the trees are pulling at her hair and ripping her clothes, except Snow White could see the ground. I was surfing down an ocean of bushes. Every once in a while, I would come to a small clearing where I would look back and try to find distinct landmarks. “Mass of bushes. Funny-looking tree.” Next clearing: “Mass of bushes. Funny-looking tree. …I’m doomed.”

By the time I got to the stream it was dark. Thank God, thank God, thank God I had my headlamp. The image of the mutilated backpack flashed through my mind and I began singing boy band songs to calm and distract myself, and perhaps to scare away bears? (Not because *NSYNC or Backstreet Boys are scary but because my singing voice is.) I filled up our Nalgenes and Camelbaks with water and turned back. There was no way I would find the same path up, but I knew if I kept heading north I would eventually run into the trail, which I could follow to our campsite. After a long, long time, I heard John calling my name. Yes! Follow the voice! I yelled back and finally emerged like a madwoman with twigs in my hair and clothes.

We ate dinner, probably mashed potatoes, and decided to stick to our original plan to climb Half Dome the next day. It’s not on the JMT but we’d allotted an extra day for it. As I slept, the bats in my intestines calmed down a bit.

Day 2: Half Dome Junction to Sunrise Campground

That morning we climbed—a more accurate word than “hiked”—Half Dome. Approaching the dome was so cool: A string of human bodies clung to wire cables and hauled themselves up the steep slope. It took forever to reach the top because it was so heavily trafficked, but it was worth it. The most enjoyable part, perhaps, was not having a pack.

The rest of the day was hellish. A combination of altitude, anxiety, and uphill slopes made my lungs tight and my breathing, quasi-asthmatic. Of course I am always Katz going uphill.

Day 3: Sunrise Campground to Tuolomne Meadows

The hike to Tuolomne

The stunning Cathedral Peak

Hiking through Tuolomne Meadows

The hike felt very long though most of it was downhill. When we reached Tuolomne Campground, we headed straight for the ranger station to ask about conditions on Donohue Pass, the super snowy pass we were warned about by the Yosemite ranger. The Tuolomne ranger was far less dramatic and seemed much more realistic. There is lots of snow up there, he said. Trekking poles will be very useful but an ice axe is probably not necessary. You can’t see the path at all so be prepared to navigate, he told us. Notice lakes, distinguish mountains, and figure out which direction you’re supposed to go. Go through passes and cross big rivers in the morning before much snow has melted. (Melty snow=much postholing, where you take a step and unexpectedly sink into the snow. Melty snow also=heavy flowing rivers. Both of these are bad.) He described what he knew of the conditions and advised us to talk to PCT hikers camped at Tuolomne, so we headed to the backpackers campground.

When we got there, all the camping sites were taken, but two guys also hiking the JMT offered to share their site with us. One of them was hauling a tripod and nifty camera all 211 miles yet considered himself an amateur photographer. When you’re carrying everything you need on your back, every ounce counts. That’s serious dedication to a hobby. The first question the other guy asked us was, “How heavy are your packs?” The rest of the night, he would chime in with tidbits of information about the weights, prices and features of his well-researched gear. Amusing, odd, nice guys. A PCT hiker came over and chatted by the fire the rest of the night. I, of course, proceeded to quiz him about conditions on Donohue Pass.

Though it rained that night and was unbelievably cold, we had an incredible hot dinner of my mom’s pre-made tuna-fideo, sun-dried tomato soup. I thought about everything the ranger, PCT hiker, and other hikers we’d met had said and listened to what my gut was telling me. If we got to a point where we felt uncomfortable, we decided, we would turn back. But for now, we were going to keep trekking.

-Lauri

*edit*

I’m back at a computer now, so here’s the video I attempted to post. (see comment section)

(click on the post to see it fully)