Skip to main content

Sierra Reflections 2017

“Good morning - how far are you going up the trail,” was the question I asked a lone hiker.

“Oh, she paused, I’m just out for a stroll.”

“Brendan, did you see that woman hiking alone way up here?”

“I did, that was probably the oldest person I’ve ever seen hiking these mountains.”

“What do you think, 83 maybe 84 years old?”

Incredible, I thought to myself, pausing to reflect, at how physically demanding the past few days of climbing switchbacks, scaling boulders, squatting lakeside to filter water, and simply doing the daily chores it takes to wilderness backpack in the Eastern Sierra’s.

Owens Valley
It was early Friday morning, our forth day in the Sierras, headed home. This octogenarian had climbed over 600 feet of switchbacks to a dramatic view of the Owens Valley, near Bishop CA., destination, Grass Lake.

It was day three of our 2017 Sierra adventure. Finally accumulated to the elevation of over 11,000 feet Brendan Laurs, and I were descending to the trailhead at North Lake after spending two nights at Upper Lamarck Lake  in the Sierra’s near Bishop California.

This year we had finally arranged to go mid-week. It was Tuesday, Sept. 12, 2017 when we arrived at our first overnight High Sierra destination, Parchers Resort.

“You guys are in Cabin five," said our host, at Parchers, as he handed us the key. "It’s a brand new cabin, we had over 20 feet of snow here last winter and had to replace two cabins due to the old ones collapsing.”

“We took a big hit last winter, our kitchen also collapsed and we’re in the middle of remodeling it now. So, we apologize, there are no breakfasts until that remodel is complete.”

“Thanks,” and we walked up to our cabin.

“Wow! This is really nice,” as we entered. Beautifully done, hardwood floors, two bedrooms with bunk beds to sleep four campers, full kitchen, bathroom, full shower, and a front porch to sit and enjoy the sounds of Bishop Creek as it gurgles by.

The next morning we separate our gear, weigh our packs to balance the load, check out, and drive up to North Lake Campground trailhead (9,350 ft.) to begin our trek up the mountain.

“This trail is not very long (about three miles) but lot’s of climbing, said Brendan. Shouldn’t be too bad.”

It was about 9:45 am when we began our ascent. The first 30 minutes the weight of the backpack was uncomfortable, you stop many times just to catch your breath in the high elevation, but once you’ve warmed up and get into a rhythm you are absorbed in the beauty of nature all around you. It’s late summer and the Aspens are just beginning to turn a golden color, the wildflowers still in bloom from the summer rains, the air smells so fresh and clean. Ahh, the magic of the mountains . . . 

The weather was ideal for climbing, cool temperatures, clear blue skies spotted with puffy white clouds. Our hike took us to the end of the Lamarck Trail, an elevation of 10,918 feet. However, getting to our campsite was no easy task. The huge rock formations surrounding the lake formed vertical monoliths. We scaled a ridge then slid down it’s backside to an epic spot with a western view of the lake and Mount Lamarck rising over 13,417 feet. It was about 2:00 pm.

“Four hours, that wasn’t bad at all. We saw, what, three people during our hike? This is great!"

We pitched camp and it began to rain. A gentle rain that cooled the valley. Temperatures began to drop. We would experience 36 degrees that night. However, the skies cleared, we gazed into a starlit black velvet sky watching the Milky Way appear with millions of tiny twinkling lights. It was perfect.

What would the morning bring? We could only imagine . . . 

Click here for Part Two

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

When Fear Becomes the Default

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...

Sweden Called . . . They Said No.

Have you ever wondered about  the Nobel Prize? Let's look at Where Genius Meets “Wait—Where’s My Medal?” Every October, the Nobel Prizes are announced, and humanity pauses to celebrate the "greatest benefit to mankind." And every year, like clockwork, a specific type of person appears online to complain—at length—that they were robbed. (Well, maybe this year more than most.) The Origin: A Legacy of Guilt The prize exists because Alfred Nobel, a Swedish inventor, had a crisis of conscience. Nobel held 355 patents, but he was most famous for inventing dynamite. When a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him the " Merchant of Death, " he decided to buy a better legacy. In his 1895 will, he left the bulk of his massive fortune to establish five prizes (Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Literature, and Peace). Because he was Swedish, he entrusted the selection to Swedish institutions, such as the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. The only outlier...