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

Paris – the End of Silence

✈️  In this special episode: Paris – the End of Silence Sometimes, connection arrives in the most unexpected form—not through grand gestures, but through a quiet voice carried by technology. In a Paris apartment, I finally understood my family’s words . . . and felt my mother’s presence in every sentence. Since I was a little boy, France has been both a beautiful and frustrating paradox in my life. Every six to nine years, my mother, Mauricette, would take my brothers and me back to La Rochelle to visit our French family. The moment we arrived, the air would fill with a sound I loved but couldn’t share in—the rapid-fire, musical rhythm of French. My aunts, uncles, and cousins would warmly sweep me into hugs and kisses, their words flowing like a lovely melody I couldn’t quite catch. I’d smile brightly, trying to communicate with my eyes and hands. But as soon as we stepped off the plane, my mother and her sister-in-law, Joséan, started talking animatedly. They were gone, chatting h...

Pushing the Pause Button

In this episode, Pushing the Pause Button: Stepping Off the Treadmill Hello, friends — If you're reading this, I'm already off the grid. Today begins a much-needed vacation, and for the next few weeks, On the Fly is taking a break right along with me. For a long time, my inner voice has said, 'Keep every commitment, no matter what.' That's meant early mornings, long days, and a calendar packed with posts, podcasts, and projects I couldn't seem to say no to. I've been trying to be the tireless workhorse—but that kind of grind doesn't end well. Lately, I've noticed I'm not quite myself—shorter fuse, louder sighs, and a few too many grumbles (Lori deserves a medal). That's when you know it's time to hit pause before the spark burns out. So, I'm stepping back to rest, recharge, and remember what it feels like to not live by the next deadline: no tech, no to-do lists, just some space to breathe. Thank you, truly, for all your support and ...

Noirmoutier: An Ocean Between Us, Gone in a Moment

In this episode, Noirmoutier: An Ocean Between Us, Gone in a Moment. Sometimes love waits half a century for its moment — and when it finally arrives, time doesn’t stand still; it disappears. The moment I stepped off the train in Nantes, it felt like time froze. There she was — my cousin Michèle — waiting on the platform, arms waving desperately. When we finally embraced, the fifty years that had passed between us disappeared in an instant. The melody in her voice was the same, but softer than I remembered. We both shed tears of joy that only come from love long overdue. “I’m so happy you are here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.   Thank goodness for the translation app on my phone, because the conversation began immediately — fast, fluid, and unstoppable. The Frenzy of Catching Up As we drove for about an hour to the tiny town of L’Épine on the Island of Noirmoutier, the words kept tumbling out. Michèle and her husband, Alain, are the most gracious hosts — but my new challe...

Our Journey to Avignon

🇫🇷 Lost in Transition: Our Journey to Avignon (Part 1) When everything that can go wrong—does—sometimes grace still finds you. Our Monday morning trip began on the quiet island of Noirmoutier , where salt marshes and sea breezes whisper of simpler days. From there, our early morning drive was uneventful; we arrived at the Nantes station with plenty of time to spare. From Nantes to Paris Montparnasse, everything went smoothly—so we thought, until it didn't. That's when things started to unravel. If you've never traveled the Paris Metro , imagine a vast underground maze pulsing beneath the city—corridors twisting into one another, trains roaring in and out of the dark, staircases that rise and fall like riddles. It's efficient, yes—but only if you know where you're going. We had over an hour and a half to make our next train to Avignon —plenty of time. Or so we believed. We needed to reach the Gare de Lyon station, where our TGV (high-speed train) was headed south...