Sometimes life hands you lemons. And the best laid plans of mice and men (according to John Steinbeck) sometimes go awry. And on this trip our plans did go awry, at least somewhat. We didn't get ten days on the trail; because of a reawakened injury in Katie's left knee, we got "only" five. And we hiked "only" a little over 50 miles too, instead of over 130.
But they were five days in the heart of the High Sierra, among some of the most magnificent scenery on earth. We stuck together and explored the trail some more. We ate well (as we tried some new foods), enjoyed the views and talked and read and did crosswords (three of us working on two at a time). Katie (the strong, strong-willed teenager) and I (the incorrigible dad) feuded some. We even laughed a bunch (but, really, on this last subject, should a father draw the line when one daughter makes the other laugh so hard that pudding comes out her nose?).
As we drove down Highway 395 we worried a little about thunderheads building up over the crest. No-one likes to get soaked and cold while hiking. This is what we saw as we drove up to Horseshoe Meadow:
But it wasn't raining when we parked, only sprinkling, so we got going at 1:30 with the best of hopes:
The 3.8 mile hike to Cottonwood Pass was actually nicer (cooler) because of the clouds. We got periodic cloudbursts, but they gave way to sun and we dried out immediately. Once at Cottonwood we were back on the PCT:
It's a short distance from Cottonwood to Chicken Springs Lake. Once there we got truly pounded, first by rain and then by hail (at least the hail doesn't soak in):
Then came a decision that may have affected the rest of the trip. Less than five miles isn't a long way into a hundred-mile plus trip. So, do we make camp at the lake or do we continue on knowing it's almost nine miles to the next certain water? With some daylight left and energy too, we decided to move on:
That last view is out over a plateau called "Siberian Outpost," and the map shows some streams and tarns that we'd pass. We thought there'd be at least a slight chance of water, but because of the low-snow year, the whole area was bone dry. So we took our lumps and kept moving.
The hiking was easy, but soon the light started fading and then it was dark. We kept at it with headlamps, but Katie started to fall behind me and Tricia. We'd wait and she'd catch up. Finally, at about the fourth "wait," I asked Katie what was wrong: "My knee is killing me," she said. Oh. Shit. That's not good.
In 2009 Katie hurt her knee when the left side of a trail collapsed and left her involuntarily in the splits. We thought she'd healed. Then, last September she had to sit out the first few weeks of volleyball because the same knee acted up. We thought that had healed too. We did a 43 mile family backpack in April and she was fine (but that didn't have very much up and down movement). We'd even taped the knee before we started this trip using a special tape in order to give extra support "just in case." And now, here we are 11 miles out, and two more mandatory miles to go to water, and her knee is killing her.
Well, we made it to "camp." In the dark, still damp, tired and hurt. The girls set up the tent by headlamp in the only flat spot we could find, and I got water. Here's a photo of where we camped that I took by the cloudy light of the next morning:
It had been a tough hike, but we'd expected that. Setting up camp and cooking and eating were chores, not pleasures, but we knew that might be the case when we decided to go on; and we got it done. We'd finally gotten back on the trail, well set up for the planned nine more days in the heart of the Sierra. But were we really? I don't think I slept more than an hour that night from exhaustion, and, obviously, from worry: here we were 13 miles into the wilderness but in weather that was unpleasant at best, and, critically, with an injured 16 year old. The question went through and through my mind: What to do from here?
I could only wait until morning when we could decide.
