Mother Nature Has Her Way with Intrepid Hikers

One fine Labor Day weekend, the husband and I set out for a well-planned, weeklong backpack. We would pick up a trailhead at Devils Postpile near Mammoth Lakes. Maybe visiting a monument named for the Devil was our first mistake.

Anyway, our plan was to hike a loop over California’s “continental” divide, trek along the Minaret Range and thread between twin mountains Banner and Ritter. On the other side, we’d take a couple of days to relax and camp at Thousand Island Lake. To complete the loop, we’d pick up the Pacific Coast Trail back to Agnew Meadows and our starting point.

We should have had an inkling that this trip was star-crossed when our VW Rabbit’s gas pedal suddenly stopped responding as we exited Tuolumne Meadows, down the steep Tioga Pass grade towards Nevada. We coasted our way into Lee Vining.

The gas station mechanic determined it was probably the fuel pump, but couldn’t help us and so called an acquaintance in Mammoth Lakes who specialized in Volkswagens. Perfect! A big yellow tow truck took our Rabbit and us on down the highway. We told the VW guy that he had a week to work on old Bessie, because we were going to make a 25-mile or so loop through the Minaret Wilderness and come back along the PCT. That we shared this much information later gave me great comfort. We then hoisted our packs and took a taxi ride to the trailhead on the other side of Mammoth Mountain.

The first couple of days were great, although I think the distance we had to cover (10 to 12 miles per day with well-stocked packs) was a little more strenuous than I had imagined. Bright spots, however, cropped up at the right times, such as fantastic scenery or the underground spring whose water didn’t require purification. What’s more, we didn’t run across very many people, considering that it was Labor Day weekend. I remember a couple of fishermen who had hiked up from the west out of Fresno and a pack horse group. Hugh and I looked at each other: now THAT’S the way to backpack—with coolers and folding chairs! Yet, as we ate our re-hydrated beef stroganoff at a beautiful riverside spot, complete with a deep pool fed by a wide waterfall, we were in our own backpack heaven. This feeling of complete retreat was what it was all about.

The next night we set up camp in a tiny alpine meadow at the head of the river canyon. Towering above us were the twin peaks of Banner and Ritter. Beyond this wall lay the Shangri-La of our journey—Thousand Island Lake. We set up camp and enjoyed the end of the day, leaning against the solar-heated granite walls that formed the end of the canyon. Hugh took a scouting foray to find our trail for the next morning. We would zig-zag up between the two peaks and come out the other side to the north. He reported that he had found the ducks (little stacks of rock markers) to lead the way. All was good. We made dinner and were in our bags by dark, the stars twinkling like a scatter of gemstones above us at this 9,000-foot elevation.

The next morning, the narrow tent was sagging strangely along its sides, pressing into our sleeping bags. Hugh pushed the tent wall on his side. A slushy sliding movement ensued. The realization hit. It had snowed during the night! Still in our bags, we peeked out the front flap. There it was in surreal actuality—white stuff all around us and gently falling flakes.

Hell’s bells. Who knew that the first week in September would hold the potential for a snowstorm? While contemplating our predicament we got dressed, bundling up in all of our available layers. We cleared off a rock and boiled some water on the trusty Bluet stove. We ate instant oatmeal, cursing our luck and wondered how to proceed. Hugh thought we could find our way over the rocky pass. Being the more cautious half of our partnership, I nixed that idea. Risk frostbite, get lost and then have our bleaching skeletons be found by intrepid hikers next July? Panic has a way of fueling one’s imagination, but at the time I felt I was merely being prudent.

We ended up doing what any young couple would do: we got back into bed. It’s imperative to stay warm, I noted. Snuggled in our sleeping bags, we read our paperbacks and played hangman on notepaper for a good part of the day. It kept snowing. Occasionally I pondered worst-case scenarios such as running out of food or freezing to death. On the bright side, I was happy that our location was flat enough to accommodate a  helicopter rescue. Assuming, of course, that our mechanic would put a rescue into motion when we didn’t return to claim our car at the end of the week.

We were able to prepare dinner on the stove, then retired for the night and hoped that the morning would bring a different day. But no; when we awoke, snow still surrounded us along with a ground fog that obscured any kind of views beyond 20 feet.

After another discussion about what to do, we decided that the best plan was to pack up, and get to a lower elevation the way we’d come, hopefully getting below snowline before our feet got cold enough for frostbite. We ate breakfast and rolled up our soggy tent. Carefully navigating about 50 feet down the “trail,” we noticed that the snow turned to slush. Soon there was no snow at all! We had been almost at the snowline without knowing it. Still, we decided to keep retracing our steps, as we didn’t know what was forecast for the weather. At the previous campsite (the pretty one near the river), everything was pretty wet. In fact, it rained as we hiked. We decided to keep going to cover more ground, perhaps spend one less night in the rain.

After retracing many miles, we made it to our first night’s camping spot. Hugh dug some trenches around the tent perimeter to keep any rainwater from running underneath us.  

In the middle of the night, however, as the rain continued, Hugh (who slept uphill of me) discovered that some water was nonetheless getting across the trenches and soaking his sleeping pad. More digging—this time in the dark. We settled back to sleep. Then I awoke suddenly.

The skies must have cleared, as the moon was shining on the tent. In fact, it shone so well that I could see the outline of a shadow on the nylon. Aahh! I screamed, it’s a bear! Hugh, wake up! Panicked, I pounded my poor spouse awake. The bear could probably smell the food that we had foolishly stored inside the tent. Funny how the weather will cause one to forget the basics. Quickly attentive, Hugh reached behind himself and grabbed a pot, and started banging the lid and pot together while yelling like a banshee. When the bear ambled away, we got into our food supply, determined which items were the most odorous, then grabbed the salami and the gorp and threw it into the meadow some distance away from us.  Needless to say, with the adrenaline pumping, it took quite some time to get back to sleep. We recalled how on our first night here, with the food hung in a tree with care, that our only visitor was a ground squirrel, sniffing around our heads. We hadn’t even used the tent that night.

The next morning, we were all business. There was no rain, but we were on a mission: getting back to civilization! We marched as if robots driven by autopilot. Finally, we connected with the trail that led to Devils Postpile and merged with some day-trippers heading back to the ranger station and parking lot. We looked forward to calling a taxi and a hot shower.

The last straw was finding the pay phone at the parking lot out of order, and a sign on the ranger’s office saying “out to lunch.” I fell into full bitch-and-moan mode. Audibly, my exasperation, humiliation, frustration and anger came to a full boil. “NOW WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?” I wailed. Behind us, a couple cautiously approached. After all, they didn’t want to get too close to the angry, venom-spewing woman who was obviously having a bad day along with her bad hair. “Would you guys like a ride?” they asked. Would we ever! They were a couple of honeymooners who had just been married. Their goal before the end of the day was to ride the Mammoth Mountain summer chair lift to the peak and experience the views. After that, they said they’d be happy to take us to the mechanic’s shop.

What was another hour to those who are short of transportation, salami and gorp? The couple had an economy pickup, so we hopped into the bed of the truck with our packs while the honeymooners rode up front. The wind whipped our hair as the truck navigated the winding turns up and over the flank of Mammoth Mountain towards the ski area. Hugh and I smiled at each other: serendipitous luck trumps the worst of happenstance. I think we paid a token amount to ascend the mountain on the lift. Truth? The view was incredible. The overcast had lifted and we were able to see on a real-life topo map where we had traveled towards and retreated from our peculiar backpack destiny.

Once dropped off at the VW place the mechanic said, “I thought you guys would show up early, what with that snowfall.”  Yeah, I thought; but if we didn’t, would you have sent the helicopter?