Looking up toward the moon as the first light of dawn approached.

The morning dawned clear and calm after the previous night’s storm. It turned out that twice I was safely ensconced in my tiny tent and stayed dry before the storms came. Days later, when I was down in Bishop and mentioned having been up in the high country, several people commented on having seen lightning storms that evening, both to the west, where I had been, and to the east, in the Whites were I’m doing my work.

Looking down LeConte Canyon

From my campsite I hiked about six miles down LeConte Canyon, dropping from around 11,200′ to the trail junction at 8,750. Then came the big climb, 3,200′ up to Bishop Pass, the last of the three passes I crossed on this trip and the highest at just under 12,000′.

Farther down LeConte Canyon. My climb to Bishop Pass heads through the draw in the upper center of the photo.

Paleo Rock, Monster Rock, Tyrannorock… I understand that whatever it’s called, it’s legend along the trail.

I had taped up my left foot, cut away a section of my boot’s insole, and used Moleskin to protect the blister on my heel, but it was still painful. Given this, I had some trepidation about the climb. My plan was to climb about 2,000′ up over four miles, camping in Dusy (“Doo-sie”) Basin, then continuing the next morning. While my foot hurt, the climb itself came pretty easy, even exposed to the intense mountain sun, and I found a quiet spot of level ground, free of vegetation, to set up camp.

I have always adhered to the wilderness ethic of “leave no trace”. About my entire time on the trail, I can confidently say that there remained no sign that I had passed through save footprints and photos. All trash came out with me, including a variety of this’n’that picked up along the trails. That’s for me simply a price of admission to this fragile country that can easily be loved to death. I have taught my children this ethic as well.

Some of those who head in have no idea how to pass through without leaving a record of their passage. The worst is with bathroom habits – at last night’s camp, one other man had bivouacked in a tiny tilted spot under a tree near me as the storm bore down. During a lull I saw his tight arrangement and greeted him, letting him know of a better, level site close by. He gladly moved his tent there, telling me that as soon as he was in his tent he began to smell someone else’s unburied poop. To me that’s the wilderness equivalent of a petty criminal: learn to respect the wilderness and those with whom you share it, or go back to your city.

I carry an iPood!, a folding titanium personal hygiene trowel with its own tiny stuffsack that I bought years ago at REI. It even stores an emergency stash of TP in its hollow handle. I love the name, although I’m sure Apple’s lawyers soon demanded a cease and desist on calling it that. What’s the right way? A cathole, well off the trail and far from surface water, at least 6″ deep and maybe 3-4″ in diameter. Shit in it and bury it; done well it’s pretty much invisible when carefully backfilled.

As dusk approached I took photos of the mountains to the east as the day ended:

Looking toward Mt. Agazzis, mid-afternoon

Getting closer to sunset now.

And finally the last rays of sun on the high peaks

I began this trip with little planning, and with some uncertainty about my abilities and stamina, mainly simply due to advancing age. I was pleased that it only took a couple of days for my body to adapt. The new pack became more comfortable as I learned the subtle strap adjustments, and my muscles quickly adapted to the exertion level. I was quite tired the first couple of nights but less so as the days progressed, such that climbs became surprisingly easy and steep descents nearly so. As I have written before, especially since my cancer four years ago, I am so grateful to be alive and to be healthy and fit enough to do this.

I have encountered half a dozen families on this trip, and even more couples backpacking together. This entire experience is so exquisite that I only wish at times that I had a companion with whom to share the experience. I have complimented younger couples I meet when I can see that both partners want to be there, accepting the occasional discomfort in return for the shared experience. That’s something I’m sad that I couldn’t share with Johanna.