Lost Lakes

A half mile down the trail in the early morning I heard the tin can sound again, off in the woods. This time I figured it out. My neighbors were not responsible after all; it was belled livestock, either cows or sheep. I didn’t actually see them, but it was the only explanation. I noted that the bell sound was different than what I’d heard in Turkey (goats) and France (cows)—deeper and more clangy, noisy and not very bell-like…. I felt a little bad that I had all through the night thought such uncharitable thoughts about the neighbors. And I wondered how they had slept, since they were apparently much closer to the noisy creatures.

I had set off at 5:30, well before sunrise but there was enough light for walking. The first hours brought a fabulous stretch of walking, down through cool forest of mountain hemlock, across a couple small creeks, Eagle and Pennsylvania, then out into the open and north along the foot of a high mountain wall, the Sierra crest. The dark red rock of the crenelated ridge was sprinkled with orange and bright pale green lichens, the slope below flecked with big and striking cedars and whitebark pines….

The wall gave way to more jumbled heights, with pillars of stone, conical peaks, and deep gullies, rising in serried steps to the north. I had to keep stopping to gape and take it all in…. I passed through big rolling sagebrush meadows, descended through a sparse forest, and crossed Raymond Creek…. The trail rose again, slashing across sheer slopes of red clinkers, climbing up to and through a rocky notch, then back down into trees….

The afternoon, on the other hand, was less exciting. I walked through a section crossed by and near a number of roads, and so came upon a number of people, sometimes their cars too. More, though, the land was not nearly as dramatic: a rolling forest of small non-descript conifers, dry and hot and dusty, a little claustrophobic. But mostly hot. I had come down below 8000’….

In the midst of this disagreeable section, though, I met a likeable northbound hiker named Tracks.  He was a young Asian guy with wispy face hair, supercool sunglasses and old guy clothing—a pale blue long-sleeved shirt and long and lightweight khaki-colored pants, the type so popular with those over sixty. His gaiters though were festooned with skulls. He was an ultralight man, with a pack notably smaller than most hikers.

He told me that he had begun at Kennedy Meadows, just a few days after my original start. He might go all the way to Canada, he wasn’t sure yet but probably. In recent days he’d been picking up the pace; the day before he’d done twenty-seven miles. “I’m kind of tired today for some reason, but I want to get to Carson Pass, or just past.” That was another fifteen miles. He wanted to get to Carson so he could have a short day tomorrow and get into Echo Lake early. From there he plans to hitch into South Lake Tahoe, a busy town, for shopping and a zero day at a motel.  

We met up a couple more times during the afternoon, when one or the other of us was taking a break, and we talked more each time. He told me he was from San Diego, and he didn’t like this dry stretch of trail, it reminded him of the desert. But he also said that he had discovered, day before yesterday, that he doesn’t like walking in the rain. Me either, I said.

Each time we parted, we said, “see you down the trail” before setting off…. I liked the idea of keeping up with him, spending more time together, but I ended up stopping short of Carson Pass, and after one “see you down trail” we didn’t again.

I crossed Blue Lakes Road and soon after stopped to give my blazing hot feet an airing…. I climbed up through the dry forest for a couple miles, up out of the trees and onto an open, dirt slope scattered with balsamroot. The path rose towards the foot of a treeless peak, the Nipple (a prominent pile of rocks tops the rounded summit of the volcanic mountain (9400’), thus the obvious name). The path traversed across the flank of the mountain, and I could see for miles all around, including down to nearby Blue Lake, where people were camped and ATVs zipped up and down a fringing dirt road….

After a couple miles, I descended to Lost Lakes. I had walked twenty miles since morning, and that was enough. But Lost Lakes (a pair) wasn’t my favorite camping spot. The same road that went by Blue lakes came into these lakes too, and several big SUVs had claimed the best lakeside spots (at one site the door of the SUV was open, the radio playing loudly; it’s just a whole other camping aesthetic….).  I walked around the lake and up a sparsely wooded hill to the upper lake, where I found a quieter and more secluded spot. As I set up the tent, someone back across the lower lake started shooting off a gun, and the firing went on for some time….

Both lakes are impoundments, as it seems all the good-sized lakes are in this portion of the Sierras. A lot of engineering work has been undertaken over the decades to serve the water needs of California’s big coastal cities….

It was quite windy throughout the afternoon and into the evening. …. I read for a bit … scouted out the shoreline of the upper lake… studied the maps and guidebooks. The late afternoon dragged….. But eventually it was late enough to start dinner. Potatoes and chicken again, while listening to a a New York Times Book Review podcast. I finished Adam Bede  yesterday. A wonderful book; that George Eliot could write….

Over the last few days I had been debating, again, whether to go on after Echo Lake. I have a re-supply box waiting for me, and I would have enough food for the next hundred miles up to Sierra City. But by this evening I had decided Echo Lake would be the end. At the beginning of the summer I had planned to do more, but after fifteen days on the trail it seemed like I had been out for a long time…. I had settled into the physical routine, and it was no trouble to walk twenty miles a day, to cook and sleep outside…. But much of the time I was not enjoying being alone.

Despite all the brief encounters, it felt like I’d hardly had any social contact over the fifteen days on the trail. The evening with Greg on the Lyell Fork, that was it for companionship. Sometimes a short talk, like with Tracks, would refresh me, and I would go on feeling good…. But the evenings were quiet and long, and seemed to be growing longer…. More than once I thought, if I could have just an hour of company at the end of the day, I could do this forever. Well, maybe not forever, but more happily for longer….

I loved the hiking, especially in the morning hours, but in the long afternoon hours at Long Lakes it became clear to me, I’m ready to do something else for a while.