Took a few days during spring break last week to backpack California’s Lost Coast with my daughter.   Flickr set here.

The Lost Coast is in the far north of California, roughly between Mendocino and Eureka.  It’s characterized by such rugged and shifty geology that Highway 1 abandons it’s coastal route and heads inland around this section.  Backpacking (mostly on the beach) is the primary access to this coastal wilderness – a rarity of which Shi Shi Beach is one of the only other examples in the continental US.

We arranged a shuttle from Shelter Cove to Mattole Beach (quite a scheduling and financial effort) and arrived at about 7PM on Sunday night, in gentle but insistent rain.  We decided to get a mile under our boots before nightfall, and headed off.  As darkness fell, we pitched the tent and cooked up some dinner before a long and soggy night during which the rain continued to fall, condensation dripped on us, and puddles formed under our sleeping bags.  But the rain stopped at about 6AM and we struck off again early to warm up.

We had a scrumptious breakfast of breakfast burritos perched on the roof of an abandoned lighthouse – Freeze-dried Mountain House Eggs/Ham/Peppers on a burrito with taco sauce.

Throughout the morning the fog and clouds lifted and by about noon the sun came out.  We scrambled over bluffs, along rocky beaches, and forded rivers.  Wildflowers were out in profusion – California poppies, lupine, wild parsnip, irises, and lots more.  A long lunch break allowed us to dry our gear.

High tides were about midday, and although many stretches are deemed “impassable” on the map, there were only a few times we had to race the waves or scramble over scree to keep going, even though the strip of beach can be pretty narrow between the waves and the cliffs eroding practically before our eyes.

Over the course of the next few days we saw many sea lions, river otters, seagulls and cormorants, racoon and deer prints on the beach, tidepool life, and even whales, all thriving in the wilderness outside the influence of man.

Because of some road closures we weren’t able to complete our planned section south of Shelter Cove to Needle Rock but instead looped around to Usal Beach and hiked the bluffs at the southern end of the Lost Coast.  Total of about 30 miles in 4 days.

Just as the rain started to hit again we finished and headed to Fort Bragg for a cheap motel, hot showers, cioppino, and a movie.  Civilization isn’t all bad either.

Would love to go back and do the whole 60 miles end-to-end!  But not looking forward to even more complex shuttle logistics. 

All worth it to see Gen’s smiles ;-).

Had a nice hike yesterday with Jason and Mom through the Mount Rose Wilderness Area – the “backside” of which comes within a few hundred yards of the suburbs of Reno.  Some beautiful fall desert colors along the path through canyons alongside willow-covered Hunter Creek, up through a fir forest to a mossy waterfall.  Who knew this all lurked so close to Reno?  Photos here.

[Writeen Tuesday July 27th, 2PM.  Complete photoset here.]

Just as we hit the trail Monday morning we found the trail blocked by a doe and her two spotted fawns.  They largely ignored us but managed to keep a modest distance from us as we inched quietly forward along the trail.

Our climb for the day was tedious as feared, constant uphill and switchbacks climbing out of the Lyell Canyon, but the temperature was mild and the mozzies continued to be absent after the hailstorm.  When we eventually reached a pass a cool strong wind was blowing and we chilled quickly.  We found a sheltered spot to cook some Ramen for lunch – which never tasted so fine – followed by a short hot-sun cool-breeze nap.

The trail from Lyell Canyon to Vogelsang crosses a high, empty plateau, with a couple of shallow lakes amid flat grasslands.  But peeking up around all 360-degrees of the plain were high country peaks both new and old to us – the nearest and therefore largest monoliths being Vogelsang Peak and Fletcher Peak.  Although this little-used trail was quiet, in mid afternoon we started to encounter day hikers venturing out from Vogelsang High Sierra Camp.

The High Sierra Camps are a series of white fabric tent-cabins which can be reserved in advance.  You can have your gear packed in or ride up on one of the mule trains.  There is a kitchen which prepares your meals and even a small camp store for vital supplies, where we stopped briefly to complete our map collection down to the Valley floor.

In front of the store lounged a portly gentleman smoking a pungent cigar.  I refrained from cracks about the clean mountain air – as I was starting to qualify as a toxic hazard myself – but it was clear “civilization” was increasingly upon us.

After a short stay we breezed out for a late afternoon summit of Vogelsang Pass – a beautiful rocky landscape and yet another beautiful high country lake.  Just before the pass, I came within about 10 feet of a well-camouflaged Ptarmigan, who watched us warily but refrained from flight while her single tiny chick darted this way and that in alarm. The pass snakes between some large bounders before opening suddenly onto a sheer dropoff and another dramatic canyon view with sheer cliffs, snow-shouldered peaks, lakes and waterfalls – our last real view of the high country.  It would be all downhill from here. 

The descent from Vogelsang Pass is stunning and manages to find a path down the near vertical face.  Our original route would have had us ascending this face as a completion of this section of the High Route and we were quite grateful to be reversing this challenging route!

We continued on until the sun started to disappear, but we persisted in our goal of shedding 1500 feet of elevation to gain the sub-9600 foot elevation at which we could again have a fire – less for mozzies this time but for warmth on the coldest night so far as well as simple entertainment factor.

The morning trail again held a doe and fawn – much more skittish then the last and quick to flee.  Perhaps because the steepness and ruggedness of the canyon provided only a single axis for easy flight.

The river we followed had grown in size through aggregation and by the time we reached Merced Lake were a booming torrent crossed by occasional bridges.  I felt that we had traced these waters from their source in the high snowfields through all the stages of trickles, brooks, and streams to their maturity.  The landscape had become a series of solid rounded blocks of granite rather than the shattered geography of the higher elevations.  We passed unexpectedly through an old-growth Redwood Forest in the protection of Morraine Dome, but also encountered the remains of previous forest fires in the area.

Trail traffic continually increased, including mule pack trains heading up to Vogelsang, as we continued down to Merced Lake, and an easy onward hike towards Little Yosemite.  Mercifully easy, as a blister at last began to develop and I switched for a time from my sturdy boots to Tivas.

[Next day.]

We settled in the Backpackers’ Camp at the foot of the Half Dome trail for the night, strange to be in such proximity to dozens of other campers, and the next day simply worked our way painstakingly against the upcoming traffic down the Mist Trail past Nevada and Vernal Falls.

Camp Curry on the Valley Floor provided all the immediate gratifications – pizza and a shower – and we toured on the Shuttle Bus down to El Capitan to watch the climbers on their multi-day climb up this sheer 3,000 foot face.

We caught the YART bus, a stunning 4 hour ride from the Valley, up through Tuolumne Meadows, over Tioga Pass, down to Lee Vining and the June Lake Loop back to our car at Mammoth Lakes just after dark.

Then we fired up our cell phones, checked in on the dearest internet we’d been separated from for so long, and that’s really about the end of the story ;-).

[Written Sun July 25th, 9:30PM.  Complete photoset here.]

Upon awakening to the rays of dawn crowning Mounts Ritter and Banner, I took a stroll and found our little oasis for the night surrounded in all directions by forbidding snow and rock – again our nightly resting places seem “prepared” for us.  It didn’t take too long to skirt the ridge and reach Whitebark Pass, separating the Banner and Ritter valleys.

Near the top were some amazingly gnarled and ancient Whitebark Pines for which the pass was named – and a steep snowfield dropping off to large and shapely Garnet lake.  Before steeling ourselves for the descent, we had our traditional “pass-repast” – a Sierra snow cone.  Two cups of ice from the ubiquitous snowfield, poured over with a tangy syrup made from a single-serving lemonade packet – a refreshing snack to reward our efforts.

The snowfield proved too steep to descend safely, and we began clambering on all fours down a rocky side chute, taking turns descending to minimize the danger of slipping chunks of talus, and gradually worked our way down through more modest snowfields to a flat boggy area above the west end of Garnet Lake.  We crossed this speedily and began our second, more gradual pass of the day, a saddle separating Garnet and Thousand Island Lakes.

The Thousand Island descent was stunning and gave us a great view of the expanse of the many islands of the famous Thousand Island Lake and of the face of Mount Banner immediately to the west.  Clouds that had been billowing larger all morning let loose with a handful of hail and a some minor rainstorms, and drove us to seek refuge under our tent fly for the lunch hour.

As we wandered among the magical ponds and islands at the headwaters of Thousand Island Lake, still rippling with drizzle, it became apparent to me that our pace would have to increase substantially if we were to finish the High Route in time.  With the deteriorating weather and the difficult Whitebark Pass descent still fresh in mind, Sanjiva was already expressing doubts about the next obstacle – 11,000+ foot North Glacier Pass – a north facing ascent to the shoulders of Mount Banner sure to be covered with a major snowfield.And with the volume of ice-cold water we’d encountered along our route the fording of the Merced River sounded none too enjoyable.

As we worked our way up the approach it was clear our fears were realized and although I was confident we could pass, Sanjiva’s concern over snowfields remained and we reset our goal.  Although I was disappointed there are other opportunities to complete the route and plenty of other beautiful country to see.  We decided instead to continue our own High Route on the east side of the range and work our way northward cross-country to a windy pass giving us access to the basin containing the Davis Lakes.

As we ascended north a strange and biblical sight appeared – a tree burning on the hillside.  We approached and saw a stand that had apparently been the victim of a recent lightning strike.  Even stranger, although we were well off the beaten track, a camp was set up next to the fire – a group that had summitted Mount Banner that morning and were trying to escape the mosquitoes further down.  Apparently they were taking advantage of the natural fire (no man-made fires allowed at this elevation) to dispel the mosquitoes.

We gained the pass fairly easily, and as we traversed our way through the moderate talus, we entered a wide long bench descending towards the lake at the head of the valley – a valley headed by Mount Davis and no less dramatic then the others we had encountered.

The bench became grassier and developed into a golf-course like series of magical vales, with bubbling alpine brooks winding their way through the lush vegetation.  We stopped for the night at one particularly appealing spot with a view of the surrounding mountains and a bellowing waterfall across the lower Davis Lake.  I should say here that at few points is the high country silent at this time of year – the roar of waterfalls is ever-present as water overflows each existing course and carves new ones.

Next day we continued our cross-country traverse along a bench on the west side of the valley until we reached modest Rogers Lakes.  Striking out north again, keeping cliffs on the left, we ascended another ridge and descended gently into a meadow with a broad stream emitting from the unseen Marie Lakes.  This meadow was the most beautifully “landscaped” garden we’d yet seen and we explored the shores and waterfalls, abundant wild flowers, and waded in the achingly cold water for an extended time.  Eventually leaving this eden, we traversed a level bench and joined at last the John Muir Trail as it rose gradually through a chaotic landscape of boulders and streams, home to a multitude of marmots.  We’d often round a boulder and startle one.  A long and tedious ascent through this strange unfinished area brought us at last to Donohue Pass, our highest point yet at 11,100 feet.

The traffic on the trail gradually increased, with the combined aspirants to the John Muir Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, weekend warriors descending the pass at a rate of one group every five minutes or so.   The descent quickly switchbacks down the side of the steep Lyell Canyon to a green swath of meadow with a wide, clear river meandering widely through it.  As we entered the meadow, a herd of horses and pack mules approached and surrounded us, looking for the best sandy pit to roll their pack-sweat away.  As evening was fast approaching, we continued down the valley at a brisk pace, stopping briefly under sheltering trees, when a thunderstorm spit at us.  Finally we spied a more significant squall racing down the valley and we dashed for some more thick trees as hailstones began to fall.  Through the squall lasted a short while, it dampened the landscape and cooled the gathering mosquitoes away.  The meadow turned boggy and we had to continue down the meadow farther than our tired bodies wanted to, but found at last a dry patch for out tent under a tree, with a nearby fire pit and a re-energized river flow.  A cheery fire helped warm and dry our spirits, and prepare them for the grueling 1800 feet climb out of the valley and back to high country tomorrow.

[Written Friday, July 23rd, 8:45 PM, Complete photoset here.]

I’ve long planned to attempt part of the Sierra High Route, as one of the premier wilderness experiences nearby here in California.  The route is largely off-trail, wandering at over 9000 feet elevation and crossing only a single road in its 195-mile length through the high Sierra.  For more than a year I’ve been planning to try a section, and after much scheduling, planning, and preparing gear, and recruiting a willing partner in Sanjiva, we at last solidified a start date.  This month the date finally approached, and we packed up and headed for the wilderness.

We donned our packs and left civilization at 4 PM from Devil’s Postpile (7500 feet) after getting permits and enjoying a late lunch in Lee Vining.  Miles of switchbacks ascending through rather dull forests faced us, and with each a further increase in altitude.  As dusk fell pestilential mosquitoes emerged and despite bug spray we opted to abandon our first nights destination of Lake Superior, in favor of a dry level spot in the forest from which we could launch a smoky counter-attack on the creatures.  We nurtured the small fire until about 10 when the mozzies had dissipated somewhat.

In the morning we opted to hit the trail and gain Superior Lake before breakfast, but failed to realize it was still several miles away, and there remained a good portion of the 2000 foot elevation gain from Devil’s Postpile.  Superior Lake is a mid-size lake with a ragged talus ridge to the north and a mixed forest to the south – a surprisingly beautiful first lake destination.

Above the lake we left the trail for a soggy series of meadows with meandering, overflowing streams.  A slightly less ragged slope led up from the meadows to our first pass – Nancy Pass (10,250 feet).  The slow climb with many stops, took the rest of the morning, providing ever more compelling views of the meadows and lake below as well as the ranges of the southern High Route.  However, these were nothing compared with the view that awaited us when we topped the narrow, steep pass – a view down steep talus and snowfields to the Minarets, Mounts Banner and Ritter, and plenty of vertical country in between.

The high altitude and lack of any acclimatization put Sanjiva in the slow lane, but with persistence, plenty of water and breathers, we had eventually accomplished our first goal.  But the verticality of the country before us was far beyond our expectations.  We had a long break and studied our maps hard – trying to reconcile our preconceptions with this awesome reality.

But as we descended an angled across our first relatively minor snowfields, we picked up a little speed, and managed to navigate a reasonable path around the mountains, talus, stands of trees, multiple creeks.  We found ourselves in some quintessential high country meadows, with the first of the wildflowers blooming profusely and buds springing from the recently snow-liberated earth.  Also emerging from the winter were some of the worst swarms of mosquitoes I had ever seen – slap a hand, kill five, slap the other hand, kill five more – leaving no time to slap the face!  Copious amounts of bug spray (which we realized later was three quarters of our supply) kept the devils from biting but not from buzzing up your nose and into your mouth.  We added acclimation to mozzies to the challenges of altitude and exercise.

Navigating some huge granite blocks around the base of the Riegelhuth Minaret – even the name seems straight out of Lord of the Rings – we came to the southern shore of stunning Minaret Lake, surrounded by the dramatic spires of rock known as the Minarets, a mountain known as Volcanic Ridge, and Mounts Banner and Ritter looming behind them in the distance.

We camped next to a tarn, with a view westward to the Minarets a few steps from our campsite.  Bursts of cool wind scattered the mozzies, a welcome relief.  As the breezes died and with no fires allowed, we turned in by about 7:30 and were asleep not long after.

I awoke around six and emerged to take some photos as dawn touched the Minarets around me.

We decided to forgo the dwindling bug spray and instead keep moving - circling the lake before breakfast. Minaret Lake is a beautiful lake with a little of everything – steep cliffs, isolated stands of trees, a crenulated shape with a large rocky monolith of a peninsula.  Warmed by our walk but stalked still by mozzies, we eventually opted on a rock for breakfast – and with moderate slapping a minimal exposure began to come to terms with these pests and enjoyed our meal.

Trekking up through the steep meadows, we followed a rudimentary trail up through the talus to a slot granting access to the next pass.  As we climbed we stopped frequently to keep tabs on a marmot scrambling around his domain and warming in the sun.  We also noticed deer prints following the trail with such diligence I formed a theory that the prints were a new tip style for trekking poles.  But as we emerged from the slot into a small valley we saw a proud deer nibbling among the grassy slopes on the far side.  We completed the climb to 10,250 Cecile Lake – with extensive snowfields and a few icebergs a lake still emerging from the late winter.  Talus and snowfields slowed our route around this lake, and we didn’t reach the outlet until noon – barely a half mile as the crow flies from our campsite.

These snowfields bore no recent footprints so we advanced slowly and strategically.  During one short stretch I followed some marmot prints, kicking in steps for Sanjiva, and shortly later looked back to find the marmot tracing the route and investigating these new appearances.

At last we came to the outflow of Cecile Lake and were shocked anew by the verticality of our onward route.  A waterfall tumbles down 500 feet to Iceberg Lake, still largely covered with snow and in such a steep shady valley that it promises to stay that way in keeping with it’s name.  The entire eastern edge was steep snowfields and there were no practical alternative routes than to simply cross them.

Descending a steep, loose slope described accurately as “unpleasant,” we inched carefully across the fields and eventually gained the far side.  As we were about to continue, we noticed a new form of wildlife – a hiker glissading (essentially skiing in just your boots) down the slopes we had so painfully skirted.  Soon his companion followed and they began racing across the snowfield at a rate at least 10 times faster than we had – maybe two hours versus 10 minutes.  As they passed us at speed we learned they had just started the route that day and only had three days planned to complete this whole section.  That kind of upped the bar on us and we made much better progress after that, following their tracks for an hour before they disappeared.

At this rate it was becoming clear that the High Route was kicking our butts.  I was starting at last to feel the “trail zone” kick in but Sanjiva was still suffering from both shortness of breath, leg strength, and challenging terrain especially snow.  Despite his grace in dealing with these issues, we started strategizing alternate (trailed) routes.  But for now we continued onward.

We skirted a ridge and ascended slightly to a wonderland of wide meadows, scored with a host of squiggly rushing brooks descending from the snowy peak above.  Some strategic scouting and impressive leaps led us gradually upward through a forest, and then to a relatively gentle, rocky climb among another multitude of creeks, towards the bases of Mounts Ritter and Banner, which soared above us, still snowbound but pouring forth cold clear water from every side.  We counted seven waterfalls large though to be called as such descending from the heights.

At the base of the mountains we turned away and ascended a gentle slope up past 10,400 feet and began to race the early sunset up the slope till we found a dry, grassy space perfect for out tent.  We raced to set up and barely beat the approaching shadows.  The sunset lingered for hours on the Minarets and the other mountains further to the east.  The nearly full moon rose before sunset over Volcanic Ridge, and the majesty of our surroundings charmed us into a short after-dinner stroll which revealed the Nydiver Lakes below us and our next destination Whitebark Pass a manageable distance away.  We watched the darkness complete its descent from our cozy tent, with the gentle brook irrepressibly gurgling long into the night.

Just back from a few days exploring Lassen National Park with my extended family.  Started with a climb of Lassen Peak (10,400 ft.), which sports views as far as Mt. Shasta.  Then explored some of the many volcanic features – lava flows, fumaroles and bubbling mud, cinder cones, lava tubes (no pictures of the latter.)

The late snows are covering much of the country about 8,000 ft., while the lowlands are beginning to swelter in the summer heat.

Complete photoset here.

Just returned from another trip to Sri Lanka – and although I only had a few photos of an outstanding sunset at Bentota beach and some amazing shadows transformed by a solar eclipse into trendy designer patterns, I also took the opportunity to belatedly upload a set from last September when Sanjiva organized a hike up from the southern lowlands to World’s End and Horton Plains.  Supposedly World’s End sports the most dramatic view (and lover’s leap) in Sri Lanka, and the surrounding Horton Plains contain a unique ecosystem.

We didn’t make it quite to the top, but did experience some steep climbing, amazing views and a Dr. Suess inspired landscape,

followed by a long winding return to civilization through an unbelievably steep tea plantation. 

The photos don’t do justice to the experience, but here they are anyway!

Hiked to the Peter Grubb Hut maintained by the Sierra Club today with a small group of Girl Scouts.  Beautiful November weather after a dusting of snow on the peaks last night and a dusting of moisture lower down to bring out the subtle late fall colors.

Photos here.

Had a nice hike partway up Mount Rose today, and snapped a few shots along the way.  Enjoy!

Sanjiva and I spent a couple of days last weekend knocking around the Five Lakes Basin near Yuba Gap in the northern Sierra Nevada mountains.  Photoset here.  Primary goal was to test our equipment and techniques for potentially more strenuous adventures.  Crooked Lakes Basin is a high-reward area, with most trails having a lakes per mile ratio of greater than one.

We started off however quickly traversing the Crooked Lakes Basin and Sand Ridge on our way to the Five Lakes Basin that lies beyond – new territory for me.  We had great views of Downey Lake and the terrain between the Grouse Ridge Lookout and Lake Spaulding.  The mule ears were prolific and covered the exposed hillsides with yellow.

We cooled off at the first of the Five Lakes, and continued up the trail towards the granite cliffs hoping to find more of the Five at the base – but it turned out the pristine lake wasn’t one of the Five and was named Glacier Lake.  Although there were a few parties camped around the lake, the prospect of watching night fall over the lake and the Black Buttes beyond was too tempting and we also pitched camp there.

The rising sun found us climbing the ridge and scaling the Black Buttes, from which we had some amazing panoramic views, and a look into the basin on the south side, including Beyers Lakes and Baltimore Lake. Looks like another cool place to explore.  Here’s a map.

Between the climbing the mountain, traversing scree and snow fields, and some short stretches of vertical, I hope Sanjiva got a good sense of the joys and challenges of being off-trail.

After a long descent, with a bit of boot skiing, we had breakfast and broke camp, heading cross country back towards the Five Lakes Basin, and skirting the cliffs looking for more alpine lakes.  Near the lakes we encountered more streams, waterfalls, and meadows, and followed them down past several of the Five Lakes before retracing our path along Sand Ridge and cutting cross country once more through the Crooked Lakes basin to my favorite one.  We camped on top of the rock outcropping – the “eagle’s nest”, warmed ourselves by a tiny fire and watched the satellites and shooting stars before turning in again.

The morning brought a quick hike out and home so Sanjiva could catch his flight back to Sri Lanka. All in all an excellent trip – about 15 miles almost half of which was strenuous cross country work.  Within that short span we saw a microcosm of the Sierra high country and discovered that even this remote edge of the Sierra holds many charms.

[Photoset here.]

Our adventure started as all adventures do in Sri Lanka, with a long drive on progressively smaller roads.  Until the roads give out completely. Sights spin by at a breakneck speed - elephants on a flatbed, chaotic towns and open-air markets, lazy cattle wandering free – too fast to comprehend let alone photograph well.  At a couple of points the ride was so steep and bumpy that the rear hatch of the van failed and a couple of packs tumbled into the road to the alarm quickly turning to amusement of all.

The end of the road in this case was the tiny village of Palabathgala, near Ratnapura, and the eleven of us, plus guide, were deposited at the bottom of a staircase into the rain forest, leading up up and up into a misty escarpment. Already the grey skies were dripping on us.

This is the long way up to Adams Peak and the temple of Sri Pada, a pilgrimage popular I suspect not only because it is said to have Buddha’s footprint, but because it’s just so dang hard to get to. Our path starts with unremitting steps up into the forest. Every hundred the count is etched into the concrete - 1000, 2300, 3900. The humidity is intense and I adopt an old man pace to keep from overheating. Step, breath, step, breath. It works pretty well and although I’m towards the back of the pack my heart rate stays low and my legs still feel strong. However my strategy for keeping dry fails. Not only am I drenched in my own sweat, buy when a drizzle starts I throw my windbreaker over my head and drape it over my pack, leaving my arms cool. But any moisture on the pack quickly transfers to the inside of my windbreaker, and mixing with my copious body moisture my windbreaker is quickly thoroughly soaked inside and out.

After an hour or two, we arrive at a small army base just as a monsoon downpour starts, and take brief refuge as it turns our stairway into a temporary torrential waterfall and then disappears just as quickly as it came.

Finally somewhere near step number 5000, the cement ends and the original rock steps begin. Still unremitting, but somehow the uneven steps are easier to navigate. Maybe it’s because you have more choices than a fixed stairway provides.  Or maybe it just occupies your mind more.

After hours of this we reach a rocky river, spanned by a spiderweb of white threads. It is apparently a custom for new visitors, to weave a thread into the web. All of us newbies partake in this custom (photo courtesy of Udeshika). This is a good spot for lunch and we break out out lunch packets - rice, curry, cal, sambol, all wrapped in plastic and then newspaper - a traditional lunch favorite here.

Then hours more of stairs, as we climb right up into the clouds. The temperature drops to a pleasantly chilly range, but the humidity remains so high everything remains soaked. At last we reach a few nondescript buildings, vendor shacks deserted now on the off season, and dry out a little.

We engage the sole visible resident for some hot water and relish in a hot beverage as only the perpetually wet and cold can.

We’ve been climbing stairs straight for about 5 hours now, and I am rather surprised that this village represents not the end, but the official start of the Adams Peak Climb! Three more hours to go and it’s already after 4PM when we leave. I stride out, glad to have saved my strength for this part. But it’s not long before I’m taking a short rest after every 20th step, then every 5th, and then at times after each one. After approx 20,000 steps (a nearly 2000m climb), I’m in summiting mode - don’t think about the rest of the trail, think about the next step.

This section again has concrete steps, and even rails begin to appear, as the stair grade gradually increases from 40 degrees up to 70. The wind is whipping the clouds against the mountain, and although the wind is fairly dry, as we ascend the wind strengthens and blasts us with more and more rain. The vegetation has changed from jungle to cloud forest, eerie twisted shapes draped with moss in the blowing mist. Sometimes Adams Peak is above the cloud layer and while my hopes were never strong that we might emerge into sunshine, it became clear that the summit was being blasted by 40-50 mph winds. We climbed, clinging to the rail, as the stairs wound between granite outcroppings and sheer cliffs whose true extent remained hidden in the mist.

At last a structure emerged from the mist at the top of the near- vertical ascent and as the wind tried one last time to part us, or at least any gear not tied firmly down, from the mountain, we entered an alleyway between two buildings. A man emerged from a tiny cell and showed us to a small cold monastic cell where we could spend the night. A change of dry clothes raised everyone’s spirits and shortly we all moved up into the caretaker’s cell to squeeze onto his bunkbeds, drink another round of hot tea, and chatter away with him animatedly in Singhalese. I just sipped happily as the singsong swirled around the warm cell and mixed with my exhausted daze.

Now we’ve had our dinner packets - despite being tasty my post-extreme appetite is small and I can’t do much more than sample. With another round of animated chatter we laid mats in our cell and have lined up like sleepy sardines to await the morning.

[Morning]

Well, that night felt like Survivor – with each person having a share of the floor approximately two feet by five, cramping legs, whistling wind and rain, chilly enough to cause shivering, bumping into each other as you turn, occasional snores, and someone scraping through the door to use the bathroom every 45 minutes or so.  I listened to music on my iPhone almost all night, but dozed off a few times for a total of maybe two hours of sleep.  The whole experience felt like something from a 19th century Himalayan explorer’s tale.

The traditional climax of a Sri Pada trip – viewing the sunrise – fell victim to the continued mist and increasing rain.  But after some bread and jam for breakfast we visited the temple.  My preparation for the elements – a complete poncho over clothes and pack – disintegrated in seconds in the howling wind – but I dutifully rang the bell once representing my first visit, and fled.

Guess what came next?  Yes!  More stairs!  We took a different (shorter) route down, leading us down the other side of the mountain.  After coming off of the peak and emerging from the cloud, the steps moderated into a broad trail, and we followed a narrow valley filled with manicured hedgerows of tea.  Dozens of waterfalls sprang from the escarpment, and the rain started to ease at times to provide us broader views.  At last we returned to motorized civilization at the village of Nallathanniya, had another hot syrupy tea.

And as all Sri Lankan adventures ended, so did this.  Hours of the most jolting, harrowing driving on narrow, steep, windy roads, leading us inexorably back to Colombo, a shower, dinner, and late that night to the airport, and eventually home.

Sanjiva and I went on a hike yesterday, from the confluence to home, and despite this being my own backyard, we discovered some new things – especially doing some cross-country and bouldering around the abandoned Auburn Dam footings and the newly restored river and kayak park at the former China Bar Rapids.  And after the rain of the past couple of weeks there are quite a few full-fledged waterfalls along the route.  Very cool!

Flickr set here.

It’s been a busy fall – not much time for taking pictures.  Or uploading them promptly!  Now that we’re in vacation mode, I’m looking through some of this falls photos.  Here’s a small set from a hike with family members up to Donner Peak in early September.  Some amazing rock formations…

Just posted a few snapshots from a Saturday day hike to Loch Leven Lakes, a wonderful and fairly accessible bit of the High Sierras.  Haven’t been there in a while, despite it being a fantastic place for some bouldering with the kids.  It was good to get above California’s persistent smoky haze for a few hours (though later in the afternoon even the high country took on a smoky hue.)

Had a great though brief visit from Paul, during which we toodled around the north end of Tamales Bay, bordering the Point Reyes National Seashore, the site of one of our successful backpacking trip a couple of years ago.  My primary goal, the Drake Estero, was closed for Harbor Seal pupping season, but we had good fun anyway.  Flickr set here.

Also uploaded and organized some existing shots from plane windows.  Looking out the window is by far the best part of flying!  Flickr set here.