For an end-of-summer blast, an elite selection of Marsh family members returned to the Crooked Lakes Basin for an overnight backpacking trip.  Photos are now online here, joining the set from our last visit a couple of years ago.  The air was a little smoky from recent California wildfires, but it was fun to revisit a place and to dig up new subjects and try to do better on some shots I’d done before.

[Pictures here.  Now geotagged.]

We arose early on our final day - we needed to attain Shi Shi Beach and a water source there before we could rehydrate our breakfast.  The tide was again low so we had little trouble navigating the final gateway to the smooth wide sands of Shi Shi Beach.  As the driftwood at the high-water line was deep in shade at the forest’s edge, and would be for hours, we spread a small tarp on the damp flat sand, made stools of our bear canisters, and tucked into a random array of our remaining food.  My policy is never to pack food for your final lunch - by then you’d rather just hold out for the first cheeseburger.

I discovered that my camera had enough power to take a shot - but not to save it on the SD card - so I used the miniscule internal memory to take one final shot of Gen and Anna on the beach (sorry, marked friends/family only in flickr as are all my shots of friends/family - yes, you’re missing about 30 pictures out of the set if you’re not on my list.)

What can I say about Shi Shi?  It protected its secrets well, and who am I to tattle?  I’ll just confirm that it was a worthy destination, though attaining it was strenuous enough that it didn’t leave much time to enjoy its charms.  In the end the journey is always the greatest reward, and Shi Shi can be celebrated as the catalyst of a remarkable and magical expedition.

Along the length of Shi Shi we passed a number of tent encampments starting breakfast fires tucked up against the forest. Shi Shi wasn’t as deserted as the previous two days had been.  Already we were returning to civilization.  At the end of the beach one final steep climb up a cliff led to a couple of miles of forest trail, gradually straightening, widening and becoming less muddy, and eventually developing into a quite civilized set of boardwalks and bridges before depositing us in a car day-park a mile of paved road from our car.  This trail took us from the wild where time is marked by stride after stride, by tides, shadows, sunsets, and the song of the soul, and returned us again to the precise increments of omnipresent second-counting LCDs, per-minute roaming charges, miles per hour, ferry schedules.  We will learn to appreciate these things again, and ease gently into that world of objective time with a dinner reservation for a seafood extravaganza.

But part of us will always remain in that narrow strip of land between the flat sea and the towering stone along this extraordinary piece of wilderness.

Aug 13th 6?AM

[Pictures here.]

The third morning proved that each new reward had to be earned.  It started easily enough - a leisurely awakening and breakfast still put us on the move with morning shadows stretched across the long stretch of tide-scrubbed beach before us.  (In Shi Shi time that’s "long shadows o’clock AM" I think.)

After a few hours pleasant walking the beach terminated abruptly in the final and most rugged set of headlands.  By now the tide had risen enough to block our continued progress.  We were forced (oh poor us) to stop and entertain ourselves on the beach for four or five hours - exploring, reading, napping, roasting tortillas over a tiny fire, sketching, inventing a game involving knocking over the other player’s shells with increasingly heavy rocks, and even an impromptu softball game.

At last the waters began to recede and like a time lock grant us entrance into an extended section of seaside boulders.  We began a slow tiring clamber over and around these boulders, choosing between smooth and slippery at the water’s edge and rough and dry but steeply jumbled farther up.

This supposedly short but seemingly interminable stretch did eventually terminate in a small cove circled by stacks, and we decided to split our team - some of us going up a a steep incline (assisted by ropes) and over the neck of a small headland, and others taking advantage of the still-lowering tide to skirt it.  I took a panorama looking back into the glaring light at the cove and it’s guardian sea stack.

The cove on the far side proved the last passable section for a while.  The scramble had taken us hours and Shi Shi beach seemed to be receding faster than we could approach.

Again ropes appeared to climb the bluffs to a section of trail around this impassible stretch of coast.  The trail wound through the ancient forest, on a spongy bed of needle loam that seemed yards deep in spots.  At times spectacular views would emerge, glimpses down the cliffs a hundred feet or more to rocky coves.  At times you had to climb down those same cliffs to small coves littered with driftwood, and then climb back up the other side.

At this point Shi Shi’s protective magic was out in force.  My camera battery began to fade, sometimes shutting down the camera before a photo had been saved.  Luckily I had a backup battery.  Unluckily it was completely dead too.  Now I know why pictures of Shi Shi seem rare!  You have to leave behind civilization and its servants Time and Technology to enter its secret realm.

At last we left the lush highlands and descended into a wonderland of stacks, arches, and caves called the Point of Arches.  We crept along the seaweed-slickened tidepools, entering one cove through a portal bored right through a headland.  Our slow and strenuous progress (over four hours to go under three miles) without much break was taking its toll, and with the sun minutes from sinking and more slick rocks ahead we opted to stop for the night right where we were - one headland "shy" of Shi Shi Beach itself.

After a scramble to set up tents on the sand as far from the tideline as possible (which wasn’t much) before dark fell completely, we took stock of our surroundings.  A more beautiful place could not be imagined, even after the high standard of the previous night.  House-sized boulders were plopped into a narrow strip of sand, backed by cliffs dense with overhanging vegetation, and rocky tidepools filling the cove at the evening low tide.  Each end of the cove extended westward in a series of sea stacks (I count 17) far out into the water, framing a fantastic sunset that stretched out for almost an hour.  My camera revived just long enough to take 2 parts of my planned 3-shot panorama.

The stars emerged brilliantly again, and after an awesome dinner (recipe follows) we roasted the remaining marshmallows by a cozy fire with our backs to the cliffs, our faces lit by the firelight as we gazed upward and outward, pointing out satellites and Perseid meteors to each other, and at last climbed into our tents and gratefully slept our exhaustion away.

Jon’s freezer bag Pulao: Put 1.5 cups of minute rice in a freezer bag with a few tablespoons of raisins.  In a dry skillet toast a few tablespoons of sliced almonds, a tablespoon of dried onion, about a teaspoon of Madras curry powder, half a teaspoon of salt and garam masala, a dash of cinnamon, cloves, and chile powder.  Add this mixture to the bag.  To cook, pour in 1.5 cups of hot water and let it sit for a few minutes.  Top with some chicken from a foil packet or can.  Season liberally with hunger and exhaustion and a good view, and enjoy!  Makes enough for about two people.

Aug 11th ??PM

[Pictures here.]

I love the fact that I don’t know what time it is, and could only guess accurate to a couple of hours based on the fact that the sun set some time ago.  Our progress took us increasingly into magical places, where time itself seemed to flow in waves like the tides that measure our journey.

But back to the day’s beginning.  After a leisurely awakening and breakfast, an even more leisurely clamber over some of the small sea stacks and tidepools made accessible by the negative morning tide, and an extended repacking and goodbye to half our number, I was stunned to find that the midday high tide had returned to fill the rocky bay.  At last we started down the beach. The tides are the only reason to pay attention to clock-time at all, as many of the headlands we skirt will be blocked during mid-afternoon’s high tide.

The clouds, perhaps lightened by the few sporadic attempts at drizzle during the night, had given way to a warm sun.  My pack felt heavy (it was nearly double my ultralight ideal of 24 pounds) and the beach was narrow and rocky.  We regularly encountered snags fallen across the width of the beach like whale skeletons, and we were forced to squeeze between these decaying ribs.  This only heightened the fact that we were free from trails and just walking on untracked sandy beach.

Seals (or more likely sea lions) sunned themselves on the tips of disappearing rocks until no rock was visible at all - just a seal floating on top of the calm water, holding head and flippers high to keep them dry until the tide irresistibly steals their claims.

A foretaste that we were in store for a steadily increasing dose of wilderness magic came as we approached a headland and came upon petroglyphs of orcas - smooth half-inch grooves in the face of a rock where the headland and beach meet.  The ancient markings looked practically fresh compared with the ancient landforms surrounding us.

Gen led us on a steep almost-trail toward the base of some rocky monoliths called Wedding Rocks.  The hands-and-feet path failed to place us at the summit, but instead wound between two of the monoliths and then stopped abruptly.  The narrow fern-filled gap was only a few feet wide, and faced a precipitous drop down the far side.  This summit proved just big enough for us to remove our packs and gobble crackers and cheese for lunch.  Our food is all stored in bear canisters, which are round and just the wrong size to get a bear claw or jaw around.  And also just the wrong size to handle with human paws.  We were careful not to let any of our canisters fumble away from us and down hundreds of feet on either side!

Sated and cooled, we descended from our tree-top viewpoint, availing ourselves of conveniently located ropes for the final scramble to the beach, which proved a bit wider and softer than our prior ones.

This beach widened even further at Cape Alava, where the water, protected by sea-stacks so large as to be given island names in their own right, became as still as glass.  What sounded like a motor we finally concluded was a constant hum of crowds of sea lions half a mile away.  The luminous mid-afternoon light reflecting off this mirrored surface, and the glowing of the humidity-laden air itself, provided an amazing foreground for the dark gray and green rock and forest formations offshore.  This magical glow would persist for the next two days - giving every step and action a fairy-tale quality.

Around the corner of the Cape, the beach remained wide and soft, tempting some of us to hike barefoot in the edge of the murmuring surf.  Time continued to ebb, flow, pause, to be measured in thoughts and light and feelings rather than in our everyday objective numerical quantities - a cause, or an effect, of an otherworldly aura that settled over the afternoon.

The tide was receding enough for us to skirt another headland, but a series of ropes leading up and over a narrow neck engaged our sense of adventure.  The far side of the headland increased still more in beauty and interest as the cliffs rose on our right.  Sea stacks rose offshore capable of inspiring Japanese gardeners to retire in humble awe.  As we approached the mouth of the Ozette River, seagulls and shore birds massed by the thousand.  The river felt warm and clean as we forded it’s modest flow with little risk.

As the north side of the river was our planned destination for the night, we headed up the beach to see what camping spots we could find, and immediately came across a spot more perfectly situated than we could possibly have envisioned.  It lay just behind the highest driftwood, with a view westward to the ocean and the Ozette River mouth, framed by a spectacular cliff.  The sheltered eastern side sloped down in a gravelly slope down to the penultimate bend in the Ozette River.  The camp site itself was a grassy patch between these two views, backing up on the north side to a point of forest. The spot was equipped with a fire pit, well placed logs for benches, and even a charmingly crude driftwood table.  We knew instantly we had found one of the best camping spots ever.  The universe had shown us where we belonged after a day far more strenuous than the mileage would suggest.

A quick dip in the cool river, a long stone-skipping competition, delicious hot soup cups for dinner, and a stroll down the beach surrounded by wheeling flocks of shorebirds, followed by an extended sunset, would have been sufficient to cap the perfect day, but we exceeded that definition of perfection by lighting a cheery campfire, roasting marshmallows, and watching the slow emergence of brilliant stars (a rare Washington treat.)

It was clear from the camaraderie of our party, the humor, and the frequent pauses to simply feel the wonder of being here, at this time out of time, with each other, that this was destined to be one of our most precious backpacking memories.

The closer we get the more the ancient landscape heightens our senses and lightens our spirits, in a way I’ve experienced only sporadically on other expeditions.  Does this Tolkeinesque spell flow from the reclusive Shi Shi Beach, concealed behind an impressively craggy headland a few miles north?  I would not be surprised to encounter elves tomorrow.

Aug 10th 9:30PM

[Pictures here.]

I think it must be about 9:30, but since I haven’t brought along a watch, I have no confirmation that it’s not much earlier or later.  Dark fell some time ago, but here at the western-most point of the continental US and the Pacific time zone, and with Canada lurking just out of sight to the north, and with a sky darkened by clouds, I don’t know if my sunny California estimate of dark at 8:45 holds.  The surroundings of tall firs and rainforest ferns, salal, huckleberry, abutting a coast of perpetually damp tide- and kelp-blackened boulders present an exotic palette to my summer-desiccated California senses.

We’ve come to this remote corner of the country to fulfil a long-standing desire - to backpack into a beach reportedly one of the most beautiful in the world - Shi Shi beach.  Far west of Seattle, behind the craggy masses of the Olympic Range, lies a stretch of coast protected from development by its remoteness and harsh landscape - where the steep temparate rainforest descends sharply to the Pacific.  This stretch of coast alternates beaches and coves with jutting headlands holding their positions against the relentless advances of their salty foe - the seemingly insignificant but constant forays of waves given crushing force by tidal surges twice a day, and compounded by furious winter blasts.  Over relentness geologic time scales, many of these headlands have faltered in their defense, leaving isolated sentinels of rock offshore bravely standing against their ultimate fall.  Among this rugged seascape, nestled just under Cape Flattery - Washington’s top-left corner - lies miles of coastline accessible only to the dedicated and adventurous.

I worked in Seattle for 10 years and never managed to explore the length of the beach although once a day hike took us to the northernmost end where a beach backed by rocky cliffs and illumined by a champagne-colored mist charmed us with it’s beauty and mystery.  We’ve wanted to return ever since to penetrate farther into that mist.

This year we had some time for adventure and since I spent a fair bit of time in the Sierras last year going farther afield was appealing.  To spend some time with my daughter (in Germany for most of last year’s adventuring) by doing something unusual and challenging, Shi Shi Beach bubbled up at last to the realm of possibility.

Shi Shi presents some obstacles - there is very little trail on this stretch of coast, requiring beach walking, one eye on tide tables to skirt the headlands, fording of a river, and even I’ve heard some ropes to help clamber over headlands even the lowest tides can’t accommodate.  What’s not to like?

In our party are my wife and I, my daughter Genevieve and her friend Anna from Germany, and my brother.  For tonight only we’re also accompanied by my other daughter, my sister-in-law and her two kids, and another friend.

We’re starting at Ozette Lake trailhead, heading generally north for about 20 miles over the next four days.  From Seattle starting with the 9:30 AM Bainbridge Island Ferry, stopping for permits and bear canisters at the Olympic Wilderness Information Center in Port Angeles, most of our party was on the trail before 4, but the car shuttle my brother and I did delayed our start until 6PM - a long day’s driving (did you imagine Seattle was close to the Pacific Ocean?)

This first night was a short 1 hour (3 mile) hike though a mossy forest to Sand Point, a popular overnight destination.  There are quite a few campers here (it is after all a Saturday night in August) but we expect to leave almost all behind as we trade the trail for coastal rambling.

We enjoyed foil packets of Indian dishes while leaning against driftwood on the beach.  Though the sky is layered in cloud we watched the subtle shifting of unnameable hues of blue and gray, and a few flashes of orange over the silvery-smooth bay, which turned out to be a satisfying sunset experience even without actually seeing the sun.

Now I’m certain we’re somewhere into the double-digits of PM as I scrawl these recollections.  The sleepy murmurs and goodnight songs of my companions have faded away, leaving only the soft crashing of the surf and the strengthening breeze in the fir tops, to lull the wildness to sleep - and to include me in it’s mothering embrace.  Tomomrrow, we leave the trail and strike out north along the beach, to immerse ourselves ever deeper into the wilderness in search of the elusive Shi Shi beach.

Finally getting some of my photo backlog organized, starting with our spring break camping trip to the Anza Borrego desert east of San Diego.  A barren place, but with lots of gems of interest tucked away for those willing to seek them out - from palm oases, petroglyphs, rock formations, blooming ocotillo stands, the rare and mysterious elephant trees, ghost towns, hot springs.  Quite an interesting place, more interesting than my photos were able to capture, but like the desert I think there are a few gems hidden within nonetheless!

Just posted a few photos from last weekend’s trip to Tuscon for the Tuscon Gem and Mineral Show, a city-wide collection of gem, mineral, and fossil collectors and wholesalers from around the world.

Most of the shots are from a hike through Saguaro National Park, and a tour through the practically abandoned Biosphere 2.  Many curious stories behind that expensive experiment!  (I didn’t say failed experiment!  You can’t make me say failed experiment!)

The desert around Tuscon is a pretty lush ecosystem, with jumbles of desert flora everywhere - my photos attempt to make some visual sense of the landscape.  The colors, even in this season in-between hot and wet.

Enjoy.

Got my Tahoe Rim Trail patch in the mail today from the Tahoe Rim Trail Association, confirming my application that I’d done the whole trail.

I’m number #565 to register my completion of the trail.  I’m sure I’ll be posted on the official list soon.

I think I’ll sew it onto my backpack ;-).

Still working slowly through my summer photo backlog.  Today I was going over some August photos taken during an amazing couple of evenings camping in Washoe Valley between Tahoe Rim Trail segments.  Amazing skies - and as usual the photos are a poor substitute for being there, but a few capture some fraction of the drama of a desert thunderstorm.  See the whole set here.

[Written 10/7 3PM; completed photoset here.]

Aloha from Aloha Lake!  I’m sitting in the sun at water’s edge squinting into the high altitude sun, which warms my front and compliments the cool east wind at my back.  My bubbling pot holds Ramen spiked with chinese sausage.  It’ll be ready in a moment, but my exhaustion mingles with the sun and with memories of these fourteen days, bringing the meaning of my trail experience into focus.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  First thing to tell you, in case it isn’t obvious by now, is that I survived the night!  In fact, I was nowhere near cold, and even through I kept my jacket and cap nearby, I slept comfortably through the night.  Well, comfortably if you don’t count waking up a dozen times with different kinds of muscle soreness and stiffness from the hard ground.  But comfortably if you count 8+ hours of actual sleep.

As the dawn brightened and the clock approached 7AM, I deemed it light enough to peek out, and a wonderland awaited me.  My tent was covered in a fur of frost, as were the surrounding bushes and rocks, but the sun was just coming up over Middle Velma, backlighting the mist rising from the calm, reflective surface.  Clouds clung to the surrounding peaks and hills, patterning the hills with light and shadow, and I scrambled around for half an hour or more taking pictures.

[Testing the Ramen, it's now cooked but still a little too hot to gobble down.]

Although we wanted an early start, to put some mileage and elevation behind us, by the time I stopped ooohing and ahhhing, scraped the frost off my tent and packed, it was nearly 8AM, later than I would have liked with over 17 rugged miles ahead of us.

Rather than take the trail through for a mile through forest, we skirted cross-country around the scenic edges of Middle and Upper Velma and climbed the long 45 degree granite sluice down which the overflow of Fontanillis cascades.  At the top is of course Fontanillis Lake, one of the most beautiful of the Sierra alpine lakes, wedged in between granite cliffs on both sides and backed by scree and snowfields sweeping up to Dick’s peak, still shrouded in cloud.

As we rejoined the trail and started around the lake, some fool started whooping and though we tried to ignore him and continue our way, it turned out not to be a fool at all, but none other than Coy, come in last night from Emerald Bay to cater our breakfast!  Actually it was originally the plan to meet him somewhere in the Velma Basin the first night and do part of the remaining trail together, but the forecast had frightened him off.  Or so I thought.  A sparkling morning in the valley had caused a rethink, hurried packing, and a few messages on cell phones, but we were (and still are) out of cell range to pick up his message and thus missed him last night.

In lieu of radio communication, he had reverted to Boy Scout, and neatly blocked off the trail with a pile rocks and the word "Coy" formed from twigs.  Unfortunately we had cleverly bypassed that part of the trail with our cross-country route.  We did pass by close enough for him to hear us chatting and he alertly came to investigate.

After introductions, we went back to his camp, carefully chosen in a grassy, willowy nook between granite massifs looking south over the length of Fontanillis, surely one of the most beautiful spots in the world at this precise moment, and he piled out over-ample breakfast provisions - bagels with cream cheese & lox, chips & fresh salsa, hot drinks.  Having postponed breakfast to await of a warmer spot, I did a credible job of helping lighten his return load!  We convinced Coy to come as far as Dick’s Pass with us, and began again to grunt and plod under our packs while he strolled along, packless, sipping from an oversize coffee mug.  Coy knows how to enjoy the wilderness!

Due to the further, albeit quite welcome, delay of breakfast, we didn’t reach Dick’s Pass until noon.  The view south from Dick’s pass is absolutely one of the most amazing spectacles one can experience in one’s lifetime.  Surrounded by jutting, ragged 10K+ peaks are nearly a dozen lakes, most directly Half Moon Lake (shaped as you would expect, so steeply below us that we can look right into the green depths), Susie Lake (surrounded by crumbling red cliffs), and in the distance silvery Aloha Lake backed by the equally silvery Pyramid peak.  The clouds were breaking up but continued to blow by, tracing shadows across the cliffs and spotlighting new amazements we were to overwhelmed to even notice on first look.  Even the rocky outcropping we stood on was fantastically painted in lichen, and nearby stood clumps of ancient junipers, stunted and weatherworn.  Such a sight is fitting as our final summit of the Tahoe Rim Trail.

But we still have a ways to go, and we wave goodbye to Coy far too soon and pick up our pace on the downward traverse.  We pass Gilmore Lake, Susie Lake, and Heather Lake in perpetual motion.  I think I once calculated the TRT was about half a million steps…

[The Ramen's now perfect - I must turn my attention to that for a moment.]

[3:30]

The Ramen is finished, the sun is starting to get alarmingly low on the horizon even though it’s not even 4PM.  This whole section has felt like impending twilight, with the October sun never settling in overhead were it sat so naturally just a few weeks ago.  Shadows remain long even in midday, and the slanting sunlight backlights the browning grasses and yellow and red leaves of fall.  But these colors are not all filled with sadness.  It seems to me that the high country is not just resigned to, but preparing and even primping for the pure thick blanket of snow that will visit soon.

If I don’t get going soon the last probably agonizing miles will be cloaked in darkness.  Yet still I tarry, though Art is now far ahead, to savor these last few hours of my sojourn in this amazing landscape.  Lake Aloha is a fitting place for the final installment of this journey.  The landscape is barren, a wilderness, yet the air is sparklingly clear; just as I have become emptied, yet more transparent to myself.  Aloha means hello, but also goodbye.  I feel this is where I bid the trail "aloha."

This trail is not easy.  The landscape it traverses is ever varied, with mountaintop views and sheer cliffs, dotted with lakes and streams, covered in a profusion of life simultaneously hearty and delicate.  It’s an unending, genius, detailed, majestic, peaceful, manic, Japanese garden.  The trail has it’s ups and downs, it’s steep gains of elevation and level stretches.  The trail winds ever through this landscape, and in time it winds through your being.

The trail places demands on you.  It demands you bring yourself as unadorned with baggage as you can manage.  It demands your persistence.  It demands your attention and energy, which investment is returned with compounded interest.  The trail demands your complacency, which it keeps and never returns (although you can regrow it if you’re not careful).  It demands your time, and the patience of those who have laid claim to it, and it gives you back timeless experiences.  It demands your spontaneity and your flexibility as much as it demands organization and preparation.  It demands your sweat, your skin (generally on your feet), and at times the very breath of your lungs.  The trail isn’t mean, neither is it unforgiving - it just is.

Maybe this is just my own journey.  I can’t know what the trail will take from you or give back to you until you’ve finished it.  Maybe for you the trail will only take away a little body fat and give you blisters in return.  Maybe you will quit after the trail has demanded a price but before it turns generous again.  But I do believe that if you approach the trail open, ready for the exchange, and stick it out till the end, that the trail will give much more than it takes.  Approach the trail with a heart filled with wonder, gratitude, humility.  Through this inner landscape, calling you to leave what’s ready to be left behind, to strive for what’s ahead, you will find the trail running.

The shadows lengthen even further across the boulders of Aloha.  It’s time to hit it, with renewed energy, for one last stretch of trail in the waning autumn sun.  This amazing, treacherous, inspiring trail.  This trail through through the wilderness.  This Tahoe Rim Trail.

[Mileage: 174.5 | 17.5]

[Written Oct 6, 7PM. Picture here.]

This is it!  I’ve embarked on the final section of the Tahoe Rim Trail at last.  Interruptions from weather, shifting jobs, and various scheduling conflicts have made getting back on the final section of trail difficult.  Maybe I’m being selfish reserving a couple of days against a multitude of competing activities.  Maybe my ego is stroked by being able to say I’ve done the TRT.  But maybe I still have a little to learn about the trail, and about myself.  Maybe I won’t really know why I need to finish it, or whether it was unimportant, until the trail is complete.  In any case, I reserved a block of time, a minimal two days, and held it inviolable against all worthy demands.

Besides holding firm on a block of time, I also had to make sure that nothing, and no-one, could prevent me from moving forward.  I needed a support crew, especially for a car shuttle, one as motivated as I was to make this happen.  A few interested parties considered, but ultimately rejected, the prospect.

Fortunately, a support crew found me.  Art Clark, a fellow TRT aspirant with, like me, only this final longest section remaining, found my TRT photos on Flickr and contacted me about coordinating our attempts, allowing us the mutual support of car shuttling, company, and safety in numbers.  He was fortunately flexible enough on the dates to match mine, and as motivated to finish as I.

That persistence was good because the weather was unsettled enough to scare off the undermotivated.  Forecasts called for scattered show showers and thunderstorms, sub-freezing nights (~25°), and daytime highs not much above freezing.  A couple of inches of snow at higher elevations the day before made these forecasts credible.  Friday night, and possibly a good chunk of the day, looked decidedly unpleasant.

Art, however, was as undeterred (desperate?) as I was, and we agreed to attempt the section, meeting at 7AM at Echo Lake to drop off a car and make our way to the Barker Pass trailhead.

By the time we got to Barker Pass, and on the trail, it was about 8:30 and the sun was shining brightly from a spotless sky over the Tahoe Basin.  As we began our hike, steam rose into the chilly air from the frost-covered brown shreds of the mule ears, quite different from the profuse bloom when I was here last - now almost two months ago.

The sun warmed us quickly and we didn’t need more than a single layer to keep warm as we descended gradually through forest scattered with cold grey granite boulders and yellowing ferns, arriving at Richardson Lake at about 11.  Richardson Lake was surrounded by stands of aspen just forgoing their late summer green for yellow, and the shores are choked with meadows of willow and alder also well into their fall costumes.  By now dramatic clouds were appearing.  Sunbreaks tracked across the meadows and hills around the lake, and I became so engaged in trying to capture this uncapturable moment, that as we circumnavigated the lake we missed the turn-off to the trail.  We continued on a worn and tortured logging road, following the GPS back towards the trail.  Eventually we did a brief cross-country stint and got back on track.

Pleasant chatter carried us along, at times swiftly and at times (uphills) painstakingly slow and gulping the thin air.  By about 12:30 we had passed the boundary of Desolation Wilderness and the granite expanse of the Rubicon Valley stretched out below us to the west.  We ate lunch looking down the glacial-polished slope scattered with boulders and a few hardy trees growing in cracks towards Rockbound Lake.

The cloud cover increased, providing some dramatic views of the nearing peaks of Desolation, and the temperature began to drop.  At about 3PM we passed through a rather dense fir grove just as little plates of ice began to fall.  Thunder rolled down the granite valleys and soon a shower of pea-sized snowballs began.  We took shelter under some trees, thinking the shower would be over shortly, but after about 10 minutes a layer of white covered the unexposed ground with no sign of an early letup.

Strangely, I had a sense that this shower had gone on long enough for our amusement - any more would have led to concern rather than wonderment - and I stated "That’s enough of that."  It wasn’t a demand or even an observation, but within seconds the shower ceased.  I knew intuitively that it wasn’t a false break, and hoisted pack and moved on, under dry skies.

Even though the shower was brief it turned out to be widespread, and for the next five or more miles the ground was dusted with fallen snow.  We were both pretty cold and exhausted as we picked our way down the trail to Middle Velma Lake, and when we gladly found a number of test spots slightly damp but otherwise untouched by the snow, we gratefully lowered our packs to the ground.

Velma was stunning.  From the shore we watched sunbreaks trace along the still water and small islands of Middle Velma and dance in the surrounding hills for a while, but soon darkness began to fall and we turned to pitching camp and cooking dinner.

Art and I are now gratefully tucked into our tents and muffled in down, and expecting a long, quiet, and quite chilly, night.  I threw a novel in my pack as I left this morning, and it will keep me company after signing off here.  If all goes well, I’ll stay warm, sleep deeply, and be refreshed by dawn for the exciting culmination of my TRT quest.

[Mileage: 157.0 | 15.0]

[Pictures here.]

Since I didn’t quite finish Section 6, we came up with a plan that was light on hiking (for those with whining tendencies) but high on views and interest.

First we stopped by the Taylor Creek Visitor’s Center, to see if the salmon were running the stream yet.  The unique Kokanee salmon turn bright red and return to this creek to spawn each fall, and I thought we might see a few along the Rainbow Trail.  Alas, we were a few weeks too early for the salmon, and just saw a few trout and bluegill.

However, the path which winds through aspen groves punctuating a grassy meadow wasn’t without interest.  I was especially intrigued by the aspen bark, not just the old carvings scabbed over until many are unreadable and delightfully abstract, but also the natural scars associated with old branches, shaped like Count Olaf’s ankle tattoo.

After that, we drove up to Echo Lake to take the water taxi to the far end of Echo Lake, only to find that the season had just ended and the last boat was headed up the driveway towards it’s winter storage.  A helpful resident named Steve agreed to give us a lift to the far end anyway, and we had a nice walk back only the granite massif constituting the north shore of the lake, admiring the diminutive cabins (accessible by water only) tucked in around the shore.

Again the air, sky and light were pristine, the terrain exquisite, and the ancient flora fascinating.  I could go on and on, but you really just had to be there - or as a poor substitute look at the pictures.

After that I did the short bit left up from Echo Lake to Echo Summit, where I started the previous day, completing the entire section, plus a little bonus mileage.

[Mileage: 142.0 | 4.5 (not including the boat ;-)]

[Pictures here.]

Fall temperatures come quickly in the high country.  We managed to set aside three days to do the Echo Lakes to Barker Pass section (Section 7), in which the four of us would do 15 miles, and I’d do another 16 on my own.  But nighttime temperatures forecast around 13 degrees stretched the limit of our gear, and exceeded the limit of our enthusiasm (except for mine ;-).

In the end we opted to try for day-hiking only, taking on the shorter Section 6, from Echo Summit to Big Meadow.  I would start at Echo Summit, make good time around to Round Lake, where I’d meet the rest of the crew coming in for an afternoon hike.

My "early start" by the time we got going, got bagels, got there, got the trekking poles I noticed I’d left in the car three minutes into the hike, turned into a "midmorning start" (10:30).  I took off at a good clip, and quite quickly found that acclimatizing a month ago doesn’t do much good.  I was sucking air big time, nursing a headpounder, and going slower and slower for the first couple of hours.

Maybe it was my state, but the scenery wasn’t much to distract me, though I found a few amazing trees and rock formations.  And it all felt pretty much uphill.

After 5 miles or so though, the trail emerges from the forest into the broad bowl of the Upper Truckee River, surrounded by ridges of volcanic conglomerate, with rounded granite outcroppings bubbling up through the meadows and low willow stands.  Still a few snow fields along the rims, feeding rushing brooks that cross the trail at regular intervals - some sporting evidence of recent freezing activity.

Until this point, my photographs were excuses for a few second breather, but now, with head cleared and breath returned, I had to slow down to take shots every few hundred yards.  The air was stunningly transparent, especially after living for a week in the haze of the Ralston Fire.  The profusion of wildflowers present earlier in the year has largely given way, to mature grasses fading to a bronzy gold, and the terrain and vegetation changed every few dozen yards, the incredible variety keeping me, and my camera, moving along.

I came upon Showers Lake at 10 minutes to two (putting me an hour or two behind my overly optimistic schedule.)  Not expecting much from the rather lame pictures in The Tahoe Rim Trail Guide (I’ve become convinced the photos they chose are intended not to inspire with the prime scenes, but not to give away the "endings"), I found Showers Lake surprisingly beautiful.  Although most of the lakes I’ve encountered on the trail have something special about them, this is definitely one of the worthiest of repeat visits!

I twisted my knee slightly just before reaching the lake, but only allowed it a 10 minute rest since I was feeling time pressure.  So on I went, this time gently downhill for the next five miles, much of which was through the broad golden Meiss Meadows, largely golden at this time of year, with the Upper Truckee bordered by willow patches meandering through them.  At the southernmost part of the trail (and of the whole Rim Trail) are a couple of "Cowboy Cabins", apparently leftover from the days of running cattle in the high country for the summer.  Now that would be a great summer job!

I pulled up to Round Lake at 3:30, found my kids swinging from a tree, and had a snack and (finally) a bit of  a break.  My plan to spend the morning making mileage and the afternoon with the kids had gotten skewed pretty badly, as the sun was already slanting ever more steeply into the west.

I made good use of my trekking poles in favoring my knee through bouldery patches, as we wound back down through Big Meadow, with it’s remaining photo ops, and back to the camper.  Cleaned up a little and went out for fajitas - then made our way to a campground at Emerald Bay for a cozy night (the camper has a thermostat-controlled heater) of the game Settlers of Catan and a long sleep.

I can’t quite call this section complete without the Echo Lake to Echo Summit bit, but I plan to do that in the morning.

All-in-all, after well over 100 miles, I’m still amazed at the beauty and variety of this trail.  And I suspect the best parts, through Desolation Valley, are still ahead.

[Mileage: 137.5 | 15.3]

[Written Aug 6, 1PM.  Pictures here.]

A couple of miles out of Star Lake, we came across a trail leading to Freel Peak.  We’d debated whether to attempt to summit it all morning and having a marked trail made our minds up - we’d climb it!  At 10,880 feet, Freel is the highest peak around the Tahoe Basin, and promised views of the whole of Lake Tahoe, the Carson Valley, and valleys and ranges southward.  We cached our packs and set off.

The trail was varied and fascinating.  We switchbacked through a lodgepole forest with maximum height of about five feet.  We tiptoed along the top of chutes with snowfields and scree sweeping down into a rocky bowl.  We inched across a gravelly saddle with tiny alpine flowers and mosses clinging to the lee side of lichen-blotched rocks.  At last we scrambled up the rock pile that constitutes the official summit to be pestered by a well-trained chipmunk.  The view was not disappointing!  Perhaps the next challenge is to identify each 10,000 foot plus peak surrounding Tahoe and climb them - both Freel and Relay peaks were spectacular.

Around 11AM, the breeze suddenly freshened, and Freel began once again to spin off clouds.  We began the long descent to Armstrong Pass.  The descent was characteristic of this section - a trail cut high into the side of a steep bowl.  Numerous creeks gurgle down the steep slope, surrounded by oases of delphinium, columbine, lupine, fireweed, horse parsley, and small alder trees.  Between streams, as we descended below 9000 feet, the profusion of wildflowers common to other sections resumes.

We’ve stopped for lunch at the base of Fountain Face, a cracked and rounded protrusion of granite that rises a couple of hundred feed above the trail, reminding me of the contours of Uluru.  Coy makes some abortive attempts to climb some of it, while I try to photographically enhance his progress.

[5PM]

Ahhh.  I’m stretched out on my sleeping pad, back against a half-submerged boulder, at the edge of Freel Meadows.  The weather alternates every five minutes between warm sun, cool shade, and a few chill sprinkles.  The meadow is broad and boggy, and filled of course with copious wildflowers and with short stands of willow at the edges.

From the Face to here involved completing the descent to Armstrong Pass, several miles of steady uphill to gain back 600 feet we’d already shed, and then a couple more miles winding along a ridgetop, with classic views south into a valley surrounded by it’s own clutch of rock peaks still sporting snowfields, and views northward from the rim of a rocky bowl called Hell Hole (not the Hell Hole Reservoir 20 miles away on the west side of Desolation Valley).  Beyond Hell Hole is another view of the Upper Truckee basin and the Lake.

The moisture of the meadow is bringing out mosquitoes for the first time in this stretch, but a few squirts of spray has abated their annoyance.  I’m grateful mosquitoes have been a non-issue for most of the trail so far!

We’re resting in the sun for a half-hour to decide whether to push past our comfort level (which we had actually already passed somewhere in the previous 11 miles, or 2500 ft elevation gain) and to do the remaining five miles or camp here despite the mozzies, scrounge the dregs of our food supplies, and hike out in the morning.

[8:45PM]

Pulled my headlamp out for the last half mile, as we reached the car just as darkness was falling in earnest.  Changed shoes.  Ate pizza.  Home…

[Mileage: 16.4 | 122.2]

[Written Aug 5th, 8PM.  Pictures here.]

Today was full of wonders, maybe the perfect backpacking day yet!

This section, Kingsbury Grade to Big Meadow, encircles the southeast corner of the Lake.  My new friend Coy and I are doing it as "guy’s day out".  We met at Big Meadow and did the car shuttle for an 11AM start at the Kingsbury end.  I am a bit embarrassed to say, but I made Coy walk with me the mile-plus of pavement up to the trailhead so I can keep my claim intact of walking all the way around Tahoe.

From the trailhead up under the Heavenly Valley ski lifts, we chatted amiably and the first five passed quickly, bringing me past the 100-mile mark!  Suddenly we were traversing a steep slope that dropped off 3000 feet to the Carson Valley floor.  Minden, Gardnerville, Carson City to the north, set among streams and hayfields colored purple in blotches as clouds rolled overhead, spawned by Freel Peak.

The dramatic Carson Valley views persisted up to a broad sandy saddle called Monument Pass.  As we emerged from the pass Freel Peak appeared, framed by whimsical boulder formations below and by emerging thunderclouds above.  Job’s Sister, slightly lower than Freel but with a more dramatic face of cliffs and snowfields, also became visible.

As we approached these thunderheads, traversing the ridge on the Upper Truckee side, they began to throw a few large, sharply-cold drops our way.  The sky to the west was still clear blue and we surmised the sun-shiny shower wouldn’t last the proverbial half-hour.  But it did, and turned into a gradual intermittent sprinkle through most of the afternoon.

Soon we entered a high saddle of old-growth juniper trees - not dramatically tall but with impressive girths.  They reminded me of baobab trees, or something from Myst.  We took shelter under one as we heard a rushing sound approaching and sat for a few minutes as the sprinkling intensified into a downpour - even a few hailstones.  Thunder rolled in slow crescendoes from the east.

We finished the last bit of trail to Star Lake, chose a tent spot not already occupied by a tent, and enjoyed a warm nap in the sun.  We could still see a few drops making rings in the water’s otherwise still surface, but not really feel anything.

Cooling our feet in the chilly lake water felt good, and we established our kitchen on flat lake-side rocks with views both of the peaks to the southeast, and the setting sun to the west.  We dined elegantly on avocado stuffed with cherry tomatoes and imitation Crab, Morrocan Couscous with sun-dried cherry tomatoes, pine nuts and curry, and with an envelope of Palak Paneer over rice - leaving us both stuffed and mellow.

I write this under the last color of the setting sun - not overly dramatic as the clouds have by now almost all wandered off eastward, but with still waters disturbed only by jumping fish, and by the reflection of the almost-full moon rising large between the dual peaks of Job’s Sister.

How else could such a perfect day end?

[Mileage: 10.5 | 105.8]