Center Basin Creek - Tyndall Frog Ponds via Forrester Pass
Yesterday, in Vidette Meadow, we struck up a conversation with a man leading a pack of mules through the basin. Hearing that we were going up Forrester, he proceeded to give a lecture on how it had always been a hard pass – but this year it would be nasty. Just nasty.
With a sense of foreboding we slowly dismantled camp. I was feeling extra glum. My pack was heavy, I’d acquired three blisters out of nowhere, and my iffy nose climaxed in our tent last night. I’d used a single, precious, sheet of toilet paper to blow – really blow it – while reading in the tent. Blood sputtered everywhere, all over my sleeping pad and hands. Aaaargh!
Forrester Pass, at 4000 m, is practically two passes in one and takes half a day to traverse.
I whined pathetically all morning. Unlike the other passes, Forrester was no morning ordeal. We climbed and climbed, drank electrolyte water, gobbled M&Ms, gasped for oxygen as we passed 3700 m (the height of Pinchot), 3800, 3900… The high altitude moonscape started almost right out of camp, such was the elevation level.
And then, after heaving ourselves up an almost vertical snow field covered in pink algae, we were there. A small rocky outcrop, the highest point on the Pacific Crest Trail. We had made it. I was brimming with pride. I felt like a Patagonia advert. Remembered back to sitting in bed back home in the spring of 2016, deciding to “become a real hiker”. And now look, killing it on one of America’s great trails at 4000 m! I hiked the JMT to test whether I could do big hikes, whether I was the real outdoor deal. And standing with my hand on the elevation marker beside my beloved Osprey, I knew I was made of the tough stuff. That I could achieve this form of greatness.
The final ascent.
The view was incredible. Bighorn Plateau spread out in the distance, the mountains to the south growing progressively smaller towards the end of the Sierra.
Going down was easy as can be, and we enjoyed a vast open space with a creek for lunch. Freda, Jeff and a fat marmot joined us for lunch, and we also met a charmingly sarcastic Brit living in San Francisco: Philip.
Me: “So what do you think of the whole Brexit mess? The pound has plummeted lately…”. Philip: “What the f*ck did they expect when they voted like idiots?” My kind of guy.
Philip, Jeff and Freda hiked with us past Tyndall Creek and we set up our next-to-last camp together. A group of other hikers joined us for a sunset lakeside dinner and humorous discussions about food and America. I dug into my lasagne with freeze dried broccoli on the side, this girl ain’t gonna starve no more!
Philip heading down the switchbacks on the south side of Forrester Pass
The overhang that is Forrester from the south. I’d rather do another trail than do the JMT NOBO.
Just before bedtime, I headed off a little way from camp to pee and brush my teeth. I smiled at how terrified I would have been of bears in this situation a couple of weeks ago. Toothbrush in hand, I stopped to look out through the trees towards the sunset and the mountains on the horizon. We are so close to finishing. Two more days, one last camp, and we are through. Standing there in the golden twilight, tangled mess of hair and salt crystals on my face from today’s sweating, I thought of how much I actually love performing these little rituals in the wild. How much I love devouring a freeze-dried dinner while laughing with newfound friends. How much I love this trail, every excruciating inch of it.
I felt profoundly grateful for the opportunity to experience these vast landscapes. There have been 19 sunrises and sunsets in California since we began this hike, and we have seen them all. Talk about putting yourself in the way of beauty. How wonderful it feels to be a part of this extraordinary place, living this extraordinary life. How wild! I think I will be back someday.
