I stand up from filtering water and almost fall over. My brain went blank for a second and then turned back on. The process of filtering water is fairly easy. It is essentially scooping water and then pushing it through a plastic tube into our bottles. It is not exerting and certainly should not be causing the lack of oxygen I just experienced. I shake it off and begin to walk back up to camp. Stars start to swirl and my legs are on fire despite the casual incline and my incredibly slow pace.
We are at the end of Day 2 camped high, over 11,000 feet. I chalk up my condition to the efforts of the past two days. Both metered in with over 7,000 feet of climbing and over 20 miles each. We’ve been moving fast and hard for 48 hours at high elevation. It is not surprising that I am tired and fatigued. I know the elevation is taking a toll, but I tell myself that we will drop in the morning and my body will readjust.
Back at the tent, Mama Bear is relaxing and getting dinner ready. It’s early evening and the sun is just about to drop below the granite spires. There’s a tiny bit of moisture and the sky is going off. I smile. Any concern I had disappears and I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere but here.
Audacious
The word keeps repeating in my head.
Mama Bear and I have a loose rotation for planning trips. This one was hers and she planned the shit out of it. I stayed out of the way and kind of just nodded in approval any time she asked me if I thought it would work. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks prior that I started to look at the plan. Getting through Day 1, well that was going to be a challenge that just led into 8 days of challenge.
Day 1 was 24 miles. It started at Roads End in King’s Canyon and went straight up. 7,000 feet of straight up to Granite Pass. And then the best part, it would then drop that same 7,000 feet back to the valley floor. A big day. Bigger than most and it was just the start. Each day would be close to 20 miles, if not a bit more and every day had a pass over 10,000 feet we would have to climb. Some days had two passes.
Light and fast. That was what this trip was all about. Get up early and move all day. That’s where the 20-mile days came from. If we plan for 20, we end up walking most of the day and never find ourselves sitting and staring at each other wishing we could keep moving. That’s one thing about Mama Bear and I, we like to move. The meditation and engrossment in nature we experience is magnified by walking. That isn’t to say we don’t enjoy a good star gaze, or sitting around the campfire with friends, we just like to move a little bit more than we like those things. There is a sense of accomplishment in just walking all day, witnessing the terrain as the miles click by and the elevation is accumulated.
Our plan gave us 1 resupply. This resupply had a hard cutoff meaning we had to get to the trailhead by 3 pm on Day 4. The original plan had us hiking 18 miles over Kersarge Pass to get there in time. That’s a big day. A big day that would be incredibly difficult to guarantee that we would make it by the hard cutoff. This is how we ended up camped below Mathers Pass on Day 2. We were making a little extra mileage to get us closer to that hard cutoff.
The last 4,000 feet of descent on Day 1 happened in 3.5 miles. We walked to the edge of a giant ass canyon and then more or less slid our way to the bottom. With every step we would drop a couple of feet. The trail was loose, steep and unkempt. As my legs got more and more tired, the word kept repeating itself. Over and over and over and over. Not as my mantra, but more as a reminder to keep moving as there was only one way to get to our resupply on time and that was to forward momentum.
Audacious.
HAPE – High Altitude Pulmonary Edema
Our first attempt on the John Muir Trail ended on Day 3.
I had wiggled my way out of having a full month off of work for this trip in 2015. Mama Bear had procured the permits and we had everything laid out ahead of us. We started the day with a resupply. Our packs were well stocked as we headed up our first big pass. As we approached the bottom of said pass, I just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t get going, my legs felt like lead, and I couldn’t breathe. I assumed I just needed to eat and eventually said something and stopped for some Ramen. It didn’t help.
KB knew something was not right and once we camped, about half way up the pass, she found a nurse camped close by who came by and checked me over. He couldn’t find anything wrong and suggested I be sure to stay hydrated. I drank a bunch of Gatorade and water and started to feel better. So naturally, I had a couple shots of whiskey before heading to bed.
Then the coughing started.
After a few false starts and some tears, Mama Bear got me turned around and we headed down as quickly as I could move which was pretty damn slow. With every foot down, I started to feel better and we eventually made it to the ranger station. He said there was nothing he could do for us other than give us some cardboard and a marker. We made a sign and hitch hiked to the hospital in Mammoth. After a check over, they sent me off with some drugs, an order to rest for a bit and then I could continue. We were stoked. We got a hotel and then some dinner and settled in to rest from a very stressful couple of days. KB passed out. I could not relax and soon bubbling noises were coming any time I breathed deep, and then any time I breathed. I started hacking up some of the nastiest goop. I got Kathleen up, handed her a cell phone and told her to dial 911 but to not hit call. If I collapsed on the way to the ER, she should hit that button.
Walking through the Haze
We started Day 3 of the Big SEKI by dropping.
From the base of Mathers, we had a couple thousand feet to drop before climbing up and over Pinchot Pass. I awoke the way you would expect, completely smoked. I knew the elevation was kicking my ass, but I just kept hoping the drop that awaited us would get me back into moving. We had flown over the previous days’ passes. As we hit the low point and turned to start the climb up Pinchot, I knew this one was going to be different. Any exertion left me lightheaded and gassed. I felt like I was dragging a weight behind me, but we got to the top, took a couple of photos and then began the long drop down.
I began to feel better the lower we got. When we stopped for lunch, I was exhausted but felt like I could breathe, and it was going to be ok. We were getting close to one of Kathleen’s biggest motivators for doing this trip, the Swimming Hole. At this point, we were on the JMT which we had completed two years ago. We had found a pool just off the trail that was as perfect of a swimming hole as you could find. KB wanted nothing more than to swim in that pool. We stopped and jumped in. The cold water felt good and I hoped it would finish clearing out the cobwebs that had begun to slip to the back of my thoughts.
My alarm is set for 3:00 AM and I can’t sleep because my brain is wallowing in the unknown.
We made it to the suspension bridge after the Swimming Hole. The initial revitalization I felt, soon disappeared. I took a nap and felt some bubbles in my chest. I popped some Dexamethasone hoping to clear things out. After an hour of rest, we attempted to head up to Rae Lakes which had been our goal putting us well within reach of that hard cutoff for our resupply. It was 4 miles away and about 1300 feet of up. On flat ground, I felt ok, not great, but doable. With even two steps upward and my vision would blur, my legs would light up like they were sprinting and my breathing was incredibly labored.
We both knew what that meant, but neither of us wanted to admit we were back in this position. The bridge is at about 9000 feet and Rae Lakes is over 10K. We were back and forth for about 30 minutes until neither of us could deny the fact that I could not go up at that moment. We returned to the bridge and set up camp. All of our efforts to get ahead and make that resupply dissolved in that one decision. We were back to having an 18-mile day with two passes to climb that had to be done by 3 pm.
With the tent up, I attempted to nap, but all I could do was think about the fact that we should be moving forward. I even try to get Mama Bear to agree to try to head up to the lake again. Soon we settle on the plan that we will get up at 3 am and bust out the 18 miles, assuming that I can.
Bubbles
I tossed and turned as the sun slowly dropped over the horizon. My brain won’t stop. I’m worried about the elevation. I’m worried about the number of miles. I’m worried about what happens if we go up and I don’t get to come back down. Lying in bed, I feel pretty good. I can breathe. I’m tired, but still excited to continue. I feel somewhat confident that our plan is going to work. We can hit the resupply and worst-case scenario we end up hitching a ride to the hotel if we miss it. The subdued excitement of the crowd gathering around us to camp stokes my own energy, but I finally doze off with the resolve to get ‘er done in the morning.
And then I have to tinkle.
I roll over and try to get out of the tent. My brain blanks just like it did when I was filtering water below Mathers Pass. Getting out of bed leaves me breathing hard and my legs are burning. I chalk it up to the last 3 days’ effort and slowly meander to a tree to relieve myself. I take a deep breath and that crackle is there. I check again, yup. The bubbles in my chest are forming, an indication that my body has begun to drown from the inside out as my lungs are beginning to fill with my body’s own fluids.
I check again. Yup. I know what this means, but still don’t want to admit it to myself. We did all the things. We trained at elevation. We were in shape. No alcohol. All of the items that had allowed me to return to elevation for the past several years. I even popped the steroids, but I also knew that waiting to use them means you don’t go up, you just buy yourself time to go down. I refuse the diagnosis and head back to bed. Seeing that I am an old man, this scene is repeated in a couple of hours, same results, but more bubbles. Things are building and I know it. The second trip back to the tent and I am walking like I am drunk and it is all I can do to keep moving.
What was only a few seconds feels like minutes, but I make it back to bed and get myself situated. I know what the answer is, but still hesitate to inform Kathleen. She has worked so hard on this trip. We’ve already struggled and knocked out more miles in 3 days than what most would finish in a week. It’s been a good trip, but we will miss the majority of it if we go down instead of up in the morning. I contemplate, take a deep breath and immediately know the answer.
El Fin
Neither of us are happy with the decision. Neither of us are willing to risk continuing.
We have a lazy morning and are still up and on the trail before anyone else. We have about 15 miles, all of it down, to get back to Road’s End. We hike mostly in silence reveling in the quiet, chill morning and our surroundings. Each foot of drop in elevation and I feel better. I know it was the right decision, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
As we finish up, knocking out close to 80 miles in 4 days, we are both resolute that we will return and finish. The trail was amazing, but the biggest aha was how much we both loved the long, fast days. It was close to trail running. Seeing in one day what would normally take 2 or 3. And blowing past people as they drag and struggle with their slow pace. There is absolutely some elitism in there, but it also goes to being able to travel quickly for long distances in the backcountry. There is nothing I love more.
It is hot when we finally hit the trailhead. We had made a tentative plan to go directly to the swimming hole with packs on and jump the cliff into the water. Everyone looks at us a bit funny as we drop our packs, strip off our shoes and most of our clothes before plummeting into the icy water. The shock is invigorating and refreshing. We let the sun dry us off on the granite slab.
And then we load our packs into the back of the car and it is over. Oddly similar to how it would have been had we actually finished, but we didn’t. All of the physical and mental exertion of those 4 days and the hardest part was by far, making the call to head down. Not knowing how something will end is the key ingredient to adventure. You can never know how far you can go until you hit the wall that stops you. Stretching your limits can cause you to fail, but if you never fail, you never know how far you can go.
And sometimes, that requires giving up.
Embrace chaos. Seek discomfort.
