#evolution lake

We have often posted the work of artists influenced by the mountains of the West . . . less so artists specifically influenced by their PCT experience. We would love to post the work of more contemporary hikers who are also visual artists. Here are several water color images painted by Krystal Rogers-Nelson.

The first is of Rae Lakes in the heart of the High Sierra.  To the south of the Rae Lakes is the stunning Painted Lady, which periodically serves as the masthead of this website.

Lake of the Lone Indian above and Evolution Lake below.  While I appreciate many artists’ emphasis on realism, I like Krystal’s abstraction . . .

One of the beauty’s of taking water colors or pencils and drawing along the trail is that it is a reason to slow down and soak in a place.

This is a re-posting of a wonderful story from 2013.  What more appropriate story could there be for July 4th!

There are several aspects of Jo’s story that I really like.  First, it captures in words a familiar obstacle that virtually all backpackers confront — fear.  I will be the first to admit that my overactive imagination is particularly energized when I am hiking alone. Second, I love the special relationship that Jo has with her service dog, “Mr. C”.  It brings to mind other such connections between canine and outdoorsperson, most notably John Muir and Stickeen.

By Josephine Pegrum Hazelett

You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.

— Eleanor Roosevelt

Sometimes life takes an unexpected turn that forces you to confront yourself. You cannot predict the outcome; you just have to grab the experience and hope for the best. After hiking most of the Pacific Crest Trail with my husband, I had an opportunity to hike the John Muir Trail for a couple of weeks alone with my giant Border Collie service dog, Buffalo Bill Cody, or “Mr. C” for short.  I didn’t anticipate an experience that would challenge to the core of who I am.

We were five days in and had slipped into a peaceful routine: up before sunrise, walk most of the day and asleep again before darkness fell. On this particular day, we would hike Muir Pass, at almost 12,000 feet; it is one of the high and scenic places of the southern section of the Sierra Nevada. The night before I had camped nine miles south of the pass in a lush valley and we were ready for another uneventful and beautiful day.

Mr. C and I arose in the morning twilight and were on the trail as the first rays of sun straggled through the trees to warm our day. We made our way up the canyon that climbed at a gentle pace for the first few miles. At Big Pete Meadow I saw two young men breaking camp: we waived acknowledgement of our mutual presence and I walked on knowing that with their youthful stride, they would soon pass me.  As predicted, they overtook me about a half hour later and I would not see them again until I reached Wanda Lake on the other side of Muir Pass.  I was completely alone.  Looking back, I see what a privilege it was to have the entire hike up the Goddard Divide and down the other side all to myself—me and my dog in this incredibly wonderful part of the Sierra Nevada.

There were wildflowers of all kinds everywhere.  The trail was alive with the short–lived Sierra Spring.  It would have been hot hiking, but there was a thin cloud layer that kept the air cool and the hiking comfortable.

I had been warned that there was still snow on the south side of Muir Pass but having hiked the higher and more formidable Forester Pass four days earlier, I was not too concerned.  On my initial approach to Helen Lake I saw more snow and the sparse trees began to disappear.  I knew that the route had been well-traveled by hikers and I thought I would have plenty of footsteps to follow in, not to mention the fresh ones made by the two young men who had gone ahead of me this very morning.  Unfortunately, I made a couple of wrong turns at Helen Lake staying to its west side rather than crossing to the East where the trail was.  Consequently, I found myself walking steeply up the snow-covered face of the mountain.  Rather abruptly, the footsteps disappeared and I felt my first tremor of doubt. Backtracking to the lake, I found the main route and reassured, headed on.

I began to think about the fact that I was completely alone and that a wrong turn out here would rapidly take me off the traveled route—the potential for becoming really lost was frightening.

I crossed the stream above the lake several times; the last crossing was at the outlet from the snowmelt lake above Helen Lake. This was a bit daunting because the water was cascading down the mountain in a 90 degree plunge and the rocks on which I had to cross were far apart and pointed requiring me to leap from rock to jagged rock. I rued the loss of my lightweight hiking poles that had broken early in the hike; they would have assisted my balance. I knew that I must keep going—there was only one way to get to the other side and that was to cross the torrent.  Mr C, foot sure, had no qualms and oblivious to my concerns, leaped on the rocks across the chasm with all the grace and balance of an animal in the wild. My turn. Following in his steps, I leaped, one foot in front of the other finding each rock surprisingly firm under my feet. Afraid to acknowledge the fear that was creeping up on me, my mind seemed to float above the scene, watching with detachment—a kind of mental anesthetic. When I reached the other side I felt a surge of relief. Mr. C sensing the intensity of my emotion cocked his head and gave me a look like, “What was that about?”

My euphoria over this accomplishment did not last long. On the other side of the outlet, we traipsed through more snow for about half a mile until we came to a high and rocky valley filled with snow on all sides and a rush of snow melt running through a wide open area of scree. I could see no trail. Since the mountains rose in all directions but the one I had come from, I knew I would have to climb one of those vertical, snow-covered mountains, but I couldn’t see a route. If I chose the wrong direction, I would be truly lost.

To the north, the direction I thought I should go, there was a wide band of running water and I didn’t know how deep it was. I thought I saw a trail duck or cairn on the other side but it might easily have been a real bird. To avoid the water I headed to the Northwest, where I saw footsteps on the snowy mountainside but as I approached, they melted into the sun cups they were. Clearly, my mind was manufacturing what I wanted to see. I felt my options slipping away as fast as I could summon them up, and now, I felt the cold edge of panic. Logically, I told myself there was nothing to fear, but knowing this in your head does not stop your breath from escaping in short narrow puffs as your heart goes wild and your imagination takes off into the unreal scenarios of what could happen. The moment stretched infinitely and unknowably before me as I contemplated the possibility of not finding the trail. I forced myself to breathe, pushed the fear deep down and reminded myself that it would be embarrassing to die up here alone—I did not want to be a story on page 10 of the local paper, “Woman dies alone, lost on Mountain.” I’d never live it down—then, with an inward smile, I thought, I’d be dead so I wouldn’t have to!  With that sobering thought, I focused on finding my way out of the bowl.

The Northwest route rejected, I returned to the river of water rushing over the rocks, in places deep and uncertain, but the panic had passed and I would go on.  I found the rock that looked like a duck (100 feet or so away, across the water) and decided that it was worth checking out.  The water wasn’t as challenging to cross as I thought it would be and sure enough on the other side, the duck turned out to be a real duck pointing out the trail right beside it.  I started up the mountain, and again the trail disappeared into the snow.  I had hoped to reach Muir Hut to have lunch but I had eaten nothing since breakfast and it was 1:30 p.m.  Even though I didn’t feel hungry I knew I must eat. I stopped on the steep face of the mountain and in every direction the snow lay around me.  I opened up an energy bar for myself and took out some Power Bones for Mr. C.  At the time, I was so focused on making it to the pass in one piece that I hadn’t spent much time thinking about Mr. Cody; however he was having a wonderful time. He loves the snow and would spend all his time rolling in it if I allowed him to.  Now, he used his paws to create a nest and rest.  Mr. C and I sat there in the snow munching our food quite alone and I found myself talking to him as though he would answer me.  Not in words, perhaps, but there was a special connection between us; he is very intuitive and his obvious lack of concern reassured me.

After lunch, I continued up the vertical side of the mountain (I’m sure there were switch-backs beneath the snow somewhere) post-holing as I went. Again I rued the loss of the lightweight trekking poles, they would have been helpful here.  I trudged on, expecting to have a long way to go when suddenly I was aware of the curve of a dome appearing above the crest of my mountain, and with a few steps more, I knew that the dome was the top of the Muir Hut!  I was close to the summit.  A burst of energy took me to the top and looking over into the valley below I was overcome with joy to be there.  I felt immensely happy to be alive and all the fear I’d felt washed out of me in an instant as I burst uncontrollably into tears. Here I was on top of the world in one of the most beautiful places on earth—how could anything be better than this—ever?

Cody on the other hand took one look at Muir Hut and headed straight for it! It looked like “home” to him—a place to rest, and even better, there might be food! The two of us stayed there at the top of the pass quite alone, looking out at the snow-covered mountains and the partly frozen lakes below. Time stopped and I could have stayed forever, alone with my loyal friend in our own piece of heaven. I reflected how fortunate I was to have the moment to myself. The sky, which had been gray, brightened, and as I stood there the last of the clouds disintegrated and I found myself bathed in warm sunlight—a real gift.

It was July 4 and a year since I had become an American citizen! I don’t know why this popped into my head at this moment. I think I was musing about how most people would be spending the day—at parades and picnics, with family and friends. I thought about the first Europeans who would have come to this place even a hundred or so years ago, how remote and wild it would have been then. I thought about the Indians who lived here for a millennium before the Europeans and what life must have been like for them. I thought about how I was on my own journey in space and mind and in that moment, I felt I was the luckiest person in the world. This was a special place and time and I wanted to hold on to it forever.  

I had a long way to go before I would descend below the snowline on the north side of the pass. Going forward into the snowfields was a lot less intimidating since descending, I could see great distances ahead. For the first time, I felt that Cody and I would finish this hike, and that I could handle whatever I needed to in the remaining week, one mountain at a time.

Miles later, when we came to rest for the night by Evolution Creek, I covered Mr. Cody with my rainwear to give him some relief from the mosquitoes.  I thought about my husband Kerry celebrating the day with friends and how I wished he could share this moment with me. I missed him but I was very happy to be here alone—I had been forced to face my fears head on and I had learned that when you are truly afraid—what is revealed is the very essence of who you are, there is no way to hide from your real self or to avoid that moment of reckoning. You will know the metal you are made of.  Today I had faced myself, and I found that I had more internal resources than I realized.  It was a powerful feeling.

I drifted toward sleep and that is how one of the most challenging days of my life ended, quietly as it began. I was calm and peaceful now and ready for a new day on the trail.