The local Wilderness Management folks have placed bear boxes in the more frequented areas of the trail. A bear boxes is a big metal container where hikers can stash their food and other smelly (as in tasty) items so that bears can’t get them.
Last night Bob and I stayed in a campsite that had a bear box because our own personal bear cans can’t hold all the food we need to carry. It’s safer to stash the extra food in a bear box than in your tent.
I’m not the most directionally gifted person. Thus, I spent at least 10 minutes wandering around the camp in the dark, flashlight in hand trying to find the dang bear box in which I had stored my food only half a day before! I had to find Bob to get him to show me the location.
We still managed to leave by 7am.
Ambiguity
It did not get as cold last night as we thought it might. The reason was an ambiguous ally – the clouds. I am suspicious of clouds after my experience on the trail this year. A day without clouds is a day I can understand. So, thank you clouds for keeping temps in the upper 30’s last night. But now you can go.
Today I will climb up to Forester Pass. It is the only pass on the PCT I have not hiked in past years. It is notoriously sketchy in the early summer when snow can make it treacherous. At 13,120 feet Forester Pass is the highest point on the entire PCT. Our camp sits at 9500 feet, meaning we have 7.5 miles to climb up 3500 feet. The only time I have ever been on higher ground was the day I drove my car to the top of Pikes Peak. (Oh, and perhaps the day I was baptized, but that’s another kind of high ground altogether!)
As the sun rises, the clouds gradually burn off. It looks like I only have to worry about myself today. Hurray!
Up We Go
There are several passes on the PCT that reach 12,000 feet. They would have been a good warmup for today’s hike if it were not for the fact that we had to skip them all this year. The highest traverse this year has been Donahue and Kearsarge, both at 11,700. The extra altitude today will be a good test, because, you know, Mt. Whitney (14,500) is in two days.
After 3 1/2 miles the trees thin out and I am back in the moonscape that always precedes these high passes. Looking up at the jagged horizon, I try to see the pass and the route to the pass. I have my maps, but view I have is rather one-dimensional. I am wrong about the route about half the time. The only way to know for sure is to go up there.
After 12,000 feet, I get these strange headaches. They last only a minute each time, so I plug on. It’s probably the altitude. My breathing is labored and the slightest change in the grade brings me to a grinding halt as my racing heart pounds in my neck.
More disturbingly I get these sharp twinges in my chest. Angina or heart attack? Well, there are worse ways to go. The twinges are only every five minutes or so. I press on. The tree-covered valley of only an hour ago is a distant memory. It was probably a dream. Nothing behind me looks familiar.
I wait for Bob. It has been a while since we split up. I finally see him about a half mile away. What is he doing? He has his pack off and he is bending over. Is he throwing up? He’s too far away to know for sure. I take my pack off in a sheltered sunny spot and eat an energy snack. He arrives half an hour later. I learn that he was collecting water. He munches on a snack but doesn’t want to linger long. He is slightly frantic, or maybe I am.
I finally figure out that the pass is to the left of those two dark peaks. We can see the trail zigzagging up on the right. The pass still a mile and a half away!
Hey it’s a lake up here! It does not excite me. Can’t get distracted.
Running a marathon is like this for me. After mile 19, the pain is all there is. You are aware of other people and things. But their importance is negligible. Until you reach the end nothing else matters. Which reminds me: if I ever get stupid enough to run another marathon and if you happen to be there at mile 25 to cheer me on, don’t say “Hang in there, Dave, the finish line is just ahead.” I will stop running, walk over to you, and kill you dead. The only words I want to hear are “Congratulations, you finished.” Anything less than that is super annoying. I feel the same way today.
I hear voices above me. Is it someone on the pass? No, they are just one switchback above me. How can they be talking? Are they actually enjoying this? I don’t deserve to be here. Why don’t I think this is fun?
And then I am at the top. Relief and joy flood through me. I take a quick peak at the valley on the other side. Sweet Jesus! I am a happy person again.
Gathering
I look back down the trail for Bob. He is at the bottom of a long series of switchbacks. I want to yell down to him, but it would probably just confuse him. He would not be pissed; he is more even-tempered than me. Anyway, let him get closer.
Then, beyond Bob, I see the craziest thing – a mule train. A mule train is going to cross this gnarly 13,000 ft pass!
Bob arrives. We pose for pictures.
We sit down to eat. The mule train arrives. The driver dismounts from his horse and chats for a minute. We congratulate him. He says he didn’t do anything; the animals did all the work. They certainly are splendid animals. Strong and fit and completely comfortable up here.
Forester Pass
This pass is incredible on the south side. The pass itself is a notch in a monstrous granite wall. It’s like the ice wall on Game of Thrones. Someone chiseled a trail into the side of this wall. I can see why it is so dangerous in snow. A misstep means a plunge straight down.
On our way down the steep steps from the pass, we pass hikers going up. The normal etiquette is for downward hikers to step aside to allow upward hikers to pass by on the trail. A middle-aged man is coming up the trail. I step aside to let him pass. My back is against the granite. The color drains from his face. “Oh God,” he says, “I can’t look down. I am afraid of heights!” He scrambles by on all fours. I feel bad for him, but, dude, what did you expect?
Down in the valley we hurry down to where our campsite awaits. Clouds billowing over the western ridge remind us that weather could blow in at any moment.
Camp is still 4 miles away.
On my left are some pretty impressive peaks. But most impressive of all is Mt. Whitney! You can see it in this photo. It is that smallish peak in the middle horizon. It looks like a whale breaching. Clouds are billowing across its mighty eastern edge. I lose sight of it as I descend toward the trees, but the memory of it lingers, like the image of a great ocean vessel on the horizon. If the crossing of Forester Pass today seemed epic, what will the summit of Mt. Whitney be like!
September 11, 2025.
Congrats you summited. Is this OK?