Above: a section of the Trinity Alps, image credit Leor Pantilat (whose blog post I used in planning, among others.)
The Trinity Alps is, for my money, the most rugged, beautiful, punishing 800 square miles in California. The wild geology of these mountains doesn't admit of organization into neat rows or ridges or cones like they do in much of the rest of the state. The jagged granite of the Sierras, the pines and meadows and rushing rivers of the southern Cascades, and the blustery lush wildness of the north coast all meet in this place. In the Dungeons and Dragons game, as a kid I remember reading about the Twin Paradises, where certain characters from the Good alignments went after death, described as a rugged and beautiful plane of existence whose hot summers and cold winters challenged its inhabitants - and I hadn't thought about this in years until this trip. In the mid-2000s the Trinities were still a pretty well-kept secret even to outdoors types in the Bay Area; I only learned these mountains even existed when I was climbing Mt. Shasta, and happened to look over my shoulder as I was hitting around 11,000' and saw more snow-coated masses to the west and literally exclaimed, "What the hell are those?" Indeed, at that time new waterfalls were still being discovered there via satellite map.
For others with poor judgment - above, the Gmap for Stuarts Fork Trailhead, and below, the Caltopo map (red arrow is the Caribou Scramble).
Story time. This past weekend's adventure corrects a deficiency in my life from deep in the mists of time (i.e., 2007.) At that time I finally undertook to explore some corner of this massive paradise, and went with my girlfriend to the Stuarts Fork Trailhead, vaguely aware of some legendary difficult hike up a mountain - which today I know was the Caribou Scramble. In those days my fitness was such that I could be a little cavalier about an outing that consisted of a 12 mile hike in with 2300' of elevation gain, just to get to the main event - a 2 mile hike with 2500' of elevation gain. That's the Scramble. In those days, this is the sort of thing that seemed like a good idea to me.
Because the Alps were a much better-kept secret back then, it wasn't surprising that we encountered only one other human. As we entered Morris Meadow, said human was putting away his camera equipment, and told us with great satisfaction that he had never seen so many bears or gotten as many bear pictures as he had that day. "Great!" we thought, "camping exactly here is also the sort of thing that sounds like a good idea!" At sunset, there began a campaign of bear harassment the likes of which I have fortunately never experienced since - at one point with two bears circling the tent and one of them pushing its nose into the tent fabric against one of our arms. Needless to say there was no sleeping that night, and when at sunrise we realized we had survived, no one was in a mood for anything except hiking right back out and going home. (At one point, to nobly defend my girlfriend, I unzipped the tent with my three-inch Swiss army knife in hand and burst from the tent with my headlamp on hoping to blind the bear, I guess to see if he would notice being stabbed. Fortunately Mr. Bear was on a break at that point.)
Above: bear scat on Caribou Scramble, 2024. One of four places we saw it.
We decided to try again in 2024, which of course was shaping up the same way. A big part of the fire- and snow-free season was taken away by my UK trip, so we chose a three-day weekend in late summer, Friday August 24th through Monday the 26th. Friday drive up after work, Saturday a 13.5 mile hike from the trailhead to Emerald Lake, Sunday do the Scramble (1.5 miles back down to do 2 miles up and 2 miles down) then relax, with a leisurely 13.5 mile hike out and drive home Monday. Like clockwork I got COVID at the end of my UK trip and was sick in bed 10 days before. Then I realized, my work schedule had changed since we had selected this weekend, and I had to be at work on Monday morning. So now we were looking at ten thousand feet of up and down hiking and 33 miles (29 of which with all our gear) in 2 days. Maybe I could have done it without pushing my limits in my 30s, but in my 50s? I guess we'll see. And then two days before we leave, Jeff sends me the forecast: heavy rain (in August!) and possible snow (!?!) at the higher elevations. At times, the universe sends us messages that whatever it is we're trying to do, we shouldn't do it. And at this point in my life, I've gained the perspective to understand that when that happens, the correct response is EFF YOU UNIVERSE, EFF YOU RIGHT IN THE FACE.
So it was that Friday night we departed the ranch, heading up and over Mt. St. Helena, and stopped for a last meal at Jack-in-the-Box on I-5, stopped again at the National Forest station in Weaverville for our permit - where it was by this point raining heavily and pretty chilly - and then drove to the trailhead and parked. Jeff has enough of an outdoor problem that he has modified an F-150 into a mini-camper, complete with platforms for beds in the back. Yes we slept in the back of the truck, and he only tried to spoon once. A true gentleman.
The rain was loud but by Saturday morning it was cold and now merely damp, with patches of blue blowing past the open patches of sky between the pines, and we started off. Not a lot of pictures because we just wanted to get there, although this one near the trailhead was nice.
Two above: Morris Meadow (Jeff's photos.) The point of my ignominious retreat before. I have not thusfar mentioned but Jeff was kind enough to loan me bear spray, which remained unused. Below: our first sight of the Scramble on the way to camp the first day (also Jeff's photo.) The big feature you likely are first noticing is a rock fall/waterfall track rather than the actual switchbacks, which are pretty hard to make out.
By the time we got to Emerald Lake I was pretty beat, and quite disinterested in trying to push on to Sapphire Lake. And also quite cold. The very tops of the peaks were dusted with new snow from the night before. We met a few people on trail who'd survived the rain the previous night, which seemed as if it had been worse at altitude. Iron-gray clouds threatened a final burst of precipitation, but just at sunset the last of them disappeared. Looking back down the valley (first shot is Jeff's):
Above you can just make out the waterfall. For the next few below you can see I didn't much care about shelter, I just wanted a view.
The bigger coherent patches of snow are probably still left over from last winter. Then you can make out the dusting from the night before, and the waterfall again.
That jagged ridge that keeps reappearing in these photos is the one we'll be going up tomorrow. The turnoff for the Scramble is about a mile and a half hike back down to the base of those.
Next seven are all from Jeff:
Shortly thereafter I passed out. I woke up at 1am and wondered why I could see inside my tent without my headlamp. Here's why.
The next morning we woke to a clear blue sky, promising a much warmer day. Here's my view back down the valley as I crawled from my tent, and then the morning alpenglow on the far end of the lake as we packed up.
Triumphant, just before the top of the ridge.
Jeff is wearing North Face's fall periwinkle line. WE HAVE ACHIEVED THE RIDGE. We were joined by Derek Wildstar aka Kodama. Caribou Lake is visible over the ridge.
Above and below: succulents seen along the trail and at the very top of the ridge, I believe Eriogonum alpinum, Trinity buckwheat, which only grows on a few mountains in Norcal.
This sign hadn't been broken on the way to Emerald Lake the day before. After completing the Scramble I offered my sentiments.
Above is the last picture I took, at lunchtime when hiking out, because I was just too dead. Below, that's me, dying; also, Jeff is a sweetheart[1] and likes to take pictures of people when they're at their best.
The hike out was not fun - I haven't been murdered in quite this way by a run or hike in a long time. Fifteen minutes of laying on the ground and reinflating with Diet Mountain Dew brought me back, and within another fifteen mintues I thought I might even survive. Jeff was kind enough to drive us back. Monday was a difficult day.
Special thanks to two parties: first, to the men and women of the National Forest Service who maintain the trail to make this possible. I'd always read that the trail was brushy and overgrown but it looked great. Second, to Jeff, whose altruism and character I've always noticed; but this has risen to admiration after this trip.
Finally: Much like med school, while I'm happy and proud I did it, and it had beautiful moments, this whole enterprise, and the hike out in particular, was painful, exhausting, and likely did not improve my health over the long run. Two days later as I write this I'm still sore and tired and my knee is bothering me (prepatellar bursitis I think, not that it matters.) I've been really lucky not to have ever had a significant injury on one of these self-slaughters or a health condition resulting from repeatedly beating myself up like this - which when I was younger, always seemed hilarious, or proving some point. In the mature light of middle age, not so much. Ergo, witnesseth: I hereby declare in public I AM OFFICIALLY RETIRED FROM STUPID ENDURANCE-TESTING POINT-PROVING HIKING/RUNNING PROJECTS.[2] THIS INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO:
- Topatopa Bluffs, Ventura County
- Chorro Grande, Santa Barbara County
- The Mason Truck Trail, San Diego County
- Cactus to Clouds (again)
- Climbing any peak in the Himalayas
- Climbing any peak in the Andes, especially Aconcagua
- Climbing in Antarctica, especially including but not limited to Vinson Massif or Fenriskjeften, because that would be bullshit
- Mt. Rainier
- Denali
- The PCT (substantial portions thereof, or certainly the whole thing)
- The AT ("")
- Any further marathons or ultramarathons
- Crossing Algodones Dunes on foot
The Great Redwood Trail (if they ever actually build it), the California Coast, and remaining parts of the Tahoe Rim Trail, in segments, are acceptable.
BONUS: BODEGA BAY
The following weekend was a much more civilized affair, namely car camping at Doran Beach in Bodega Bay with the family. A good time was had by all, not least because I made my usual Pittsburgh-rare s'mores. No need for Annadel pics to end the post - Bodega Bay is also in Sonoma County so that counts.
FOOTNOTES
[1] In this usage, sweetheart is best understood as "asshole."
[2] My wife doesn't believe me.
No comments:
Post a Comment