gardinerbasin2008pagefive
Gardiner Basin 2008 Page Five
"A day of substantial accomplishment"
The wind whistled through the treetops most of the night but our tents scarcely moved thanks to the sheltering pines around us (and the good performance of the Lunar Solo E in wind.) The day's weather remained sunny and clear; I was thankful for that, as ahead were the most unknowns and the most challenges of the trip; rain-slicked rocks would not have been welcomed.
Heading up the drainage traveling east, we found more traces of the old trail. Though a bit steeper area than the previous afternoon, the hiking was still quite easy, winding through small groves of trees and over smooth granite slabs.
The rough and brooding north face of Mount Gardiner, necklaced with remnant ice fields, towered to the south. At our feet were fields of flowers, a dramatic contrast to the jagged peaks. We were now approaching 11,000 feet in altitude and could feel the effects: heavier breathing and slower upward progress.
We came upon a very pretty double-lobed lake at 11,000 feet, which was quite pristine. A short reconnoiter found a spectacularly-situated campsite near the outlet, with a view of the lake and surrounding mountains in one direction and in the other an expansive eagles-eye view of the basin to the west where we'd last camped.
A break was in order. Delicious cupfuls of lake water and various snacks were consumed. I took off my shoes and socks and delighted in walking barefoot on the thick mossy verge of the lake, carefully avoiding the numerous flowers. If you click on the photo at the left you may be able to spot Sam reclining on a lakeside rock, our packs nearby; I'm in the image below. We were starting to feel so much a part of the landscape that we blended in, physically and mentally. It was a wonderful and peaceful place.
(Photo above, and below on left, by Sam Duran)
A short ways above the lake the landscape became quite barren, with several stark lakelets below and Mount Cotter looming above. We wound up over some granite slabs and stunted trees, coming suddenly to an overlook where the entire upper basin, including Lake 11394 and Sixty Lakes Col, came into view. (The photo at the top of the first page of this narrative shows a panorama of the scene.)
OK. We could see, in broad view, what we were up against. It didn't look so bad, though there'd certainly be at least a couple of hours of boulder-hopping to get around the lake and to the base of the col. Onward. Sam and I had been swapping route-finding for much of the trip, but with Sam's sore knee I went to the lead to try to minimize any backtracking that Sam would have to do. The challenge was to find a route not too close to the lake (probably lots of dead ends), not too high on the slope (too steep), through and around boulders that were small enough to walk on but big enough to be settled, all while being ABSOLUTELY SURE not to slip and take a fall.
Each boulder field has its own character and, in a sense, musical key. Walking through such an area is almost like playing a piece of music: you decide the tempo, the rocks are the notes that your feet and sometimes hands follow, you have a certain latitude to improvise, yet are constrained by the basic structure of the piece. You can choose from a variety of notes at any one time, but if you make a bad choice you're suddenly lurching about in disharmony. It's really not so hard, as long as your mind is not wandering somewhere else. Be Here Now.
Even in such seemingly lifeless places there are still hardy and determined species. We came upon our first examples of Alpine Hulsea (Hulsea algida), a plant that serves as a reliable marker of altitudes 11,500 feet and above in the Southern Sierra.
After about an hour of boulder-hopping, we decided to take a lunch break, making our way down to the edge of the lake. Sitting and munching dried fruit and trail mix while dipping cupfuls of water out of the astonishingly-clear lake was such a delight. The lake itself seemed to recede off to the edge of the world.
After more boulder-hopping we got to the head of the large lake, then skirted some smaller lakes that lay below the col. I'd glance up at the col every five minutes or so; from different angles it looked either easy or doable or scary. Guidebooks I'd consulted advised that the best place to cross the pass was just north of the low point. But from this side it looked like heading towards the low point, or even a touch to the south, was the best route.
Boulders and more boulders. Our progress was slow but perceptible. The cirques to the south and west held prominent and apparently active rock glaciers. Now the col was directly above us; up we went. In terrain like this, you can't see very far ahead; there's always the possibility of a little eight or ten-foot high (but effectively unscalable, the way we were outfitted) cliff just beyond the next rock. If you meet such an obstacle, you have to turn right or left or maybe even head back down for a ways to try a new direction.
We were using our hands more and more; the slope was definitely class two. Sam, at least in the past, has always been more of a fan of scrambling up and down class 2+ and class 3 slopes than me. I was approaching my limits of comfort. Oh, sure, I can DO steeper stuff, but I never have developed an appetite for it. I've never tried parachuting as Sam has, either. I'd rather see an interesting critter or plant than do the Human Fly routine, and by golly, what's that plant over there? Growing up between boulders was an interesting plant with succulent leaves and red fruiting stalks. I broke off a portion of a leaf and nibbled on it: yum, tasted like Miner's Lettuce. Still, better to be cautious, especially in the back country, so I didn't consume any more.
Fairly quickly, the slope seemed to be getting less steep. Could this be the top? I zoomed off ahead of Sam, right to the top of the col where I could suddenly see mountains and lakes on the other side. Hooray!
(Photos to left and right by Sam Duran)
The character of the east side of the col was quite different than that of the west we'd just ascended. There were very few boulders, and in their place were big slabs of granite with cleavage planes trending to the northeast. Cool! Walking on slabs, following the cleavage, is a different sort of mental challenge, one I was glad to take on after all those boulders. Slab walking is faster, too, at least until you suddenly come up against an unexpected dropoff and have to backtrack.
I did pretty well navigating down the east side. The slabs were like parallel sidewalks; cruise to the northeast and down for a ways and then make a zig more steeply down and to the southeast to the next "sidewalk." We had to do only one or two backtracks of more than a hundred yards. We came to a spot, pictured here, where we decided that gravity was in our favor, edging carefully down with the assistance of a well-placed crack.
Piece o' cake!
Getting down to the soft green meadow margin at the bottom of the drainage felt, as it often seems to, like resurrection, like rebirth, like coming home. The high rocky places in the Sierra are invigorating and beautiful and inspiring but they're not somewhere I could call home. They're instead wonderful places to visit for a while.
We found a small fisherman's use trail along the western margin of long and narrow Lake 10840. The trail went right to the edge of the lake in a couple of places, where we had to grab bushes and lean out over the water a little to get through without taking a swim. The use trail ended suddenly at a sheer wall of granite that plunged into the lake. Looking straight above, we could see that mammals before us had scrambled up the slope. No problem there; up we went, puffing and panting. After a couple of hundred feet of climbing, a use trail started up again, contouring to the north. We found an unpleasant surprise around a jutting rock: a very steep granite slope which plunged directly into the lake below, with a horizontal crack, about as wide as my shoe, crossing to the other side. Sam must have mountain goat in his genes; he waltzed right across. I took a couple of calming breaths and gingerly came across behind him, concentrating on my feet and hand placement (yes, it was steep enough that I could reach out my left hand and brace myself against the rock.) Twenty feet or so, and I was across. Whew! A short time later, we were at the outlet of the lake and could look back at the col in the distance (pointed to by a tall tree right at the edge of the lake in the photo below.)
(Photo by Sam Duran)
Young and old trees, textures of wood and rock, lakes large and small, flowers, flowing water, and Fin Dome looming up to the east now filled our eyes. We considered several campsites along the trail while walking down the basin to the north, but none seemed quite right. Finally, at a larger lake with several small islands, we found a pleasant spot with a wonderful view. As I noted in my trail journal: "A day of substantial accomplishment."
