Peaks & Valleys

Before I launch into yet another scintillating tale of travel, this time into a deep canyon, I’d like to show you a video.

As you’ll recall, my sister Kate recently had all Dad’s 1960s home movies digitized. Last week I came across this archetypal sibling drama—older sister tortures younger sister—which both makes me snort with amusement and cringe with embarrassment. Context: pony-tailed, 8-year-old Katie and a certain towheaded 11-year-old climb a wooden archway between rooms. 

Okay, now to my travelogue.

June 19, 2022

I packed the car last night after glancing at the southwestern Sierra forecast for the coming week: nothing but mild, dry weather, with nights as low as 40° and afternoons up to 90°. I’m no longer fooled by such predictions, however. I learned that lesson last summer, as reported on Bloggy at the time: there was no precipitation expected during my camping trip to Grover Hot Springs so I didn’t bring rain gear. It’s hardly surprising, then, that each day featured violent thunderstorms from mid-afternoon through the night.

Actually, I already should have known better, even before that. Because there was that one summer (this tale of woe, too, is lurking on Bloggy somewhere) when I visited a Central American rainforest. The rainforest, Ginna. You know: relentless wetness in a mass of trees? Nope, no raincoat.

Anyhow, around 6:00 this morning I loaded up the cooler and last-minute things. On noticing that my car seemed less crammed than usual, I wondered what I might have forgotten to pack. Time will tell. Half an hour later I was barreling south (no traffic!).

Almost five hours of audiobook later, I arrived for my four-night stay at Sheep Creek Site 58 in Kings Canyon National Park. Like Yosemite Valley, Kings Canyon is the product of a glacier that left in its wake that characteristic U-shaped gorge. Much narrower than Yosemite, it’s the second deepest canyon in North America. Here in the Cedar Grove area, we’re sandwiched between cliffs as high as 4,000 feet.

A few miles downstream the valley becomes V-shaped, which tells us that the carving is the work of water, not ice.

It took me a good hour to set up camp—labor-intensive because of the extent and luxury of my essentials. I always worry that I’ll forget how to set up my palatial tent, or that I won’t be strong enough to heft everything into place by myself, but I had no problem. Once settled, I alternately puttered and relaxed, soaking up the granite and sequoia world until my adventure-buddy Nick showed up a little while later. As soon as he finished establishing his own domicile, we were off to explore.

Down the road a piece and up a short, paved path crawling with sightseers is Roaring River Falls.

Later, after dinner, we took a stroll from our campsite over to the south fork of the Kings River. With its source at 11,500 feet, nearly 7,000 feet higher than us, it frolics down the length of the canyon in infinite moods, from angry rapids and pounding waterfalls to deep pools and serene stretches of riffles. In many parts, as you’ll later see, it’s definitely a river you don’t want to be falling into, and it accounts for most of the deaths in the park. Its first 24 miles are protected by a “wild and scenic” designation, and wild and scenic it truly is.

The evening consisted of a game of Qwirkle which Nick had never played so I beat him.

June 20

Rising early in the chilly morning, I dug into my bag of warm stuff and pulled out my big, black, heavy coat, which for the life of me I couldn’t wriggle into.

(I’d packed Ember’s big, black, heavy coat instead. Not exactly a “forgotten” item, but definitely an “oops.”)

Before I tell you about our hikes, let me show you a map.

You can see that today we took the hike marked in orange, from Roaring River Falls up the south fork of the Kings River and back. I admit to some trepidation as I laced my boots, recalling my hiking experiences of last summer when I had those paralyzing stabbing pains in my left hip and groin a couple miles out on the trail. To add to the challenge, the ball joint of that very same hip has been acting up lately as well.

We’d gotten a leisurely start so the sun was already high as we scrambled around boulders, over downed trees and across blazing-hot exposed areas. But what a lovely walk, much of it at the foot of a tumbled sea of massive chunks of granite sheared off from the cliffs above.

All was well until a couple miles from our car. Once again discomfort eventually built to blinding pain when I raised my left leg to take a step. Discouraged and frustrated as I hobbled onward, I feared that my hiking days may be prematurely behind me, which would be gutting. Still, I lived, and the scenery was beautiful.

Back at the trailhead by the river we sought a private swimming hole, since my travel companion seems to love plunging into icy water. I don’t, but figured a quick cool-down and de-griming would do me good. I removed some garments and, with a shriek of shock, sunk in up to my neck and rinsed off. Then I surprised myself by dunking my head—twice—before fleeing to dry land as if water moccasins were chasing me. When I emerged, my skin was scarlet from the frigid temps.

In the evening I clobbered Nick in Yahtzee. Well, maybe not clobbered, but left in the dust.

June 21

Happy solstice!

Last night I set my alarm for 4:40 (changing my phone’s alert tone to the song Ojalá by Cuban musician Silvio Rodriguez, for a kinder awakening) in hopes of a pre-dawn glimpse of an astronomical event that TJ told me about: five planets appearing in a horizontal line just above the horizon: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, visible in order of their distance from the sun. This won’t happen again until I’m 86. Sadly, I saw nothing, possibly because already the sky was getting light, and possibly because the horizon is obscured by towering walls of granite.

What I really, really want to do while I’m here is to hike up to Mist Falls. It’s supposed to be the quintessential day-hike of the area so I don’t want to miss it, especially since it’s not likely I’ll ever come back here. But…

• Trails that begin on a valley floor tend to have the bad habit of going up and up and up.
• The nine-mile round-trip might do me in, my not having made such a trek in decades on account of being lazy and thus in terrible shape.
• My hip.

Mostly I agonized over that last. I can’t accept that my deteriorating bones might force me to sacrifice the one form of recreation I love. Nature that I can reach on foot far surpasses what I can roll up to, and I don’t want to miss those opportunities. On the other hand, bursts of agony when I’m miles from rest isn’t a blast. As I see-sawed between “yes, I’ll try it” and “no, that’s foolish,” we decided to postpone the decision until tomorrow. Today we’ll do a quick and easy hike instead.

On the topo map we found a trail that started off level and then crossed over a stream before heading steeply up. The plan: go only as far as the creek and just hang out there under the trees, since today’s a scorcher. As we started up the route, it soon became obvious I don’t read topo maps as well as I thought, because not only did the path climb straight up from the beginning, but the stream turned out to be hidden 100 feet down a slick and treacherous slope from us. So we decided to continue on up a bit, hoping to find something other than parched grasses on exposed hillsides. Alas, our trudge up dozens of switchbacks led us to more of same, only hotter. Trail-maintenance crews clearly haven’t been here in years, we realized as we clambered over bulky trunks of downed trees, scraped through areas of dense underbrush, and occasionally struggled to locate any kind of trail at all.

See that white speck of river far below? That’s the elevation at which we began our purportedly gentle perambulations.

After an hour we did an about-face and descended. One of us enjoyed the hike. It wasn’t I, despite the panoramic views we reached. The good news: at no point during these 4.4 miles did my hip torture me. Mist Falls tomorrow after all?

Before returning to our site we paid a brief visit to the popular Grizzly Falls, which, like its cousin Roaring River Falls down the road, is only a few feet up a path from a parking area.

Back at camp, it was the usual relaxing and river-hanging. Since I’d once again acquired a patina of dust and dirt, I figured another plunge was wise, but only if it were documented this time.

Tragically, tonight I lost all the games we played. My opponent called it a “shellacking” but I say his victory was marginal.

June 22

This morning’s verdict: I’m gonna give Mist Falls a go. I dragged myself out of bed (cot) at 6:15 to prepare, in hopes of getting going before the sun gets brutal.

Sun? Ha ha. At 6:30 a light rain had me scurrying around the site stowing water-permeable belongings under cover. When Nick got up, he asked if I still wanted to take the hike despite the weather. Of course! After all, I have my rain gear this time. I even packed waterproof pants.

We were on the trail by 9:00. The good thing about the steady rain is that we didn’t sun-fry along the treeless stretches, as we would have yesterday. A mile or two in, we had a treat.

I always keep a rain cover for my pack tucked into one of its pockets, but to lighten my load and spare my hip, I’d opted to leave it in the tent. For the same reason, I didn’t bring the rain pants either. What a total eedjit. It doesn’t do a lot of good to pack all the right stuff if you leave it in camp.

The rain never let up and by the time we stopped for lunch, we were thoroughly drenched.

Wisely, however, I had brought my trekking poles, so my arms bore much of the weight my legs would have done, and I made it to Mist Falls without a hitch. Actually, Mist Falls is a long series of falls. Here’s just one wee part.

Starting to shiver during our sandwich break, we made our way back down in grey, moody light.

Unlike yesterday’s trail, this one is beautifully maintained and easy to follow. At a junction a couple miles from the end, Nick suggested we take an alternate route. It was longer, badly marked, through dense vegetation, and commenced with a stream crossing that would have soaked the only dry part of me (my feet), so I resisted, suggesting he go that way and I return the way I came. But he refused to leave me, so we went my way. The rain abated and mist settled in its place only about 15 minutes before we got to the car, 9.8 miles from the start.

I’m so glad I got to do this hike. I don’t (yet) have to despair about giving up one of the biggest joys in my life.

Back at camp, I melted, dog-tired, into my chair. At my foot I spotted a fuzzy little mystery creature lurching across the dust. About three-quarters of an inch long, it looked like a poodle-grooming error, with a small furry pompom at what I think is the head, and a slightly bigger one at the presumptive butt.

I’d never seen such a weird insect and was intrigued as we examined it up-close for a while. Then came deliberations as to its identity. In the end Nick’s guess seemed solid: a velvet ant. Turns out he was right. Entomologists from the San Francisco Zoo will tell you that a yellow velvet ant is no ant, though. It’s a wasp in costume. The girl ant has no wings but a stinger, and the opposite is true for the boys. As you can see, this is the the stinging model. Did you know all wasps can sting multiple times? I’ve since learned, too, that this particular variety is also nicknamed cow killer or mule killer. Not something to tangle with.

Later, a butterfly got temporarily stuck in my screen room long enough for me to document it. It’s one of the only kinds I can identify. I took this picture for Katie, on account of its being a California Sister.

Sadly, it’s our last night already.

June 23

For all the aspects of camping that I love, I detest this final day, on which I must:

1) Strategically fold rain-enhanced tents (two), chairs and the like into their undersized carrying bags, haul over a dozen heavy loads to the car, and try to jam everything in.

2) Wind along narrow roads behind campers and 18-wheelers that refuse to use the pullouts. (The first hour had some nice views, though.)

3) Drive an additional four hours along ugly, crowded freeways.

4) Once safely home, drag over a dozen loads of heavy stuff back into the house. Unpack the carefully folded rain-sodden supplies and lay them out in the sun to dry.

4) Meanwhile, start a couple loads of truly dirty laundry, and wash all the camp-mucky dishes and stove. Replenish diminished supplies before putting them all back in the basement for the next trip.

5) Bring in aired-out tent, screen house, ground cloth, tarp, sleeping bag, etc., and once again wrestle them into their sacks for the second time in a day.

6) Drop from exhaustion, vowing never to do this again.

But by morning, I was rarin’ to go, hoping my upcoming Lassen trip will come to pass this year. It’s a joy to be in nature and out of touch with the rest of the world and its woes. And man, are there woes. I returned to news of the overturning of Roe v. Wade and infinite other atrocities. Yeah, I’m ready to go away again.

Gotta run now. I have my little peanut Ember with me for six days so she can go to a day camp. Look at the henna transfer she inked onto my leg just now.