Prologue
I tried something hard. Something I'd never tried before. It was an amazing adventure. In many ways, it was the most challenging thing I've ever attempted. I put months of preparation into it. When July 15th came, I was ready. I was excited.
In the six months prior to the attempt, I worked on gear, food, solar power as well as my physical conditioning. I knew that I couldn't plan for every challenge I'd face out in the backcountry, but I wanted to do everything in my power to eliminate as many variables as possible before hitting the trail.
In the six months prior to the attempt, I worked on gear, food, solar power as well as my physical conditioning. I knew that I couldn't plan for every challenge I'd face out in the backcountry, but I wanted to do everything in my power to eliminate as many variables as possible before hitting the trail.
To hike the John Muir Trail southbound from terminus to terminus, you need a Yosemite National Park wilderness permit starting at Happy Isles and continuing past Donohue Pass. Those permits are awarded through a lottery held six months in advance. Applicants can request up to seven consecutive start dates. I applied for three straight weeks. I wasn't awarded a single permit.
Then came the next opportunity. About two weeks after each lottery, any permits that aren't claimed or paid for are released online every Monday morning at precisely 7:00 a.m. Pacific Time. Only fifteen hikers per day are allowed to begin a Donohue Pass eligible trip from Happy Isles during the summer permit season. It's the most sought-after wilderness permit in Yosemite, with tens of thousands of requests submitted every year. I struck out on all three Mondays as well.
That left me with one option. For months, I kept the reservation webpage open and refreshed it whenever I remembered, hoping someone would cancel. Eventually, it happened. I scored my southbound permit.
But a Yo-Yo (out and back) requires two permits.
To legally hike back north from Whitney Portal, I also needed a separate Inyo National Forest wilderness permit. Those permits are awarded through a lottery each spring, and demand is enormous. More than 100,000 permit requests are submitted each year for Mount Whitney, yet only about 20 percent of applicants receive one of their requested dates. I wasn't one of them.
So once again, I kept the reservation webpage open for months, refreshing it whenever I remembered and hoping for a cancellation. Eventually, lightning struck twice. I scored my northbound permit too.
Many people say a John Muir Trail Yo-Yo permit can't be secured. It can!
In all my long distance hikes, I’d had to work around both resupply and transportation challenges. I didn’t want those. The Yo-Yo would solve the transportation piece by allowing me to drive myself to Yosemite and leave my car there for my return. Sending one resupply to Muir Trail Ranch, a remote backcountry resupply station on the John Muir Trail where hikers can pick up food and supplies they’ve mailed ahead, would take the guesswork out of my food. To keep my pack weight down, I planned to hike as many miles as I could each day.
That kind of mindset eventually led me to researching FKTs, or Fastest Known Times. I discovered there had never been an officially recognized Yo-Yo FKT on the John Muir Trail. Curious, I reached out to FKT administrator Allison Mercer, and she confirmed it. No one had officially logged a Yo-Yo FKT on the JMT starting in either direction. Catra Corbett had done an out and back but (1) It hadn't been officially tracked; and (2) She turned around on Mt. Whitney instead of dropping down to Whitney Portal as required by FKT guidelines.
Because I planned to mail myself a resupply at Muir Trail Ranch, my hike would fall into the "self-supported" category. There are three recognized styles of FKT attempts.
Unsupported hikers carry everything they need from start to finish, except water gathered along the route. No resupplies. No caches. No outside assistance. Carrying 10 to 14 days of food inside a required hard sided bear canister didn't sound enjoyable to me.
Self-supported hikers can use resources that are equally available to everyone. Mailing yourself a resupply, buying food at a store, or using public facilities is fair game, as long as no one provides assistance specifically for you. That was exactly the style of trip I wanted.
Supported attempts involve friends, family, or crew members providing food, supplies, pacing, or other assistance along the route. That wasn't the experience I was looking for.
I spent months fine tuning my plan, my gear, my food, and my solar charging setup. When spring came, I took everything out for some practice runs. I completed the Tahoe Rim Trail in four days and one hour. I couldn't stay warm at night, and my charging setup didn't perform as anticipated. I made more changes.
I brought my pack weight up and down by grams every time I made an adjustment. By the time I hit the trail, my base weight would be 9.48 pounds, including my 28 ounce bear canister. Even at its heaviest with food and water, my pack would still weigh somewhere in the 16 pound range.
I was ready.
It was my mantra, given to me by my beautiful and supportive wife, Paula.
I'd be attempting the FKT, or Fastest Known Time, on the John Muir Trail. Twice. A "Yo Yo," as we long distance hikers call it. My goal was to start in Yosemite Valley, hike south to the summit of Mt. Whitney, continue down to Whitney Portal, then turn around and hike back north to the summit of Mt. Whitney and then all the way back through Yosemite before finishing in Yosemite Valley. A total of about 440 miles with more than 90,000 feet of elevation gain.
I was stopped by a monsoon on the sixth day.
Then came the next opportunity. About two weeks after each lottery, any permits that aren't claimed or paid for are released online every Monday morning at precisely 7:00 a.m. Pacific Time. Only fifteen hikers per day are allowed to begin a Donohue Pass eligible trip from Happy Isles during the summer permit season. It's the most sought-after wilderness permit in Yosemite, with tens of thousands of requests submitted every year. I struck out on all three Mondays as well.
That left me with one option. For months, I kept the reservation webpage open and refreshed it whenever I remembered, hoping someone would cancel. Eventually, it happened. I scored my southbound permit.
But a Yo-Yo (out and back) requires two permits.
To legally hike back north from Whitney Portal, I also needed a separate Inyo National Forest wilderness permit. Those permits are awarded through a lottery each spring, and demand is enormous. More than 100,000 permit requests are submitted each year for Mount Whitney, yet only about 20 percent of applicants receive one of their requested dates. I wasn't one of them.
So once again, I kept the reservation webpage open for months, refreshing it whenever I remembered and hoping for a cancellation. Eventually, lightning struck twice. I scored my northbound permit too.
Many people say a John Muir Trail Yo-Yo permit can't be secured. It can!
In all my long distance hikes, I’d had to work around both resupply and transportation challenges. I didn’t want those. The Yo-Yo would solve the transportation piece by allowing me to drive myself to Yosemite and leave my car there for my return. Sending one resupply to Muir Trail Ranch, a remote backcountry resupply station on the John Muir Trail where hikers can pick up food and supplies they’ve mailed ahead, would take the guesswork out of my food. To keep my pack weight down, I planned to hike as many miles as I could each day.
That kind of mindset eventually led me to researching FKTs, or Fastest Known Times. I discovered there had never been an officially recognized Yo-Yo FKT on the John Muir Trail. Curious, I reached out to FKT administrator Allison Mercer, and she confirmed it. No one had officially logged a Yo-Yo FKT on the JMT starting in either direction. Catra Corbett had done an out and back but (1) It hadn't been officially tracked; and (2) She turned around on Mt. Whitney instead of dropping down to Whitney Portal as required by FKT guidelines.
Because I planned to mail myself a resupply at Muir Trail Ranch, my hike would fall into the "self-supported" category. There are three recognized styles of FKT attempts.
Unsupported hikers carry everything they need from start to finish, except water gathered along the route. No resupplies. No caches. No outside assistance. Carrying 10 to 14 days of food inside a required hard sided bear canister didn't sound enjoyable to me.
Self-supported hikers can use resources that are equally available to everyone. Mailing yourself a resupply, buying food at a store, or using public facilities is fair game, as long as no one provides assistance specifically for you. That was exactly the style of trip I wanted.
Supported attempts involve friends, family, or crew members providing food, supplies, pacing, or other assistance along the route. That wasn't the experience I was looking for.
I spent months fine tuning my plan, my gear, my food, and my solar charging setup. When spring came, I took everything out for some practice runs. I completed the Tahoe Rim Trail in four days and one hour. I couldn't stay warm at night, and my charging setup didn't perform as anticipated. I made more changes.
I brought my pack weight up and down by grams every time I made an adjustment. By the time I hit the trail, my base weight would be 9.48 pounds, including my 28 ounce bear canister. Even at its heaviest with food and water, my pack would still weigh somewhere in the 16 pound range.
I was ready.
It was my mantra, given to me by my beautiful and supportive wife, Paula.
I'd be attempting the FKT, or Fastest Known Time, on the John Muir Trail. Twice. A "Yo Yo," as we long distance hikers call it. My goal was to start in Yosemite Valley, hike south to the summit of Mt. Whitney, continue down to Whitney Portal, then turn around and hike back north to the summit of Mt. Whitney and then all the way back through Yosemite before finishing in Yosemite Valley. A total of about 440 miles with more than 90,000 feet of elevation gain.
I was stopped by a monsoon on the sixth day.
Day 0 (first 24 hours)
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The day count looks a bit different for this trip because of the FKT attempt. Day 1 isn't complete until the first 24 hours is over. Therefore, my first day of hiking is day zero and counts by the hour up to 24 when the 1st day is complete. |
I hit the trail at 3:30 a.m. I tried to beat the heat, but I had no luck. I was sweating within minutes.
I passed the trailhead sign at 3:45 a.m. and took a selfie documenting the official start of my FKT Yo-Yo of the John Muir Trail.
I passed the trailhead sign at 3:45 a.m. and took a selfie documenting the official start of my FKT Yo-Yo of the John Muir Trail.
Lookin' a bit scary
A section of the JMT was closed for repairs, so I detoured onto the Mist Trail, which dropped before climbing back up to Nevada Falls. It didn't really change the mileage much, but it did add a bit of elevation to the day.
Just after 6:30 a.m., I took my first trail picture of the back of Half Dome. Before I knew it, the massive rock was far in the distance. By noon, I had 20 miles under my belt. I was moving. I hadn't seen anyone up to that point.
Just after 6:30 a.m., I took my first trail picture of the back of Half Dome. Before I knew it, the massive rock was far in the distance. By noon, I had 20 miles under my belt. I was moving. I hadn't seen anyone up to that point.
Half Dome from the backside
As I approached Cathedral Lakes, I began to see people. Between Cathedral Lakes and the Cathedral Lakes Trailhead, the number of people exploded.
Cathedral Peak
Over the next couple of hours, the trail was like a freeway, first filling with hikers from the Cathedral Lakes Trailhead and then with even more people coming from the trails, campground, store, Visitor Center, and other areas around Tuolumne Meadows.
I made my way in a southeasterly direction, simply saying friendly hellos to some of the other hikers before making it into Lyell Canyon where I was greeted by many deer.
To be perfectly honest, a few times during the day, somewhere around miles 18 to 22, I wanted to quit. The heat and the miles were starting to wear on me and I knew I was only about halfway done with my day. But around mile 26, I took a caffeine pill, turned on the Spotify playlist Isabela had made for me on this trip (as she does for each of my trips), and I was back in strong form.
By the end of Lyell Canyon, the climb up Donohue Pass kicked my ass. The steepness, the time of day, and the miles already on my feet all added up. There were a couple of brief respites near the top as the trail crossed a few small valleys. Thankfully, the final mile to the pass was a little kinder to me. I took a short break to eat two pieces of pizza I'd been carrying. The previous day, in Curry Village, I'd bought an 8 piece pizza. I'd eaten only two pieces and packed the other 6 in a ziplock bag. I'd eat two of these for dinner on each of my first three days. Little did I know, that those two pieces of pizza were about all I could get into my nauseous stomach each day.
I continued for another hour down the southern side of the pass and called it a day almost 17 hours after I'd started setting down my backpack just after 8:30pm.
I made my way in a southeasterly direction, simply saying friendly hellos to some of the other hikers before making it into Lyell Canyon where I was greeted by many deer.
To be perfectly honest, a few times during the day, somewhere around miles 18 to 22, I wanted to quit. The heat and the miles were starting to wear on me and I knew I was only about halfway done with my day. But around mile 26, I took a caffeine pill, turned on the Spotify playlist Isabela had made for me on this trip (as she does for each of my trips), and I was back in strong form.
By the end of Lyell Canyon, the climb up Donohue Pass kicked my ass. The steepness, the time of day, and the miles already on my feet all added up. There were a couple of brief respites near the top as the trail crossed a few small valleys. Thankfully, the final mile to the pass was a little kinder to me. I took a short break to eat two pieces of pizza I'd been carrying. The previous day, in Curry Village, I'd bought an 8 piece pizza. I'd eaten only two pieces and packed the other 6 in a ziplock bag. I'd eat two of these for dinner on each of my first three days. Little did I know, that those two pieces of pizza were about all I could get into my nauseous stomach each day.
I continued for another hour down the southern side of the pass and called it a day almost 17 hours after I'd started setting down my backpack just after 8:30pm.
A friend in Lyell Canyon
Day 1 (second 24 hours)
Miles: 35.18
Total Miles: 75.53
Elevation Gained: 6857ft
Elevation Lost: 6477ft
I chose the driest spot I could find the night before, but it wasn't dry enough. I woke up soaking wet with condensation.
I'd hiked the last hour and a half utterly exhausted. With each step, I looked for somewhere to camp where I wouldn't wake up wet. I'd been forced to camp in a very wet basin with streams coming off the hillsides on both sides and joining into a larger creek that created numerous ponds.
I woke up at 3:15 a.m. and realized I was soaked. I lay there looking at the stars for a while before making sure I put some food in my stomach, since eating had been such a struggle the day before.
I packed up my wet gear, knowing I'd have to do a "garage sale" later in the day to dry everything out.
It was dark until I reached Island Pass. I didn't see my first hiker until about five miles into the day, when someone emerged from a tent near Thousand Island Lake.
I'd hiked the last hour and a half utterly exhausted. With each step, I looked for somewhere to camp where I wouldn't wake up wet. I'd been forced to camp in a very wet basin with streams coming off the hillsides on both sides and joining into a larger creek that created numerous ponds.
I woke up at 3:15 a.m. and realized I was soaked. I lay there looking at the stars for a while before making sure I put some food in my stomach, since eating had been such a struggle the day before.
I packed up my wet gear, knowing I'd have to do a "garage sale" later in the day to dry everything out.
It was dark until I reached Island Pass. I didn't see my first hiker until about five miles into the day, when someone emerged from a tent near Thousand Island Lake.
First Light hitting Banner and Ritter Peaks
Banner and Ritter Peaks with North Glacier Pass in the morning light
About an hour later, I passed a side trail to the Agnew Meadows Trailhead and was reminded of my solo 2022 Minaret Trip where I was lucky enough to skirt directly under the stunning Minarets and all of the lakes in that area. One of my favorite trips I've taken in the area.
At 11:30 a.m., I stopped to dry out all my gear, eat some food, drink some water, and wash my clothes. Once I got moving again, I was making good time. I'd already climbed both Garnett and Shadow Passes.
That lasted until I realized I'd taken the wrong trail at a junction near Devils Postpile. Knowing this was specifically addressed in the FKT rules, I doubled back, fortunately not very far, to make sure I touched every step of the John Muir Trail.
Later, I stopped one more time and dunked my hiking hoodie into an ice cold creek as I'd found it did a lot to help keep me cool.
At 11:30 a.m., I stopped to dry out all my gear, eat some food, drink some water, and wash my clothes. Once I got moving again, I was making good time. I'd already climbed both Garnett and Shadow Passes.
That lasted until I realized I'd taken the wrong trail at a junction near Devils Postpile. Knowing this was specifically addressed in the FKT rules, I doubled back, fortunately not very far, to make sure I touched every step of the John Muir Trail.
Later, I stopped one more time and dunked my hiking hoodie into an ice cold creek as I'd found it did a lot to help keep me cool.
Thousand Island Lake outlet crossing
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Another visit from a friend
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Devils Postpile
Yesterday, I worked through some pretty bad chafing. Overnight, Bag Balm did the trick, and I had no problems today.
The problem today was my feet. I've got Leukotape on the back of each heel, but my feet are pretty beat up all over. What I really need is an extended amount of time off my feet. I just might get that with my timing at MTR (Muir Trail Ranch), where my food resupply is waiting.
As I climbed Virginia Pass at 10,529 ft, between Virginia and Purple Lakes, I started to think the 40 mile days just wouldn't be possible. My almost 58 year old legs just couldn't walk fast enough to make that happen. I was thinking somewhere between 36 and 40 miles at the most would be more manageable.
At this point, I've got a lot of wear and tear on this old chassis.
The problem today was my feet. I've got Leukotape on the back of each heel, but my feet are pretty beat up all over. What I really need is an extended amount of time off my feet. I just might get that with my timing at MTR (Muir Trail Ranch), where my food resupply is waiting.
As I climbed Virginia Pass at 10,529 ft, between Virginia and Purple Lakes, I started to think the 40 mile days just wouldn't be possible. My almost 58 year old legs just couldn't walk fast enough to make that happen. I was thinking somewhere between 36 and 40 miles at the most would be more manageable.
At this point, I've got a lot of wear and tear on this old chassis.
Day 2 (third 24 hours)
Miles: 36.71
Total Miles: 112.24
Elevation Gained: 6189 ft
Elevation Lost: 9031ft
I found a decent spot to camp the prior night at the very top of Virginia Pass. I was hopeful I wouldn't have much condensation since the surroundings were so dry. When I woke up the next morning, I saw that I only had about half as much wetness as the night before, but I'd still had to stop to take the time to dry everything out later in the day.
I decided I was going to start sleeping with my poncho tarp set up. It would be much easier to dry than my whole sleep kit.
I love my Gatewood Cape by Six Moon Designs. It serves three different purposes: shelter, rain gear, and a pack cover. It is truly one of my favorite pieces of gear I've ever used.
I decided I was going to start sleeping with my poncho tarp set up. It would be much easier to dry than my whole sleep kit.
I love my Gatewood Cape by Six Moon Designs. It serves three different purposes: shelter, rain gear, and a pack cover. It is truly one of my favorite pieces of gear I've ever used.
Less than a mile into the day, I had to cross a boggy area near a pond just before Virginia Lake. That meant taking off my shoes, socks, insoles, and gaiters. Whenever I had to cross water, I usually walked through in bare shoes (without socks, insoles or gaiters). Once I reached the other side, I could spin the water out of my shoes before putting my dry insoles, socks, and gaiters back on.
This wouldn't have been such a bummer if I hadn't just spent 20 minutes reapplying Leukotape to my feet.
Once I reached the other side, I dried everything off, got dressed again, and passed Virginia Lake a few minutes later. This was all in pitch darkness with only the light from my headlamp.
This wouldn't have been such a bummer if I hadn't just spent 20 minutes reapplying Leukotape to my feet.
Once I reached the other side, I dried everything off, got dressed again, and passed Virginia Lake a few minutes later. This was all in pitch darkness with only the light from my headlamp.
I dropped down from Virginia Lake into the Fish Creek drainage. I remembered this section fondly from a 2022 loop I'd done with Pablo years earlier that started at McGee Lakes Trailhead and continued into Pioneer Basin. A very challenging lollypop we'd really had to work for.
At least up to that point in this trip, this had been my favorite section of the trail. The canyon and creek were just stunning.
At least up to that point in this trip, this had been my favorite section of the trail. The canyon and creek were just stunning.
Fish Creek
It was a rough day. I felt really good climbing up from Mono Creek, but later I really faltered. My energy rose and fell all day, but somehow I kept moving. I found depths within myself I didn't know I had.
The next obstacle was 10,778 foot Silver Pass. The northwestern views of the Minarets, a place I'd walked past just hours earlier, were stunning.
The next obstacle was 10,778 foot Silver Pass. The northwestern views of the Minarets, a place I'd walked past just hours earlier, were stunning.
The jagged granite spires of the Minarets
As I approached the final climb to Marie Lakes, I passed the section of forest that Pablo and I came out of on our 2021 Piute Pass Lollypop trip. Another amazing memory of a terrific mostly off-trail trip with a wonderful friend.
Later, from Selden Pass at 10,913 feet, I messaged Paula on my inReach that my FKT A goal, based on 40 mile days, was gone. The entire attempt might be over too unless I could get my nutrition under control. My stomach was so nauseous that I just couldn't get anything down.
Up to that point, I could only tolerate liquid calories and the pizza I'd carried from Yosemite National Park, but I finished the last of the pizza that day. I hoped I could trade for some different food from the hiker box at MTR the next morning and finally eat. Otherwise, I wasn't sure what I had left.
As I sat admiring Marie Lakes below, one of my favorite places on the JMT, I tried not to focus on the end or even the future and thought to myself, "Life is short. How lucky am I."
Later, from Selden Pass at 10,913 feet, I messaged Paula on my inReach that my FKT A goal, based on 40 mile days, was gone. The entire attempt might be over too unless I could get my nutrition under control. My stomach was so nauseous that I just couldn't get anything down.
Up to that point, I could only tolerate liquid calories and the pizza I'd carried from Yosemite National Park, but I finished the last of the pizza that day. I hoped I could trade for some different food from the hiker box at MTR the next morning and finally eat. Otherwise, I wasn't sure what I had left.
As I sat admiring Marie Lakes below, one of my favorite places on the JMT, I tried not to focus on the end or even the future and thought to myself, "Life is short. How lucky am I."
Final pizza dinner on Selden Pass
After dinner, I still had about six miles left to make it to MTR. I arrived about an hour and a half after the office had closed, which meant I'd have to wait until 8:00 a.m. the next morning, when staff showed back up, to issue me my resupply bucket.
Two couples were standing on the porch of the store. After greeting them, I asked for the lay of the land. They explained where the free camping was, that there were no bathrooms, and that the store would open at 8:00 a.m. They also told me the staff would first put out the hiker boxes, filled with extra food and supplies that hikers had left behind, before issuing the resupply buckets.
Two couples were standing on the porch of the store. After greeting them, I asked for the lay of the land. They explained where the free camping was, that there were no bathrooms, and that the store would open at 8:00 a.m. They also told me the staff would first put out the hiker boxes, filled with extra food and supplies that hikers had left behind, before issuing the resupply buckets.
MTR (Muir Trail Ranch) porch and store
I found a campsite almost directly next to another couple. They asked if I was interested in some Fireball. Apparently, the husband had packed ten mini bottles in his resupply and was offering them to other hikers. No one had taken him up on it, so it was nothing new to him when I politely declined.
I set up camp and fell asleep quickly, only to be woken around midnight by the wife screaming in terror after dreaming that a bear had gotten into their tent. It took me a while to fall back asleep after that one.
I set up camp and fell asleep quickly, only to be woken around midnight by the wife screaming in terror after dreaming that a bear had gotten into their tent. It took me a while to fall back asleep after that one.
Day 3 (fourth 24 hours)
Miles: 26.8
Total Miles: 139.04
Elevation Gained: 5479ft
Elevation Lost: 2061ft
I woke up at 4:00 a.m., restless. What to do?
The first thing was to take care of my feet. I put KT Tape over my aging Leukotape. We'd see how that worked. (Thanks, Nick.)
I had some choices.
Quitting felt off the table. But if I wasn't going to quit, I had to find some food to replace the items I simply couldn't eat anymore. As I sat there typing, my stomach was completely empty and growling.
I figured I'd head over to the hiker tables around 7:00 a.m. to organize my gear before picking up my resupply bucket when the store opened at 8:00 a.m. Maybe the hiker boxes would have some food I could trade out for.
While waiting for 8am to come around, I had a very nice conversation with Tim from Phoenix. Tim was a hunter and doing his first long distance hike. Most of his gear was purchased for hunting and we had lots of conversation about gear, materials and food as we sat and waited for the store to open.
The first thing was to take care of my feet. I put KT Tape over my aging Leukotape. We'd see how that worked. (Thanks, Nick.)
I had some choices.
- Have MTR hold onto my last three days of my food for the trip out, assuming I would complete the Yo-Yo.
- Dump food into the hiker box, assuming I would only complete one leg and would exit at Whitney.
- Get out now and quit that day.
Quitting felt off the table. But if I wasn't going to quit, I had to find some food to replace the items I simply couldn't eat anymore. As I sat there typing, my stomach was completely empty and growling.
I figured I'd head over to the hiker tables around 7:00 a.m. to organize my gear before picking up my resupply bucket when the store opened at 8:00 a.m. Maybe the hiker boxes would have some food I could trade out for.
While waiting for 8am to come around, I had a very nice conversation with Tim from Phoenix. Tim was a hunter and doing his first long distance hike. Most of his gear was purchased for hunting and we had lots of conversation about gear, materials and food as we sat and waited for the store to open.
Food is wonderful.
I raided the hiker boxes and ate my fill at MTR, They were a smorgasbord of everything and anything hikers had dumped because of the weight or simply because they were tired of eating it. While digging through the boxes, I ate two packets of tuna, tortillas, granola bars, and some candy.
I was also able to give all of my Trader Joe's Sesame Sticks and homemade nuts, foods I just couldn't stomach anymore, to a couple who were trading out plenty of their own food. I was glad my food went directly to someone who would enjoy it. At the same time, I was incredibly grateful to have found so many replacements for foods I simply couldn't eat anymore.
Being off my feet for more hours than at any other point on the trip made a huge difference. I felt much better. I also used KT Tape on my feet, as I mentioned earlier, and they didn't feel nearly as bad.
My plan was to complete the Yo-Yo attempt. I didn't know if it was possible, but I wasn't ready to give up. I'd done too much work and come too far to call it quits. I was now about a quarter of the way into my adventure. My hope was that with better nutrition going forward, I'd feel strong enough to complete the Yo-Yo.
Getting back to the trail was the first challenge. The nearly one mile climb and 700 feet of steep elevation gain with a completely full pack was tough.
Yesterday I had plenty of food, but what I had made me very nauseous. Today was a different story. My stomach handled food well, and I ate great until the afternoon. Then I started getting very gassy. Unfortunately, because I was using a frameless pack and carrying so much weight, I had to cinch the waist belt extremely tight. That made the gas even more uncomfortable. It wasn't anything I couldn't handle, though, and I kept eating and drinking because that was what had gotten me into trouble over the previous three days.
I cruised along the South Fork of the San Joaquin River for a few miles before hitting Evolution Creek. During that section there were tons of backpackers going both directions who I passed. As with all days before, and all days to come, there wasn't a single time that I was passed by someone going the same direction or that I saw the same person I'd passed. I was just moving too many miles a day for that to happen.
I raided the hiker boxes and ate my fill at MTR, They were a smorgasbord of everything and anything hikers had dumped because of the weight or simply because they were tired of eating it. While digging through the boxes, I ate two packets of tuna, tortillas, granola bars, and some candy.
I was also able to give all of my Trader Joe's Sesame Sticks and homemade nuts, foods I just couldn't stomach anymore, to a couple who were trading out plenty of their own food. I was glad my food went directly to someone who would enjoy it. At the same time, I was incredibly grateful to have found so many replacements for foods I simply couldn't eat anymore.
Being off my feet for more hours than at any other point on the trip made a huge difference. I felt much better. I also used KT Tape on my feet, as I mentioned earlier, and they didn't feel nearly as bad.
My plan was to complete the Yo-Yo attempt. I didn't know if it was possible, but I wasn't ready to give up. I'd done too much work and come too far to call it quits. I was now about a quarter of the way into my adventure. My hope was that with better nutrition going forward, I'd feel strong enough to complete the Yo-Yo.
Getting back to the trail was the first challenge. The nearly one mile climb and 700 feet of steep elevation gain with a completely full pack was tough.
Yesterday I had plenty of food, but what I had made me very nauseous. Today was a different story. My stomach handled food well, and I ate great until the afternoon. Then I started getting very gassy. Unfortunately, because I was using a frameless pack and carrying so much weight, I had to cinch the waist belt extremely tight. That made the gas even more uncomfortable. It wasn't anything I couldn't handle, though, and I kept eating and drinking because that was what had gotten me into trouble over the previous three days.
I cruised along the South Fork of the San Joaquin River for a few miles before hitting Evolution Creek. During that section there were tons of backpackers going both directions who I passed. As with all days before, and all days to come, there wasn't a single time that I was passed by someone going the same direction or that I saw the same person I'd passed. I was just moving too many miles a day for that to happen.
South Fork San Joaquin River
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South Fork San Joaquin River
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The canyon was beautiful and, as I passed the trail sign and then crossed bridge over Piute Creek, I smiled, remembering the trip I'd been on just two short weeks earlier with one of my oldest friends from middle and high school, Mike Walker. I'd taken him backpacking for the first time into one of my favorite places, Humphreys Basin, just miles from where I was standing.
The Eastern Sierra has truly become my second home. I've spent so much time wandering these mountains that they feel familiar, almost comforting. Coming back here never feels like visiting. It feels like coming home. The memories I have of places and people fill my heart with love and joy.
The Eastern Sierra has truly become my second home. I've spent so much time wandering these mountains that they feel familiar, almost comforting. Coming back here never feels like visiting. It feels like coming home. The memories I have of places and people fill my heart with love and joy.
This is the 69 foot bridge over the South Fork of the San Joaquin River that serves both the PCT and JMT. It was completely destroyed in the record-breaking winter of 2022–2023 where the Sierra received about 279% of its normal snowpack. The bridge wasn't swept away by floodwater. Instead, the enormous weight of accumulated snow and avalanche debris twisted and collapsed the steel truss. The permanent replacement didn't open until September 2024. The crossing was without a permanent bridge for about a year and a half.
Here is what the damaged bridge looked like at the time.
In late 2023, trail crews dismantled and removed the twisted bridge so no one would try to cross it. Engineers designed a new bridge that closely resembled the old one but could withstand much greater snow loads. Because the site is deep in designated wilderness, materials had to be transported into the backcountry and construction carefully managed to minimize environmental impacts. While the permanent bridge was being installed, the National Park Service erected a temporary cable footbridge so hikers could safely cross during construction.
I turned and climbed steeply along Evolution Creek, passing a few hikers making their way up a combination of stairs, scree, and loose dirt. I finally reached the Evolution Creek crossing. Yep, the same one where Jason dropped his boots into the water in the 2013 film Mile... Mile & a Half. My crossing was only about a foot and a half deep and came just to the bottom of my shorts. On the opposite side, I spun the water out of my shoes, replaced my gaiters, put my insoles back in, and then pulled my socks back on. I was back on the trail in just a few minutes.
The trail ascended gradually through Evolution Basin, following Evolution Creek to the outlet of Evolution Lake. Just before getting to the lake, I caught back up to Tim from Phoenix, the hunter whom I'd met at MTR. He'd left MTR about two hours before I had left and I'd been thinking about our conversation off and on as I hiked. I stopped and we chatted more about gear and food before I continued on.
The trail ascended gradually through Evolution Basin, following Evolution Creek to the outlet of Evolution Lake. Just before getting to the lake, I caught back up to Tim from Phoenix, the hunter whom I'd met at MTR. He'd left MTR about two hours before I had left and I'd been thinking about our conversation off and on as I hiked. I stopped and we chatted more about gear and food before I continued on.
Evolution Creek
Evolution Lake
Evolution Basin never disappoints. The thunderheads that had been building behind me all morning were spectacular.
I stopped and had a wonderful conversation with a family from Reno, a dad and his two daughters. Even though stopping slowed me down, I always came away energized after talking with other hikers. I loved sharing information about the places beyond the JMT corridor and introducing people to areas they might never have considered exploring. I also enjoyed talking about hiking with a lighter pack. I won't call myself "ultralight" because there are plenty of people in that community who would say my nine pound JMT base weight, or seven pounds without the bear can, doesn't qualify. Labels have never interested me. I've simply tried to be as comfortable and efficient as I could.
Those random conversations with other hikers have always been one of the most rewarding parts of backpacking for me. They don't fit well with the FKT mindset, where every unnecessary stop costs time. As the trip went on, I realized that truly committing to an FKT meant giving up one of the things I loved most about being out there. Looking back, I think that realization became one of the biggest lessons of the entire trip. Some of the things I value most about backpacking are fundamentally at odds with trying to set an FKT.
I stopped and had a wonderful conversation with a family from Reno, a dad and his two daughters. Even though stopping slowed me down, I always came away energized after talking with other hikers. I loved sharing information about the places beyond the JMT corridor and introducing people to areas they might never have considered exploring. I also enjoyed talking about hiking with a lighter pack. I won't call myself "ultralight" because there are plenty of people in that community who would say my nine pound JMT base weight, or seven pounds without the bear can, doesn't qualify. Labels have never interested me. I've simply tried to be as comfortable and efficient as I could.
Those random conversations with other hikers have always been one of the most rewarding parts of backpacking for me. They don't fit well with the FKT mindset, where every unnecessary stop costs time. As the trip went on, I realized that truly committing to an FKT meant giving up one of the things I loved most about being out there. Looking back, I think that realization became one of the biggest lessons of the entire trip. Some of the things I value most about backpacking are fundamentally at odds with trying to set an FKT.
At 6:20 p.m., I was walking through Evolution Basin with Wanda Lake and Muir Hut in my line of sight. There appeared to be a lot of trail work underway. A few minutes earlier, I had passed what looked like the National Park Service trail crew's base camp, set well off the trail so they could spread out and relax between work shifts.
NPS trail work basecamp
As I was recording this, I walked past the only other person I'd seen in the entire basin. She was a woman about my age, camped with a spectacular view. We both marveled that there wasn't another soul around. Then I walked on in total silence.
The best of all worlds.
The best of all worlds.
From left to right:
--JMT/PCT trail
--Black Giant @ 12995' with Muir Pass in front
--Mt. Solomons @ 13010'
--Mt. Ithaca @ 12790'
--Peak 13080'
--Peak 13040'
--Mount Goddard @ 13553'
--Goddard Glacier
--JMT/PCT trail
--Black Giant @ 12995' with Muir Pass in front
--Mt. Solomons @ 13010'
--Mt. Ithaca @ 12790'
--Peak 13080'
--Peak 13040'
--Mount Goddard @ 13553'
--Goddard Glacier
As I approached 11,956 foot Muir Pass, a younger hiker stepped out of Muir Hut. It was windy and cold outside, and he gestured for me to join him and the others inside the stone hut.
I followed him in, where three other hikers were chatting and snacking. I pulled out a tortilla, squeezed some peanut butter onto it, rolled it up, and quietly listened to the conversation while I ate.
One hiker talked about all the trails she'd hiked, and it almost perfectly mirrored my own hiking experience. After a few minutes, she and her JMT hiking partner headed back out onto the trail, leaving me alone with the other two hikers.
I got to spend some time in Muir Hut with Fox and Rudolph while I ate dinner. They were both hiking the PCT northbound. The conversation was great, and dinner went down well.
Fox was from Germany, and his last name actually means "Fox" in German. Rudolph...well, you can probably guess where that trail name came from.
Both were incredibly interesting, and once again I found myself reinvigorated by the conversation. Before we parted ways, Rudolph asked for my phone number so we could keep in touch after the hike.
I followed him in, where three other hikers were chatting and snacking. I pulled out a tortilla, squeezed some peanut butter onto it, rolled it up, and quietly listened to the conversation while I ate.
One hiker talked about all the trails she'd hiked, and it almost perfectly mirrored my own hiking experience. After a few minutes, she and her JMT hiking partner headed back out onto the trail, leaving me alone with the other two hikers.
I got to spend some time in Muir Hut with Fox and Rudolph while I ate dinner. They were both hiking the PCT northbound. The conversation was great, and dinner went down well.
Fox was from Germany, and his last name actually means "Fox" in German. Rudolph...well, you can probably guess where that trail name came from.
Both were incredibly interesting, and once again I found myself reinvigorated by the conversation. Before we parted ways, Rudolph asked for my phone number so we could keep in touch after the hike.
Looking northwest towards Wanda Lake from Muir Pass
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Looking southeast at Helen Lake from Muir Pass
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I was hiking down toward Helen Lake, with possible campsites another three and five miles ahead. I planned to see how my body felt before deciding how far to go.
As I passed Helen Lake, another hiker was trying to set up his tent on a precariously tilted ledge above the lake. I glanced over at him, my right ankle rolled, and I went down.
I got up immediately and began stretching it. Within minutes I was walking again, and as the ankle loosened, the pain disappeared completely.
I continued to be amazed by how much the daily ankle PT I worked into my off trail life helped me out there. I rolled my ankles only about ten percent as often as I used to, and even when I did, the pain was usually gone within minutes. Putting in the work at home had clearly paid off on the trail.
As I passed Helen Lake, another hiker was trying to set up his tent on a precariously tilted ledge above the lake. I glanced over at him, my right ankle rolled, and I went down.
I got up immediately and began stretching it. Within minutes I was walking again, and as the ankle loosened, the pain disappeared completely.
I continued to be amazed by how much the daily ankle PT I worked into my off trail life helped me out there. I rolled my ankles only about ten percent as often as I used to, and even when I did, the pain was usually gone within minutes. Putting in the work at home had clearly paid off on the trail.
Evening Marmot friend
Middle Fork San Joaquin River coming out of Helen Lake
A few miles later, I found an island of trees surrounded by nothing but rock. It was too good to pass up. I also figured the couple who had left Muir Hut shortly after I arrived would probably want to camp there as well.
There were several campsites, but I chose the one closest to the exit so I wouldn't disturb them when I left early the next morning.
About twenty minutes later, after I'd passed them on the trail, they arrived and did indeed want to share the area. I explained why I'd chosen the campsite nearest the exit and that I'd be leaving well before sunrise. We chatted for a bit before setting up camp and turning in for the night.
There were several campsites, but I chose the one closest to the exit so I wouldn't disturb them when I left early the next morning.
About twenty minutes later, after I'd passed them on the trail, they arrived and did indeed want to share the area. I explained why I'd chosen the campsite nearest the exit and that I'd be leaving well before sunrise. We chatted for a bit before setting up camp and turning in for the night.
Day 4 (fifth 24 hours)
Miles: 38.38
Total Miles: 177.42
Elevation Gained: 6974ft
Elevation Lost: 9045ft
I got a solid night's sleep. I woke up just before 1:00 a.m. and decided to get a few chores done. I worked on my feet and was pleasantly surprised by how much better they looked than they had over the previous few days. I also finished charging my devices.
The solar panel I'd spent so much time testing before the trip had not disappointed. While everyone else at MTR was trying to charge their electronics as quickly as possible, I didn't need a single watt from an outlet. I was actually generating more power in a day of hiking than I was using.
That was saying a lot considering I routinely charged my phone from around 80 percent, my inReach from the teens, my watch from the 70s, and my headlamp when it was only about half depleted. I was definitely charging things more often than necessary, but I liked ending each day with everything topped off. Better yet, I was able to recharge my battery bank with the solar panel before the end of each day. After months of testing and wondering if it would really work, it was incredibly satisfying to know the system had exceeded my expectations.
My alarm either didn't go off or I slept right through it. I woke up at 4:54 a.m. in a bit of a panic, realizing I'd lost about an hour and a half.
My first instinct was to frantically throw everything into my pack. Instead, I took a couple of deep breaths and reminded myself that rushing would only make things worse. I packed as quickly as I could without sacrificing organization and was out of camp in about twenty minutes.
Fortunately, I'd slept under my poncho tarp and everything was completely dry. I didn't have to spend any time drying wet gear as I had on previous mornings, which helped make up for much of the time I'd lost by oversleeping.
It was definitely my fastest camp breakdown of the entire trip.
In no time at all I passed the JMT Rock Monster that I'd passed by so many times before. One of the JMT's unofficial landmarks, the Rock Monster is a naturally split granite boulder that hikers have been giving teeth and eyes for years. Nobody seems to know who started it, but every season hikers add to the monster.
The solar panel I'd spent so much time testing before the trip had not disappointed. While everyone else at MTR was trying to charge their electronics as quickly as possible, I didn't need a single watt from an outlet. I was actually generating more power in a day of hiking than I was using.
That was saying a lot considering I routinely charged my phone from around 80 percent, my inReach from the teens, my watch from the 70s, and my headlamp when it was only about half depleted. I was definitely charging things more often than necessary, but I liked ending each day with everything topped off. Better yet, I was able to recharge my battery bank with the solar panel before the end of each day. After months of testing and wondering if it would really work, it was incredibly satisfying to know the system had exceeded my expectations.
My alarm either didn't go off or I slept right through it. I woke up at 4:54 a.m. in a bit of a panic, realizing I'd lost about an hour and a half.
My first instinct was to frantically throw everything into my pack. Instead, I took a couple of deep breaths and reminded myself that rushing would only make things worse. I packed as quickly as I could without sacrificing organization and was out of camp in about twenty minutes.
Fortunately, I'd slept under my poncho tarp and everything was completely dry. I didn't have to spend any time drying wet gear as I had on previous mornings, which helped make up for much of the time I'd lost by oversleeping.
It was definitely my fastest camp breakdown of the entire trip.
In no time at all I passed the JMT Rock Monster that I'd passed by so many times before. One of the JMT's unofficial landmarks, the Rock Monster is a naturally split granite boulder that hikers have been giving teeth and eyes for years. Nobody seems to know who started it, but every season hikers add to the monster.
The JMT Rock Monster
The descent off Muir Pass was jarring. The technicality was definitely turned up a notch. I'm not talking about technical in the way the Vermont Long Trail defines it, where you're using your hands and feet just to stay alive. I'm talking about endless crushed granite, granite stairs, loose rocks, and uneven footing. It was the constant pounding on my body with every downhill step. This was definitely the most jarring descent of the trip so far.
Jarring trail
The people I crossed paths with astonished me. All shapes and sizes, and all ages. What blew me away the most was the size of everyone's backpack. Passing a woman in her 70s carrying a backpack twice the size of mine put a lot into perspective.
So much of the time, the mind can make the body do what seems impossible. If I'd passed that same woman on a sidewalk with her backpack sitting beside her, I don't think I would have believed she could even pick it up, much less carry it over the passes and through the mountains of the John Muir Trail. Incredible.
I met the Rae Lakes Ranger along Palisade Creek before beginning the climb. We talked about the possibility of thunderstorms that afternoon and the increased risk of lightning the following day. She was the first person to mention what looked like the start of a period of summer monsoons beginning around July 20. I knew that wouldn't bode well for my planned July 21 Whitney day, but there was nothing I could do about it. I did my best to stay present, focus on the trail in front of me, and not worry about what might happen several days down the road.
After checking my permit, she asked if I would pass along the weather update to a couple of women farther up the trail. They were moving slowly enough that she knew I'd catch them. Sure enough, it wasn't long before I did. I stopped, introduced myself, and passed along the latest forecast before continuing the climb.
I took a well needed break at Palisade Lake to filter water, eat some food, and take my shoes off for a bit.
After a wonderful break, I had barely walked thirty feet when I lost my balance and slowly tipped over. As I caught myself, the lower section of one of my hiking poles snapped. I was super bummed. I lengthened both sections to match the height of my other pole, but I wasn't sure how it would hold up for another 200 plus miles. It was a big disappointment, but at least it was my pole that broke and not me.
As I started the climb toward Mather Pass at 12,100 feet and the Golden Staircase, the last section of the John Muir Trail completed in 1938, I felt terrific.
About halfway up the pass, I met a young woman I immediately felt a sense of kinship with. She was about my daughter's age, and she was absolutely crushing the climb. I passed her, we exchanged a few words, and I told her I'd see her at the top.
As I ascended, I looked back several times and could see her a couple hundred feet below me, steadily working her way toward the pass. More than once, I wanted to yell, "You've got this!" But I never did, and I've wished ever since that I had.
I was looking forward to hearing her story, but the summit was farther away than I'd expected. I reached it sooner than I thought I would, and after a short break I was ready to continue down the other side before she arrived. My hope was that we'd cross paths again after I turned around and started heading north.
I relished how strong I felt climbing each of the passes. I wasn't breathing hard. My body felt fit and capable. I passed people decades younger than me, and not a single person passed me.
For much of my life, I've struggled to find something I truly felt I excelled at. Something that made me feel confident in my own abilities. Out here, I finally felt like I'd found it. This is what I'm good at. This is where I shine.
So much of the time, the mind can make the body do what seems impossible. If I'd passed that same woman on a sidewalk with her backpack sitting beside her, I don't think I would have believed she could even pick it up, much less carry it over the passes and through the mountains of the John Muir Trail. Incredible.
I met the Rae Lakes Ranger along Palisade Creek before beginning the climb. We talked about the possibility of thunderstorms that afternoon and the increased risk of lightning the following day. She was the first person to mention what looked like the start of a period of summer monsoons beginning around July 20. I knew that wouldn't bode well for my planned July 21 Whitney day, but there was nothing I could do about it. I did my best to stay present, focus on the trail in front of me, and not worry about what might happen several days down the road.
After checking my permit, she asked if I would pass along the weather update to a couple of women farther up the trail. They were moving slowly enough that she knew I'd catch them. Sure enough, it wasn't long before I did. I stopped, introduced myself, and passed along the latest forecast before continuing the climb.
I took a well needed break at Palisade Lake to filter water, eat some food, and take my shoes off for a bit.
After a wonderful break, I had barely walked thirty feet when I lost my balance and slowly tipped over. As I caught myself, the lower section of one of my hiking poles snapped. I was super bummed. I lengthened both sections to match the height of my other pole, but I wasn't sure how it would hold up for another 200 plus miles. It was a big disappointment, but at least it was my pole that broke and not me.
As I started the climb toward Mather Pass at 12,100 feet and the Golden Staircase, the last section of the John Muir Trail completed in 1938, I felt terrific.
About halfway up the pass, I met a young woman I immediately felt a sense of kinship with. She was about my daughter's age, and she was absolutely crushing the climb. I passed her, we exchanged a few words, and I told her I'd see her at the top.
As I ascended, I looked back several times and could see her a couple hundred feet below me, steadily working her way toward the pass. More than once, I wanted to yell, "You've got this!" But I never did, and I've wished ever since that I had.
I was looking forward to hearing her story, but the summit was farther away than I'd expected. I reached it sooner than I thought I would, and after a short break I was ready to continue down the other side before she arrived. My hope was that we'd cross paths again after I turned around and started heading north.
I relished how strong I felt climbing each of the passes. I wasn't breathing hard. My body felt fit and capable. I passed people decades younger than me, and not a single person passed me.
For much of my life, I've struggled to find something I truly felt I excelled at. Something that made me feel confident in my own abilities. Out here, I finally felt like I'd found it. This is what I'm good at. This is where I shine.
Feeling fit, strong and grateful atop Mather Pass
The southern descent off Mather Pass was another brutally jarring section of trail. While I appreciate why crushed granite is used for trail construction and maintenance, I can't stand walking on it. Every step hurt.
Crushed granite south side of Mather Pass
The stretch between Mather Pass and Pinchot Pass (through Upper Basin with Split and Cardinal Mountains) is one of my favorites. Beautiful scenery, wonderful trail, and even a peregrine falcon stopped by to visit. I got lucky with no rain and just enough cloud cover to hide the sun and keep the temperature perfect. My solar charger might not have produced as much power, but it was a tradeoff I was happy to make.
Upper Basin at its finest
I got a second chance at a conversation I'd missed out on earlier. I walked past a tent pitched just off the side of the trail and said hello as I went by. A voice called out from inside, so I turned around. It was another young woman, again about my daughter's age. She had stopped because she was afraid of the possibility of lightning. She was hiking the JMT northbound (as her first thru-hike) and was seriously considering ending her hike because of that fear.
I sat down with her, and we talked for a while. We discussed ways to better understand the weather, how to read the clouds, and strategies for staying safe in the mountains. By the time we finished talking, she had tears in her eyes. So did I.
I hope Camille finished the trail. And I looked forward to seeing her again after I turned around and started hiking north.
I sat down with her, and we talked for a while. We discussed ways to better understand the weather, how to read the clouds, and strategies for staying safe in the mountains. By the time we finished talking, she had tears in her eyes. So did I.
I hope Camille finished the trail. And I looked forward to seeing her again after I turned around and started hiking north.
Final drop to the South Fork of the Kings River before the climb to Pinchot Pass
As I hiked through this section, I found myself thinking about my first completion of the John Muir Trail in 2001, the year after I finished the Appalachian Trail. I was hiking with one of my closest and longest-time friends, Michael Zanetti. We camped right in this very spot when my old Therm-a-Rest pad sprang a leak. I tried unsuccessfully to patch it that day and over the next few days, but I ended up sleeping on the ground for the rest of the trip.
That hike, just like this one, was an incredible experience. We completed the trail in sixteen days, including a magical zero day at Charlotte Lake. It remains one of the highlights of my backpacking résumé.
That hike, just like this one, was an incredible experience. We completed the trail in sixteen days, including a magical zero day at Charlotte Lake. It remains one of the highlights of my backpacking résumé.
I'd crossed Mather Pass at 2:00 p.m. and now stood on Pinchot Pass at 7:00 p.m. I ate a tortilla with peanut butter, soaked up the last bit of sunshine, and tried to dry out my sweat-soaked shirt. I'd already covered about thirty-one miles for the day, but I wasn't ready to stop. I planned to keep hiking and see how far I could get.
As I sat there, it became clear that this hike was no longer about following the plan I'd spent months putting together. It was about adapting. The latest weather forecast called for heavy rain and lightning beginning at 8:00 a.m. the day after tomorrow. According to my original itinerary, I'd be in the heart of that storm on Whitney day. That wasn't a risk I was willing to take.
I started doing trail math in my head. (Trail math, for many reasons, is MUCH more difficult than math in the front-country.) It seemed there was really only one way to avoid the storm. I needed to put in as many miles as possible tonight. Then tomorrow I'd hike whatever distance remained to my favorite little tarn above Guitar Lake. If I left that campsite by about 8:30 p.m. the following evening, I should have enough time to summit Whitney, descend all the way to Whitney Portal, climb back to the summit, and return to the tarn before the worst of the storm arrived. Once back there, I could pitch my tarp and finally get some sleep.
Ironically, this new plan would actually put me ahead of schedule. I didn't care about that. My goal wasn't to gain time. My goal was to get over Whitney and back safely while the rock was still as dry as possible.
So where did that leave me?
The sun would officially set in about twenty minutes, but I figured I'd still have another forty minutes or so of usable light. Then I'd be hiking by headlamp. Most of the next several miles were downhill, but eventually I'd have to decide whether to push over Glen Pass and camp on the other side. If I could make that happen, tomorrow would be a shorter day. More importantly, it would give me a chance to sleep during the early evening before pulling an all-nighter on Whitney in which I'd probably get to see both the sunset and the sunrise from on or near the summit.
I'd check the weather again tomorrow in case anything changed. But standing there on Pinchot Pass, this felt like my only realistic path to reaching Whitney Portal, completing the Yo-Yo, and doing it as safely as possible.
That night was a tough one. I hiked without my headlamp until it was simply too dark to continue. I kept descending toward Woods Creek, trying to squeeze every last minute out of the fading daylight. By the time I reached the creek, I was completely dependent on my headlamp. The trail had become as technical as anything I'd seen since leaving Yosemite. I was descending along the edge of the raging creek, and the roar of the water was almost overwhelming. The "trail" felt more like a rocky wash than an actual trail, winding through trees, boulders, and loose rock. It seemed to go on forever.
I made a conscious effort to enjoy the moment despite the grind. More than once I caught myself thinking, Holy shit, I'm doing this. That simple thought helped keep my spirits up.
After just over three and a half miles, I finally reached the Woods Creek Suspension Bridge. Crossing it in the pitch-black darkness was an experience all its own. The eighty-foot bridge hung roughly fifty to sixty feet above the raging creek below and swayed with every step. I slowed down, found a rhythm, and made my way across.
Once on the other side, I quietly passed ten or fifteen tents before beginning the climb out of the canyon. I managed almost two more miles before finally calling it a night around 11:15 p.m. I just didn't have anything left in the tank. The plan was to sleep for about two and a half to three hours, then get up and start hiking again. According to my trail math, it should work.
As I sat there, it became clear that this hike was no longer about following the plan I'd spent months putting together. It was about adapting. The latest weather forecast called for heavy rain and lightning beginning at 8:00 a.m. the day after tomorrow. According to my original itinerary, I'd be in the heart of that storm on Whitney day. That wasn't a risk I was willing to take.
I started doing trail math in my head. (Trail math, for many reasons, is MUCH more difficult than math in the front-country.) It seemed there was really only one way to avoid the storm. I needed to put in as many miles as possible tonight. Then tomorrow I'd hike whatever distance remained to my favorite little tarn above Guitar Lake. If I left that campsite by about 8:30 p.m. the following evening, I should have enough time to summit Whitney, descend all the way to Whitney Portal, climb back to the summit, and return to the tarn before the worst of the storm arrived. Once back there, I could pitch my tarp and finally get some sleep.
Ironically, this new plan would actually put me ahead of schedule. I didn't care about that. My goal wasn't to gain time. My goal was to get over Whitney and back safely while the rock was still as dry as possible.
So where did that leave me?
The sun would officially set in about twenty minutes, but I figured I'd still have another forty minutes or so of usable light. Then I'd be hiking by headlamp. Most of the next several miles were downhill, but eventually I'd have to decide whether to push over Glen Pass and camp on the other side. If I could make that happen, tomorrow would be a shorter day. More importantly, it would give me a chance to sleep during the early evening before pulling an all-nighter on Whitney in which I'd probably get to see both the sunset and the sunrise from on or near the summit.
I'd check the weather again tomorrow in case anything changed. But standing there on Pinchot Pass, this felt like my only realistic path to reaching Whitney Portal, completing the Yo-Yo, and doing it as safely as possible.
That night was a tough one. I hiked without my headlamp until it was simply too dark to continue. I kept descending toward Woods Creek, trying to squeeze every last minute out of the fading daylight. By the time I reached the creek, I was completely dependent on my headlamp. The trail had become as technical as anything I'd seen since leaving Yosemite. I was descending along the edge of the raging creek, and the roar of the water was almost overwhelming. The "trail" felt more like a rocky wash than an actual trail, winding through trees, boulders, and loose rock. It seemed to go on forever.
I made a conscious effort to enjoy the moment despite the grind. More than once I caught myself thinking, Holy shit, I'm doing this. That simple thought helped keep my spirits up.
After just over three and a half miles, I finally reached the Woods Creek Suspension Bridge. Crossing it in the pitch-black darkness was an experience all its own. The eighty-foot bridge hung roughly fifty to sixty feet above the raging creek below and swayed with every step. I slowed down, found a rhythm, and made my way across.
Once on the other side, I quietly passed ten or fifteen tents before beginning the climb out of the canyon. I managed almost two more miles before finally calling it a night around 11:15 p.m. I just didn't have anything left in the tank. The plan was to sleep for about two and a half to three hours, then get up and start hiking again. According to my trail math, it should work.
Day 5 (sixth 24 hours)
Miles: 24.86
Total Miles: 202.28
Elevation Gained: 5478ft
Elevation Lost: 5330ft
Last night I found a campsite that was adequate. I wanted more sleep, but I also knew my weather window was getting tighter. I still thought my plan might work.
When I woke up at about 2:15 am, the first thing I did was pull another weather report. Two things had changed. First, the storm now looked like it would arrive a couple of hours earlier than yesterday's forecast. That definitely wasn't the news I was hoping for. Second, today's forecast now included a 30 percent chance of afternoon thunderstorms.
My hope was that I'd already be over both Glen Pass, at just over 12,000 feet, and Forester Pass, at over 13,000 feet, long before any storms developed. The margin for error was getting smaller, but I still believed I had a chance.
I got on the trail at about 3:00 a.m. and started walking. I checked the map often to make sure I was on the trail, but somehow I never looked at the waypoints or the elevation profile. I was tired. I was foggy.
An hour and a half later, after descending a little over two miles, I arrived at the Woods Creek Suspension Bridge. The same bridge I'd crossed the night before. I had just spent the last couple of hours losing elevation, time, and energy by hiking in exactly the wrong direction. I was really disappointed in myself. This was only the second time in all my years of backpacking that I'd made such a major navigational mistake. The first was on either the second or third day of my Appalachian Trail hike in 2000. I somehow followed a blue-blazed side trail for about three and a half miles before realizing my mistake. That turned into nearly a seven-mile round-trip detour and a whole lot of unnecessary climbing.
The best laid plans...
On the bright side, it was now getting light. I no longer needed my headlamp, the morning air was cool, and at least I'd be climbing toward Glen Pass before the heat of the day. A couple of hours earlier, Glen Pass had felt so close. Now both Glen and Forester seemed a very long way away.
Mistakes are going to happen. It's how you respond to them that matters.
About a mile into retracing my steps, I found myself in much better spirits. All I could do was my best. Today was about making smart decisions, eating enough, staying hydrated, and giving myself the best chance to succeed. The morning had become absolutely beautiful. I was grateful to finally see Glen Pass bathed in early morning sunlight. I'd missed that view in the darkness the night before. It was also a little comical when I looked at the map and realized how close I'd been to Arrowhead Lake and all the campers around it. Oh well. Time to get back to work.
Ironically, during my wrong turn I was listening to my favorite audiobook, Endurance, the story of Ernest Shackleton's Antarctic expedition. The chapter that happened to be playing couldn't have been more appropriate. Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean had reached South Georgia after their incredible 800-mile journey across the Southern Ocean in the tiny James Caird. To rescue the twenty-two men still stranded on Elephant Island, they now had to accomplish something no one had ever done before: cross the island's rugged, unmapped interior on foot.
During that crossing, they made not one, but two wrong turns and had to painfully retrace their steps. The difference, of course, was that they had almost nothing. No camping gear. Very little food. Ragged clothing they'd been wearing for nearly two years. They simply couldn't afford mistakes.
Listening to that story while retracing my own steps put everything into perspective. I'd lost a few miles and a couple of hours. I still had food, water, warm clothes, shelter, and every piece of gear I needed to safely continue my hike. My mistake was frustrating, but it wasn't catastrophic.
One of the reasons I love listening to Endurance on difficult hikes is because it reminds me what real hardship looks like. Nothing I've ever done has come close to what those men endured. Against all odds, every one of the twenty-eight members of the Endurance expedition survived.
Perspective.
I made my way into the Rae Lakes Basin. It's one of the most stunning sections of the John Muir Trail, though unfortunately it's also one of the busiest. At the early hour I passed through, however, I saw almost no one.
Dollar Lake, Arrowhead Lake, and then the Rae Lakes were all quiet and serene. I stopped more times than I probably should have to take pictures, filter water, grab a snack, and dunk my shirt as the day was starting to warm up.
When I woke up at about 2:15 am, the first thing I did was pull another weather report. Two things had changed. First, the storm now looked like it would arrive a couple of hours earlier than yesterday's forecast. That definitely wasn't the news I was hoping for. Second, today's forecast now included a 30 percent chance of afternoon thunderstorms.
My hope was that I'd already be over both Glen Pass, at just over 12,000 feet, and Forester Pass, at over 13,000 feet, long before any storms developed. The margin for error was getting smaller, but I still believed I had a chance.
I got on the trail at about 3:00 a.m. and started walking. I checked the map often to make sure I was on the trail, but somehow I never looked at the waypoints or the elevation profile. I was tired. I was foggy.
An hour and a half later, after descending a little over two miles, I arrived at the Woods Creek Suspension Bridge. The same bridge I'd crossed the night before. I had just spent the last couple of hours losing elevation, time, and energy by hiking in exactly the wrong direction. I was really disappointed in myself. This was only the second time in all my years of backpacking that I'd made such a major navigational mistake. The first was on either the second or third day of my Appalachian Trail hike in 2000. I somehow followed a blue-blazed side trail for about three and a half miles before realizing my mistake. That turned into nearly a seven-mile round-trip detour and a whole lot of unnecessary climbing.
The best laid plans...
On the bright side, it was now getting light. I no longer needed my headlamp, the morning air was cool, and at least I'd be climbing toward Glen Pass before the heat of the day. A couple of hours earlier, Glen Pass had felt so close. Now both Glen and Forester seemed a very long way away.
Mistakes are going to happen. It's how you respond to them that matters.
About a mile into retracing my steps, I found myself in much better spirits. All I could do was my best. Today was about making smart decisions, eating enough, staying hydrated, and giving myself the best chance to succeed. The morning had become absolutely beautiful. I was grateful to finally see Glen Pass bathed in early morning sunlight. I'd missed that view in the darkness the night before. It was also a little comical when I looked at the map and realized how close I'd been to Arrowhead Lake and all the campers around it. Oh well. Time to get back to work.
Ironically, during my wrong turn I was listening to my favorite audiobook, Endurance, the story of Ernest Shackleton's Antarctic expedition. The chapter that happened to be playing couldn't have been more appropriate. Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean had reached South Georgia after their incredible 800-mile journey across the Southern Ocean in the tiny James Caird. To rescue the twenty-two men still stranded on Elephant Island, they now had to accomplish something no one had ever done before: cross the island's rugged, unmapped interior on foot.
During that crossing, they made not one, but two wrong turns and had to painfully retrace their steps. The difference, of course, was that they had almost nothing. No camping gear. Very little food. Ragged clothing they'd been wearing for nearly two years. They simply couldn't afford mistakes.
Listening to that story while retracing my own steps put everything into perspective. I'd lost a few miles and a couple of hours. I still had food, water, warm clothes, shelter, and every piece of gear I needed to safely continue my hike. My mistake was frustrating, but it wasn't catastrophic.
One of the reasons I love listening to Endurance on difficult hikes is because it reminds me what real hardship looks like. Nothing I've ever done has come close to what those men endured. Against all odds, every one of the twenty-eight members of the Endurance expedition survived.
Perspective.
I made my way into the Rae Lakes Basin. It's one of the most stunning sections of the John Muir Trail, though unfortunately it's also one of the busiest. At the early hour I passed through, however, I saw almost no one.
Dollar Lake, Arrowhead Lake, and then the Rae Lakes were all quiet and serene. I stopped more times than I probably should have to take pictures, filter water, grab a snack, and dunk my shirt as the day was starting to warm up.
Rae Lake with Mt. Rixford in the distance
The day really started to spin out of control.
Sure, I was tired and sleep deprived, but with every weather update the outlook seemed to get worse. The sky overhead only reinforced what the forecasts were telling me. Hail and rain were expected sometime that afternoon. That alone wasn't a big deal. I'd dealt with afternoon storms before.
Tomorrow was a different story.
The forecast now called for heavy monsoon rains, thunderstorms, and lightning from 8:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. Tomorrow was Whitney day. According to my plan, I'd be climbing to the summit, descending all the way to Whitney Portal, climbing back to the summit, and returning to camp. In other words, I'd be spending nearly the entire day on and around the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. A day that was now forecasted to have a summer monsoon.
I made my way up Glen Pass climbing 1500ft in two miles. It was incredibly hot and I had to stop briefly couple times for the first time in the trip. I needed a rest but with imminent weather there was no time.
Sure, I was tired and sleep deprived, but with every weather update the outlook seemed to get worse. The sky overhead only reinforced what the forecasts were telling me. Hail and rain were expected sometime that afternoon. That alone wasn't a big deal. I'd dealt with afternoon storms before.
Tomorrow was a different story.
The forecast now called for heavy monsoon rains, thunderstorms, and lightning from 8:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. Tomorrow was Whitney day. According to my plan, I'd be climbing to the summit, descending all the way to Whitney Portal, climbing back to the summit, and returning to camp. In other words, I'd be spending nearly the entire day on and around the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. A day that was now forecasted to have a summer monsoon.
I made my way up Glen Pass climbing 1500ft in two miles. It was incredibly hot and I had to stop briefly couple times for the first time in the trip. I needed a rest but with imminent weather there was no time.
Glen Pass looking north
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Glen Pass looking south
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Huge teenage group coming up Glen Pass towards me carrying unbelievable loads
You might remember that the crux of this trip was the permitting. Both permits had been nearly impossible to obtain.
My Whitney permit allowed me to be in the Whitney Zone on one day only. I'd already had my permit checked by two different rangers on this hike. I wasn't confident that if I arrived a day late, a ranger wouldn't turn me around after seeing my permit said July 21 when it was now July 22. And what if I was turned around and not let back up on the mountain. My VERY expensive bear canister would be left at Crabtree Meadows waiting for me to pick it up and I wouldn’t be allowed to get it??!!
I also didn't feel right having an official FKT depend on not being properly permitted.
It was quite a quandary.
The other option was to simply turn around and head back toward Yosemite from where I was.
That came with two major problems.
First, I'd still have to cross the same high passes where the dangerous weather was expected. Second, I had packed exactly the amount of food I needed for my planned itinerary. If I was forced to take even one zero day because of the storms, I'd essentially run out of food before reaching Yosemite.
Neither option felt like a good one.
I sat and thought.
I walked for a while and thought some more.
Then I sat again.
Finally, I reached out to Paula. As always, she supported whatever decision I wanted to make. "Just be safe."
As I sat there, I remembered reading through the FKT website before the trip. The vast majority of failed attempts listed weather as the reason people had to bail. Now I understood why. My mind was foggy from the lack of sleep, but I kept trying to come up with a plan that made sense. Some way to save the attempt while still doing it the right way.
My Whitney permit allowed me to be in the Whitney Zone on one day only. I'd already had my permit checked by two different rangers on this hike. I wasn't confident that if I arrived a day late, a ranger wouldn't turn me around after seeing my permit said July 21 when it was now July 22. And what if I was turned around and not let back up on the mountain. My VERY expensive bear canister would be left at Crabtree Meadows waiting for me to pick it up and I wouldn’t be allowed to get it??!!
I also didn't feel right having an official FKT depend on not being properly permitted.
It was quite a quandary.
The other option was to simply turn around and head back toward Yosemite from where I was.
That came with two major problems.
First, I'd still have to cross the same high passes where the dangerous weather was expected. Second, I had packed exactly the amount of food I needed for my planned itinerary. If I was forced to take even one zero day because of the storms, I'd essentially run out of food before reaching Yosemite.
Neither option felt like a good one.
I sat and thought.
I walked for a while and thought some more.
Then I sat again.
Finally, I reached out to Paula. As always, she supported whatever decision I wanted to make. "Just be safe."
As I sat there, I remembered reading through the FKT website before the trip. The vast majority of failed attempts listed weather as the reason people had to bail. Now I understood why. My mind was foggy from the lack of sleep, but I kept trying to come up with a plan that made sense. Some way to save the attempt while still doing it the right way.
A woman walked by who I'd later learn was named Madison. We were both in a pickle, although for very different reasons.
While I was sitting and she was standing a good distance away we talked for a while, sharing our stories. As she started to leave, she looked at me and said, "Don't give up on yourself."
I sat there thinking about what both Paula and Madison had said. The more I thought about it, the more one question kept coming back to me. Is this even who I am? In the end, I don't think it is. Sure, I can hike forty-plus miles a day on the John Muir Trail. But why? Some of my favorite moments on this trip had been the conversations I'd had with complete strangers. The family from Reno. Sitting with Camille. Talking with the young woman climbing Pinchot Pass. Meeting people at Muir Trail Ranch. Now talking with Madison.
Those moments didn't fit into the structure of an FKT. They just didn't. I love the John Muir Trail. I love the mountains. I love doing hard things. And... I guess I kind of like people more than I ever thought I did.
I stood up. I was done.
I left the John Muir Trail and followed the Upper Kearsarge Lake Trail toward Kearsarge Pass and Onion Valley. Before long, I caught up to Madison again, and we spent the rest of the hike talking. She had reserved a shuttle to Independence and generously offered to share it with me.
While I was sitting and she was standing a good distance away we talked for a while, sharing our stories. As she started to leave, she looked at me and said, "Don't give up on yourself."
I sat there thinking about what both Paula and Madison had said. The more I thought about it, the more one question kept coming back to me. Is this even who I am? In the end, I don't think it is. Sure, I can hike forty-plus miles a day on the John Muir Trail. But why? Some of my favorite moments on this trip had been the conversations I'd had with complete strangers. The family from Reno. Sitting with Camille. Talking with the young woman climbing Pinchot Pass. Meeting people at Muir Trail Ranch. Now talking with Madison.
Those moments didn't fit into the structure of an FKT. They just didn't. I love the John Muir Trail. I love the mountains. I love doing hard things. And... I guess I kind of like people more than I ever thought I did.
I stood up. I was done.
I left the John Muir Trail and followed the Upper Kearsarge Lake Trail toward Kearsarge Pass and Onion Valley. Before long, I caught up to Madison again, and we spent the rest of the hike talking. She had reserved a shuttle to Independence and generously offered to share it with me.
Summer monsoon settling in as I look back from my climb out of the Eastern Sierra
While texting with Paula on the hike out, I asked her to reach out to my good friend Derek in San Diego. Derek is a consummate problem solver and all-around helper. He loves digging into little challenges and figuring out solutions. I asked Paula to explain where I'd be coming out and see if Derek could help find transportation back to my car in Yosemite Valley.
I'd be exiting at Onion Valley, riding into Independence with Madison and her shuttle driver, and going from there.
At 12:22 p.m., a message came through from Paula.
"Derek found you a bus."
Perfect.
A few minutes later another message arrived.
"He's leaving now."
Unbelievable.
Derek was dropping everything, getting in his car, and driving six hours just to pick me up.
Meanwhile, my shuttle driver told me there were only two places to eat in Independence.
Taco Truck #1 or Taco Truck #2.
He dropped me at one of the town's two gas stations, where I bought a Coke and took what could best be described as a gas station bathroom shower. There were no public showers in town. It was exactly what you're picturing. I asked the cashier which taco truck he preferred and headed there for lunch. After ordering, I checked in with Derek and Paula, then settled in at one of the picnic tables to wait. It was about 95 degrees with a strong wind. Tarps stretched overhead for shade, snapping and rattling so loudly that it was almost hard to hear people talk.
About an hour later, smoke appeared to the north. Before long, people were talking about a wildfire along Highway 395, the only major north-south highway through the Eastern Sierra. Another hour passed, and suddenly the power went out. The fire had apparently burned through power lines supplying both the towns of Independence and Lone Pine.
Around 6:30 p.m., Derek pulled into the parking lot.
After a quick hug, we loaded my gear and headed north.
He'd already stocked the car with ice water and snacks.
Classic Derek.
The closer we got to the fire, the more surreal everything became. Eventually we came to a complete stop only a short distance from the flames, where traffic was being held. We waited for nearly thirty minutes before being escorted through. Southbound traffic had been completely shut down behind us.
We continued to Mammoth, where sushi somehow sounded like the perfect dinner before checking into a motel. Derek had even brought me two complete changes of clothes. One to wear after my shower, and another for the following day. I think the clothes were the highlight of the day. After nearly a week on the trail, that shower, those clean clothes, and that bed felt absolutely incredible. I slept like a log.
The next morning we planned to grab breakfast before going our separate ways. I'd catch the bus back to Yosemite, and Derek would head home to San Diego.
Then we checked the fire reports. The fire had exploded overnight. Highway 395 had never reopened after we'd been allowed through the evening before.
Derek couldn't drive south. Instead, he'd have to return home by driving over Tioga Pass and through Yosemite National Park before continuing south on the west side of the Sierra. On the bright side, he'd never driven Tioga Road or seen that part of Yosemite before. After grabbing breakfast burritos and coffee, we enjoyed one last drive together, talking the entire way. Derek dropped me near the Tuolumne Meadows Visitor Center around 9:00 a.m. My bus wouldn't arrive until 1:00.
I figured I'd try hitchhiking. Almost immediately, someone stopped. Unfortunately, they weren't headed to Yosemite Valley. Since I had the bus as a backup, I decided I'd only accept a ride that went all the way.
Over the next hour and a half, very few cars passed. None stopped. I didn't really mind. The weather was perfect, and after everything that had happened over the previous week, sitting quietly in Yosemite felt pretty nice.
Then, around 10:45, an old pickup with a camper shell and a bicycle strapped to the back pulled over. The driver rolled down her window, and loud salsa music poured out. She didn't say a word.
I smiled and asked, "Going to the Valley?"
She grinned, started throwing gear off the passenger seat, and motioned for me to load my backpack in back. After wrestling my pack into the already crowded cab, I climbed in. For the next hour and twenty minutes we talked about my hike, her seasonal work in Yosemite, and just about everything else related to the park. It couldn't have worked out any better. She dropped me off right at my car around 12:30. I reorganized my gear, climbed behind the wheel, and started the drive home.
I'd be exiting at Onion Valley, riding into Independence with Madison and her shuttle driver, and going from there.
At 12:22 p.m., a message came through from Paula.
"Derek found you a bus."
Perfect.
A few minutes later another message arrived.
"He's leaving now."
Unbelievable.
Derek was dropping everything, getting in his car, and driving six hours just to pick me up.
Meanwhile, my shuttle driver told me there were only two places to eat in Independence.
Taco Truck #1 or Taco Truck #2.
He dropped me at one of the town's two gas stations, where I bought a Coke and took what could best be described as a gas station bathroom shower. There were no public showers in town. It was exactly what you're picturing. I asked the cashier which taco truck he preferred and headed there for lunch. After ordering, I checked in with Derek and Paula, then settled in at one of the picnic tables to wait. It was about 95 degrees with a strong wind. Tarps stretched overhead for shade, snapping and rattling so loudly that it was almost hard to hear people talk.
About an hour later, smoke appeared to the north. Before long, people were talking about a wildfire along Highway 395, the only major north-south highway through the Eastern Sierra. Another hour passed, and suddenly the power went out. The fire had apparently burned through power lines supplying both the towns of Independence and Lone Pine.
Around 6:30 p.m., Derek pulled into the parking lot.
After a quick hug, we loaded my gear and headed north.
He'd already stocked the car with ice water and snacks.
Classic Derek.
The closer we got to the fire, the more surreal everything became. Eventually we came to a complete stop only a short distance from the flames, where traffic was being held. We waited for nearly thirty minutes before being escorted through. Southbound traffic had been completely shut down behind us.
We continued to Mammoth, where sushi somehow sounded like the perfect dinner before checking into a motel. Derek had even brought me two complete changes of clothes. One to wear after my shower, and another for the following day. I think the clothes were the highlight of the day. After nearly a week on the trail, that shower, those clean clothes, and that bed felt absolutely incredible. I slept like a log.
The next morning we planned to grab breakfast before going our separate ways. I'd catch the bus back to Yosemite, and Derek would head home to San Diego.
Then we checked the fire reports. The fire had exploded overnight. Highway 395 had never reopened after we'd been allowed through the evening before.
Derek couldn't drive south. Instead, he'd have to return home by driving over Tioga Pass and through Yosemite National Park before continuing south on the west side of the Sierra. On the bright side, he'd never driven Tioga Road or seen that part of Yosemite before. After grabbing breakfast burritos and coffee, we enjoyed one last drive together, talking the entire way. Derek dropped me near the Tuolumne Meadows Visitor Center around 9:00 a.m. My bus wouldn't arrive until 1:00.
I figured I'd try hitchhiking. Almost immediately, someone stopped. Unfortunately, they weren't headed to Yosemite Valley. Since I had the bus as a backup, I decided I'd only accept a ride that went all the way.
Over the next hour and a half, very few cars passed. None stopped. I didn't really mind. The weather was perfect, and after everything that had happened over the previous week, sitting quietly in Yosemite felt pretty nice.
Then, around 10:45, an old pickup with a camper shell and a bicycle strapped to the back pulled over. The driver rolled down her window, and loud salsa music poured out. She didn't say a word.
I smiled and asked, "Going to the Valley?"
She grinned, started throwing gear off the passenger seat, and motioned for me to load my backpack in back. After wrestling my pack into the already crowded cab, I climbed in. For the next hour and twenty minutes we talked about my hike, her seasonal work in Yosemite, and just about everything else related to the park. It couldn't have worked out any better. She dropped me off right at my car around 12:30. I reorganized my gear, climbed behind the wheel, and started the drive home.
Epilogue
Backpacking long distances calms my busy mind. I've always known that, but this trip solidified it for me.
My FKT attempt ended on my sixth day after just over 175 John Muir Trail miles and a little over 200 total miles as a monsoon settled into the Eastern Sierra on the one and only day I was permitted to be in the Whitney Zone. Waiting it out wasn't an option because of my permit and the limited amount of food I was carrying.
The adventure was over.
Part of me was crushed.
But a much bigger part of me was grateful.
Grateful that, just a week shy of my fifty-eighth birthday, my body could handle days of more than forty miles and 10,000 feet of climbing without a major injury.
Grateful that months of planning had paid off.
Grateful for every conversation with complete strangers who made the journey richer than I ever expected.
Grateful for friends and family who supported me before, during, and after the hike.
And grateful for the reminder that sometimes the goal you set out chasing isn't the greatest gift the journey has to offer.
I never reached Whitney.
I never finished the Yo-Yo.
But I don't regret going.
I came to the Sierra looking for an FKT.
I left reminded why I love backpacking.
My FKT attempt ended on my sixth day after just over 175 John Muir Trail miles and a little over 200 total miles as a monsoon settled into the Eastern Sierra on the one and only day I was permitted to be in the Whitney Zone. Waiting it out wasn't an option because of my permit and the limited amount of food I was carrying.
The adventure was over.
Part of me was crushed.
But a much bigger part of me was grateful.
Grateful that, just a week shy of my fifty-eighth birthday, my body could handle days of more than forty miles and 10,000 feet of climbing without a major injury.
Grateful that months of planning had paid off.
Grateful for every conversation with complete strangers who made the journey richer than I ever expected.
Grateful for friends and family who supported me before, during, and after the hike.
And grateful for the reminder that sometimes the goal you set out chasing isn't the greatest gift the journey has to offer.
I never reached Whitney.
I never finished the Yo-Yo.
But I don't regret going.
I came to the Sierra looking for an FKT.
I left reminded why I love backpacking.