How To Fall Off A Mountain

Rich Benbrook

Using the Maps

Mount Whitney

Monarch Lake

Vidette Meadow

Cottonwood Lakes

Onion Valley to
Whitney Portal

Symmes Creek to
Mineral King

Mount Tyndall

Whitney Group

Mount Shasta

Mount Williamson

Palisades

Middle Palisade
Revisited

Thunder Mountain

Middle Palisade
Try Again

Middle Palisade
Take Three

Mount Sill

Thunderbolt Peak
Climbing Up

Thunderbolt Peak
Climbing Down

Thunderbolt Peak
Rescue

Aerial Photos

National Park Service Search and Rescue

Links

Symmes Creek to Mineral King

maps:

The next year, Linda, Mike and I embarked on an even more grand adventure than our previous. We waved goodbye to our driver as she left us at the Shepard Pass trailhead near Independence on the east side of the Sierras, and were now truly on our own, as we had arranged to be picked up two weeks later and a hundred miles away. We planned to cross the Sierra from east to west, and re-enter civilization at Mineral King, returning to the site of my first overnight trip.

We began at dawn, as our first day was expected to be quite challenging. Shepard Pass is notorious for its difficulty. Most popular Sierra trailheads are at the end of a long steep road that climbs high into the mountains, providing a welcome head start to the climb. Not so with the Shepard Pass trail. The road ends at the base of the mountains, at an elevation of only 6,400 feet above sea level, more than a vertical mile below the top of the pass at 12,000 feet above sea level. Worse, the trail does not climb without interruption, but includes a significant drop in altitude along the way. Steve Roper, in The Climber's Guide to the High Sierra, describes it as "one of the more dreadful east-side approaches in the range. The ascent from desert to alpine zone is an interminable ordeal of dryness and steepness. A 500-foot descent midway is a classic destroyer of morale, regardless of the direction one is traveling."

We started up the trail in the cool morning air. The sun was just appearing over the Inyo mountain range, far across the Owens Valley to the east, and remnants of thunderstorm activity lingering from the previous day made for a spectacular bright red sunrise. The steep granite cliffs which lie ahead glowed like fire, and only added to the sense of apprehension we all felt at the magnitude of the daunting task before us.

At this low elevation water is scarce, and the vegetation is more desert-like than what one would expect in the mountains. Symmes Creek tumbles down rocky cascades, nurturing a narrow ribbon oasis through this otherwise desolate environment. The trail follows the creek for a mile or so, crossing four times and providing ample opportunity to fall in the water, before turning away and heading steeply uphill. Immediately the temperature starts to rise. The sun is still low in the sky, but the northeast facing slope we are climbing collects the full brunt of the morning rays.

The switchbacks continue unabated for three hours until finally reaching a saddle at 9000 feet, where the trail crosses into the Shepard Creek drainage and drops 500 feet. It takes nearly an hour to make up the lost altitude and regain the height of the previous saddle. It is now nearly noon and the sun is directly overhead. The trail had moved to the south side of the ridge to better take advantage of every possible watt of energy, and the heat becomes oppressive. A fire long ago destroyed what little trees grow on this slope, and the burnt stumps and low bushes provide no shade. There has been no water since leaving Symmes Creek, and the trail remains hundreds of feet above Shepard Creek; the cool water tantalizing close but out of reach. Our water bottles nearly empty, we finally reach the only reliable water source on this portion of the trail. A small trickle of water crosses the trail from a spring high in the cliffs, but it is enough to keep us going.

Finally, late in the afternoon, the trail rounds a corner and enters a forest. The contrast is striking. One moment, we are in a hot rocky desert with very little plant life. The next we are walking through a dark forest with a babbling brook flowing alongside. The trail is no longer hard and rocky, but soft moist dirt, and it feels fabulous on our tired feet. Wildflowers grow in abundance, and the air is cool and damp. We have arrived at Anvil Camp, 10,000 feet above sea level and our destination for the day.

We set up camp, and cool our toes in the creek.

The next day we still have 2,000 feet of climbing ahead of us, but the high altitude air is cool and pleasant and the scenery is spectacular, so the miles fly by. The last 500 feet to the summit is fairly steep, and the trail virtually non-existent. A trail crew is trying to work the scree slope into some semblance of a trail, but it seems like an impossible task as the small rocks slide back to cover their work almost as soon as they move on to another section. We scramble up this final distance, and reach the top well before noon.

There is a lake at the top of Shepard Pass. Mount Tyndall looms large to the south, its massive vertical northeast face reflected in the calm waters. To the west lies the upper plateau of the Kern River, and we can see far in the distance the lake we spent two nights at last year on our trip to Mount Whitney. We decide to make our camp there again.

After a much-deserved day of rest, we are once again on the move. Turning north, we climb up to Lake South America. Named for its distinctive shape, this lake forms the headwaters of the Kern River. The marmots at this lake are amazingly tame. Or hungry. In any case, Linda takes the opportunity to get some great close up photos of our new friends. After spending the afternoon around the lake and enjoying a great trailside lunch, we start down the Kern River toward our next goal.

I had lived for years not far from where the Kern River pours out into the San Joaquin Valley, and at its mouth the river is wide and uncrossable except by the sturdiest highway bridges. Up here at its source one simply steps across.

We leave the trail again and head cross country to a large unnamed lake on a small tributary west of the main Kern River, and here we camp for two more nights. We enjoy fresh trout for dinner, and spend our days ambling about the nearby meadows and streams.

We are treated to a bit of excitement one afternoon. Linda and I had hiked up to a meadow about a mile west of camp. We spent a couple hours there, and then I started back toward camp. Linda decided to remain and take more photos. I was nearly back to camp when I heard what I thought was a Navy jet fighter buzzing up the canyon as they do with some regularity. The sound kept getting louder and louder, and the ground began to tremble. I looked back just in time to see an entire mountainside fall down in a great rock avalanche crushing into the meadow where we had spent the afternoon. It took several minutes for the dust to settle, and when it did most of the meadow was buried under tons of rock. I turned around to try to find Linda, expecting the worst, when she appeared from around a corner. She had changed her mind, and followed me out from the meadow. I can only imagine what horrible tragedy was avoided by that fortunate decision.

Now nearly a week into our trip, we start down into the canyon of the Kern River. Up to now, we had been at high altitude where the mosquitoes were not too thick. As we descend into the canyon, we realize what we had been missing. The air was dark with swarms of the hungry insects, and no amount of repellant seemed to deter them. We quickly learned to don rain gear when we had to approach a creek crossing or fill our water bottles.

Many tributaries have now added to the volume of the river, and it is no longer possible to cross. Fortunately, we have joined a trail which remains on one side of the river, making crossings unnecessary. The tradeoff for the mosquitoes as this low altitude is the abundance of vegetation. Thick groves of tree ferns and lush gardens of fragrant wildflowers adorn the trail. The trees grow straight and tall, and it is difficult to see all the way to their tops.

We head toward Kern Hot Springs, two days away and deep in the canyon at only 6500 feet above sea level, and worry that the mosquitoes will prevent us from enjoying the soothing hot water. Surprisingly, as we approach the hot springs, the mosquitoes mysteriously vanish. Even though the area appears perfect for the little beasts, with damp swampland and pools of still water, the bugs aren't here.

The hot springs bubble out of the ground at a scalding 115 degrees. A system of crude pipes and channels allows one to control the flow of water into a medium sized concrete tub, just big enough for the three of us to enjoy a soak. If the water gets too hot, the cold snowmelt of the Kern River flows a few feet away, and a bucket is available to dilute the hot water. We discover the incredible experience of sitting in the near scalding water as long as can be tolerated, then standing up while somebody pours a bucket of ice water over a steaming scalp. We also learn that once body temperature is sufficiently elevated, a dive into the river is quite refreshing. Of course that causes chills, so back into the hot water, which feels even better than before.

Even though we have been using a solar shower on this trip, for the first time in a week I feel truly clean again.

Due to the popularity of this area with hikers and bears, the Park Service has provided food storage lockers. We store our food safely and go to bed for the first time in a week without worry of nighttime scavengers. Around midnight we awake and walk back to the hot springs for a late soak. It's my birthday, and I open a bottle of wine I've been carrying the entire trip for just this occasion. We enjoy some nice Cabernet, a hot soak, and a sky of countless stars. Happy Birthday to Me!

Something special happens on long backpacking trips. At the beginning, packs are heavy, muscles ache, and thoughts drift to insignificant subjects such as work, relationships, and hamburgers. But as days pass, packs lighten, muscles strengthen, and the mind begins to focus on what's really important: navigation, shelter, and where is the best spot to watch the sunset. A routine begins to develop, so camp setup, meal preparation, water filtering, and all the other chores necessary for daily survival are accomplished without difficulty and without much conscious effort. By the second week, the 'real world' fades into a distant memory and backpacking becomes a way of life.

We sleep late and then enjoy one last soak before breaking camp for the day. Today's hike is short and all downhill, so it is not until mid-afternoon that we start off down the river toward the confluence of Rattlesnake Creek. Part of the trail is built of wooden planks anchored to fallen logs, and acts like a boardwalk through the wetlands. Along the way, we are treated to the sight of towering waterfalls pouring off the Chagoopa Plateau 2000 feet above us.

On the ninth day, we start up Rattlesnake Creek toward Franklin Pass, our exit point from the wilderness. This will be our longest day yet, with 4,000 of altitude to be gained. Twice along the way we hear a hissing sound along the trail, and spot the serpent for which the creek was named. We climb easily with strengthened muscles and lightened packs, and soon are back up in the rarefied air to which our bodies had grown accustomed, happily leaving the bugs down in the lowlands for other travelers to enjoy. While the flora and fauna of the Kern Canyon were interesting, and we enjoyed our visit, we all agree that we really missed the alpine life and are glad to be back up here at last.

Our final camp is alongside a meadow just below Franklin Pass. The next day we will cross the pass and descend into Mineral King, ending a journey that we can only classify as a complete success.