The High Passes: Fourth Day of The Rae Lakes Loop

View climbing up north side of Glen Pass

     

     It’s a spectacle I’ve seen a hundred times, though I doubt that I will ever tire of it.

The scene starts in the early morning, when all the land is dark and the mountaintops are only some vague shadow against the stars. Then, suddenly, the sun gives itself away, striking the tops of those first peaks — a promise of the warmth and light to come.

Waking up beside the lake, I watched the dull rock of Fin Dome catch fire in those first rays of daylight, burning like a beacon above the land. Gradually, the light marched down the mountain until it touched the lakes, banishing the cold night air with its intensity.

By the time Andrew and I hit the trail,  it was T-shirt weather.

View  from the lakes

A watchful marmot

Our path took us along the banks of the lakes — clear, sapphire-blue and bitter cold with snowmelt. Only the orange warmth of the sequoia trees growing along the shore could offset the iciness of those depths.

Soon, we came upon an empty ranger station, guarded by a couple of fat marmots outside. They eyed us suspiciously from their boulder pile. Maybe these were the replacement rangers after all the recent Park Service cuts. 

Patches of deep snow on the trail made things difficult quickly. Apparently there was a rule that if snow fell anywhere, it fell in the path. One moment we would be walking confidently across the crust, the next we would be waist deep in the stuff, struggling to get out. Whenever possible, we stuck to rocks, even if this required tricky boulder scrambling.

The going only got harder as we started to climb out of the lakes and up Glen Pass. About 90 percent of the way was snow covered here, requiring us to leapfrog between exposed boulders and kick-step our way straight up snowfields (we’d left our ice-axes and crampons behind to cut down weight.)

The Southern California sunshine reached eye-stabbing intensity on the snow. I bitterly regretted not bringing sunglasses, and began thinking that soon I'd go the way of the sad saps on arctic expeditions who got snow blindness. To prevent this, I ended up taking off my black athletic shirt and wrapping it around my head. The fiber was thin enough for me to see through it (sort of.) The worst part was that I had to breath through four days of my unwashed self.

Starting up the pass

 We found ourselves cutting more traverses and going straight up the snow as we got higher. Little bits of crust would fly out from beneath our boots when we kicked steps in, then down the slope out of sight. More boulder fields came up, and I started using rock climbing moves in order to get past obstacles. It was difficult work, but I felt energized by it. I barely noticed that our route had now begun to go well left of the main trail and that we were starting up a taller, steeper section of ridge.

Oh, What the hell? I thought. This way looks more fun anyway.

The rocks ended and became snow slope again. I ended standing on my toes and punching the snow in front of me in order to make holds. For the last hundred feet or so, the crust got thicker, so I had to punch harder. The way was steep enough so that turning around and descending the way I came was a stomach-turning option.  I didn't look down, and just kept climbing until I got to the rocks at the top of the ridge.

There were miles of mountains, their flanks still shining with snow despite the summery temperatures. I could guess where Glen Pass was supposed to be further down the ridge. I easily stood above 12,000 feet now.

Below, the Rae Lakes burned emerald up at us. Another lake chain, up about 1,000 feet higher, was still in its winter freeze and appeared dull and lifeless by contrast.

We had our work cut out for us between kicking up snowfields and rock scrambling

The frozen wastes

Andrew came up a couple of minutes after me. We split PB&J’s on flat bread and made plans.

He wanted to see about following the ridge east and save time by taking a different route down the far side of the mountain. The terrain on the ridge looked treacherous to mine eyes. What I really wanted to see is whether it would be possible to get to the tallest point on the ridge if we ditched the weight of our backpacks. Then we could work our way back to the main trail over Glen Pass. Andrew agreed to give it a try.

As soon as we started the boulder scramble, I found myself using my hands as much as my feet. Navigating the rocks required lizard-like contortions. The ridge became a razor’s edge, with drops of 1,000 feet or more on each side. But the terror of the slope had a hypnotizing power. The more I wanted to turn back, the more it seemed to draw me forward.

There would be a steep climb with difficult handholds and I would finally seem about ready to turn back. Then I would think about how I would do it if I had to. I would see how the hand holds and the footholds would work, and in the next moment I would actually be doing it.  Finally, I topped out near a boulder at about chest-height. There was about a two-foot margin at the top with a cliff on either side. The ridge kept going from there, challenging me to try my luck.

I could technically have made it up there, but the fear was finally too great for me to do it.

Someone had set up a pile of rocks nearby. Perhaps this had been the end of the line for that hiker as well.  

A view from the ridge 

After a careful, wriggling descent, Andrew and I made it back to our packs. It took about another 45 minutes from there to get to where the trail goes over Glen Pass. The ridge was harder to walk over than I had guessed There were several places where we post-holed, or went down one slope or the other to avoid a steep section.

By the time we got to the trail, it was a carriage road by comparison. I practically skipped down the traverses, losing altitude with neither effort nor fear.

Once again we dropped into sequoia forest, out of the glare of the sun. We filled our water bottles in a stream that ran through the trees.

We weren’t destined to stay low for long however. We still had to regain elevation in order to get back over Kearsarge Pass the way that we came in.

Sequoias on the way to Kearsarge Pass

By the time that we wound past Bullfrog Lake, the sun was low enough to light up the sides of the sequoias. The water shone deep blue from about 1,000 feet beneath my boots. 13,000-peaks stabbed into the sky all around. Even though we were pushing daylight, it was hard not to take stops and just gape at the wonder of the scene.

Around this time, I had to stop to readjust my troublesome sleeping bag. The stuff sack was falling apart. Eventually, I just took it off the pack and hiked with the sack slung over one shoulder.

The sequoias dropped away again, and we came back into the land of snow. There was an icy wind at the top of the pass, so we stayed long enough to eat, take in the view of the mountains. More lakes were on the other side. We could look into Onion Valley, where the car was parked. Thousands of feet below that lay Independence, California, and the campsite outside town where we would stay the night and to the east, the desert.

We shouldered our backpacks and hiked the last miles out.

Kearsarge Pass