Author: mattbacker

It’s kind of crazy, as well as disheartening, that fire season has become such a real and impactful phenomenon in California recently.  And so it was that my upcoming fall backpacking trip to the Sierras was in flux.  Due to the number and size of wildfires across the state, the National Forests had been closed in order to best utilize the limited number of firefighters and supplies without them being spread too thin, as well as to minimize the chance of another fire erupting.  I had spent many hours researching and planning the trip, so even a trip to an alternate destination would be a disappointment.  As luck would have it, the National Forests reopened a couple weeks before the trip.  I was still concerned about air quality due to drifting smoke from the Sequoia fires and so was closely monitoring the situation.  However, during the week leading up to the trip, the air near Mammoth looked clear, and so we were a go.  

The trailhead where we would start and end our journey is Agnew Meadows, which is fairly close to Mammoth Lakes.  In order to get a decent start on Saturday, we decided to drive several hours Friday night and get a little closer.  Rebbie, Vera, and myself convened in Ventura Friday night, loaded up the car, and took off.  Recounting memories of our Oregon trip together in 2020, our spirits were high, but we were a little chagrined that there would not be any fire making this time, as campfires were not currently allowed in any of the places we would be camping.  After a curvy mountainous detour, then winding our way past hillsides of blinking red lights into the west side of Mojave, we eventually arrived at our motel in Lone Pine.  

The next morning, with the Alabama Hills glowing in the early day’s light, we strolled to a nearby cafe and filled up on our last real meal for several days.  Two hours later we were at Agnew Meadows and ready to go.  The day heated up fairly quickly.  After a few miles, the significant inclines began, and the unimpeded sun had moved straight overhead.  Following this hot and tiring section, we finally made it to the cools banks of Shadow Lake, where we enjoyed a much deserved lunch break.  A little soreness set in as we hoisted our packs after the stop, but we were in good spirits until a little while later we spotted possible smoke in the distance, emerging from behind the mountains to the west.  We bumped into another group who had also noticed the smoke and were debating what to do.  The smoke could just be drifting up from down in Sequoia, or it could indicate a new, closer fire.  We were much closer to our planned campsite for the evening than all the way back at the trailhead, and thus decided to continue.  

A few miles later and after a more gradual incline, we arrived at Ediza Lake, reportedly John Muir’s favorite alpine lake in the Sierras.  The smoke had unfortunately worsened, which in addition to its negative health/breathing effects as well as raising concern for an approaching fire, also negatively impacted the lake’s beauty.  Nonetheless, we were excited to assemble camp and rest our bodies.  Shortly after the sun set over the horizon, the temperature plummeted quickly, and the first night proved to be much colder than I’d anticipated, as evidenced by all of our frozen water bottles the next morning.

Overnight the smoke had cleared and the sun began to warm the morning air fairly quickly.  We slowly packed back up as we soaked in the beautiful surroundings and shortly after descended along the route we had just climbed the evening before.  After a couple easy miles we took a left on the John Muir Trail and immediately began a steady incline.  Simultaneously, the smoke seemed to return and progressively worsen as we approached the steepest section of our trip and 10,000 feet of elevation.  It was tough, slow going, so after a few hours we took a solid lunch break, and then pressed on again. 

After a few more hours of uphill hiking, our heavy packs taking a toll on our shoulders, and our lungs increasingly annoyed by the second hand smoke, we finally crossed the summit and caught a sweet glimpse of Garnet Lake, sparkling in all its blue glory below.  Following a relaxing saunter downhill, we eventually landed upon a great little camping perch, not another tent in sight.  We had an early dinner by the lake so as to finish up well before the temperatures dropped.  Yet again, the smokiness abated and allowed the mountain skies to radiate with hues of orange and yellow.  

Unfortunately, the next morning the smoke was back with a vengeance, perhaps the worst it was the entire trip.  At this point, we were too far in to turn back and there weren’t any realistic shortcuts, so we pushed on through an initial steep incline.  Luckily, it was not as long as the prior day’s climb and after a few more miles of flat terrain we reached 1000 Island Lake.  After a little searching, we found our best campsite of the trip and still had several hours of sunlight to explore the area, enjoy our little nook, and have one last freeze-dried feast.

The smoky haze persisted during our hike back out the next day.  While the poor air quality and 20 degree nights weren’t what we had hoped for, we’d otherwise been blessed with pleasantly warm temps during the days, a lack of rain or snow, and a few moments of clear skies.  All in all, another great adventure – this we all agreed as we left the Sierras behind, speeding south on the 395, eager to reach the clean, coastal air back home.  

Pesky mosquitoes, wolverines, nasally accents, frigid winters, the perpetually disappointing Detroit Lions – these were the associations I had always made with Michigan.  Following his return to his hometown of Traverse City, my friend Matt had started regaling us with images of a much different and more enticing place.  And so it was that I found myself excited to see the land by the lakes during the tail end of warm summer days, to reconcile these differing perspectives.  

After an easy arrival process through the quaint Cherry Blossom airport, I quickly found myself on a quiet country two lane zipping out to the farm.  Matt’s friends and housemates, Brent and Erin, welcomed me as if I was an old friend myself and soon enough we were drinking local Michigan whiskey by the fire under a star-filled night.  

The next day we traveled west to Sleeping Bear Dunes.  As we first emerged onto the windswept sand dunes, I no longer felt like I was in Michigan, but almost like I was in another world.  Shrub-brush, petrified pieces of driftwood poking into the sky, steep faces of sand like mountains of snow; Luke trudging across Tatooine came to mind.

After several miles and a gradual ascent up a plateau we suddenly stumbled upon a few Monarch butterflies.  I looked up and realized there weren’t just a few, but hundreds of butterflies perched on the leaves of trees above.  They flittered about playfully and seemed to bask in the warm afternoon sun.  A gentle breeze rose up from the Great Lake below, a canvas of alternating turquoise and dark blue a fitting backdrop for this colony of beautiful creatures.  We continued on, reinvigorated by our fortuitous encounter, as we had inadvertently lost the trail just before.

After reaching the top of the dune and then heading back, we decided to walk the last few miles along the shoreline.  Every mile or so, we would make a stop to cool off and swim in Lake Michigan.  The water was a perfect temperature, refreshing yet warm enough to linger.  The white sand, tropical hues, and remoteness made me feel more like I was strolling along a beach in the Caribbean, certainly not how I ever would have imagined a beach in the Midwest. 

Surfing in Michigan is to most an oxymoron.  While certainly inconsistent and unreliable, if the conditions align, there is a whole community of avid surfers ready to commit and chase down a windswell.  Sunday looked to be the most promising day for some potential waves, so after checking the available surf cams and looking at wind direction forecasts, we’d decided to head north to Charlevoix, in hopes of getting some northwest swell.  The day’s itinerary started with some wine tasting, however, so off we headed to Mari to sample some local rieslings.  The day had started out with blue skies, but in short time, dark clouds had rolled in and a rather intense downpour had forced some patrons inside.  We began reassessing the situation.  Some quick research showed that there actually seemed to be a southwest wind swell which would be peaking in the afternoon, and Matt received corroboration texts from some surfer buddies that there, in fact, were waves out west.  So shortly thereafter we were off, through a quickly passing hailstorm, then past farmlands, forested lakes, and towards the fishing village of Frankfurt.  

By the time we arrived 75 minutes later, the day had become beautiful, a warming summer humidity balanced by the ocean breeze.  Looking out at the lineup, a lighthouse along the far edge of the jetty to the left, and a long stretch of dune cliffs to the right, there was a solid crew of surfers catching consistently chest high sets, an occasional runner connecting to the inside. There was barely a wetsuit in the lineup, as the warm water and air could have just as easily been confused with Hawaii.  The stoke and smile levels in the water were high, as surfable waves in the summer are a relative rarity.  Winter storms are what really kick up the waves, when the conditions are much less inviting and only a smaller group of the most hardy show up.  After several hours of paddling and wave riding, we sauntered up to an outdoor table at the local brewery and contentedly scarfed down handfuls of popcorn, washed down with cold, refreshing brews.

Returning to the farmhouse near sundown, Brent already had a warm campfire burning bright and ready to greet us.  To follow up on the next-door neighbor-sourced pork belly we’d eaten the night before, we decided that fire-roasted steaks were in order, once again complemented by requisite corn cobbs, in addition to old world red wines and Traverse City whiskey.  Later in the evening, we wandered out front to the road, where the prior evening we’d watched approaching thunderstorms light up the wide sky.  This time the constellations were out in force, and the moonlight bright enough to allow exploration of the abandoned house in the adjoining field.  

The next morning was a picture perfect Michigan day.  We headed out to Duck Lake, grabbed the kayaks, digged up earthworms for bait, and set to the water.  After several bites, but no success in reeling one in, we paddled over to the undeveloped state park section of the lake and up a narrow little lily-pad filled stream before a beaver dam blocked our way.  After another refreshing lake swim and a long paddle back across the lake, we had started walking back along the road, when we were stopped by an older gentleman in his driveway.  Being a close-knit neighborhood where everybody knows everybody, he accusingly inquired which house we lived in.  After a short conversation it emerged that he and his wife had lived in Lompoc, CA for many years, just up the road from my home of Santa Barbara.  He coached the baseball team there for 30 years and so I asked him if he knew a former co-worker of mine who had played there back in high school.  This coincidental connection excited Coach and soon enough we were inside their house looking at old memorabilia and championship photographs from his prior teams.  We parted ways from Coach, his wife, and son feeling like new friends, with invites to dinner as well as the upcoming Lompoc reunion.  Touched by their friendliness and inspired by the quick bond with those who’d been strangers just minutes before, we smiled onward into the day, with a quick pullover for our nightly corn supplies before driving toward the Old Mission peninsula.

The Old Mission peninsula AVA is an enchanting sight to behold.  It stretches for 19 miles into Lake Michigan, with resulting bays thus visible in both directions, often from the road meandering up the narrow peninsula, or sometimes from a vineyard  perched upon a hill.  The water that essentially encompasses the region has a moderating effect on the climate, limiting the amount of frost in the winter and thus allowing grape growers more success.  Matt had begun helping a small production wine maker – tending to the vines, learning the craft, and beginning to prepare for the upcoming harvest season.  He gave me a tour of their small vineyard and we followed it up with a tasting at a nearby collaborating winery.  Squinting from the hot afternoon sun, gazing across the vine-filled fields to the water on the horizon, it was once again hard to believe I was in Michigan.  I took a big sip of crisp, acidic riesling – the region’s most successful varietal – which paired with the setting wonderfully.  

Nearing the end of my trip, we realized there were a few quintessential things I still needed to experience.  So we promptly proceeded to an old dive bar establishment and ordered up shots of Ice Hole.  The next morning I picked out a block of decadent local fudge and on the way to the airport gulped down a Vernors.  My last night naturally involved another backyard campfire, as well as more cobbs of corn.  We had a small, eclectic mix of vinyl music on hand, but the Bambi soundtrack transitioning to Japanese hip-hop somehow seemed perfect.  The air felt slightly cooler, perhaps a harbinger of the upcoming fall and then harsh winter seasons.  But it’s an unspoken rule amongst Michiganders that such observations are best kept to yourself.  Better to focus on the present, relishing the magic of late summer evenings, aware that its fleeting nature is part of what makes it special.  

Knowing that I’d be spending two mid-summer weeks in central Washington along the eastern slopes of the cascades, I wanted to seize the opportunity for a mountain hike.  I quickly learned of The Enchantments, a popular camping and hiking destination within the Cascade Mountain Range with jaw-dropping vistas and aqua-colored alpine lakes, and knew I had to go.  The highly coveted camping permits are typically booked well in advance.  As a day hiker, one can enter from either the Stuart Lake trailhead at the west end of the trail or the Snow Falls trailhead farther east and hike up to a lake or two before heading back.  Or one can thru-hike the entire trail, which is about 23 miles, and thus get a proper fill of glacial lakes.  

Luckily there are a few shuttle services based out of nearby Leavenworth, so I was able to book a 6am shuttle which picked me up from the Snow Lakes trailhead and shuttled us down to Stuart Lake.  Most people completing the thru-hike choose this west to east direction, as most of the elevation gain is early in the hike when still fresh and while the air is cooler.  

The first striking landmark on this route is Colchuck Lake, which is about 4 miles in, with a gradual 2435 ft of elevation gain.  Colchuck offers everything one seeks from an alpine lake – turquoise color, mirror-like reflections, looming mountain peaks – but its relative ease of access compared to the more remote lakes makes it feel less special.  

Shortly after rounding the southern end of Colchuck Lake and after scrambling over a field of boulders, the steep climb up Aasgard Pass begins.  The elevation gain here is about 2250 ft in less than a mile over fairly technical terrain, so this is the true test of the hike.  I loved this section of the hike, as I like being challenged physically by intense incline while also having to be mentally focused to ensure safe footing on rocky terrain.  

The next section of the hike passes by many beautiful alpine lakes and the landscape transitions from drier and more open into more dense and lush surroundings farther east. After passing through the amazing core of the Enchantments and then the thunderous Snow Falls emptying into the last of the lakes, the final several miles of the thru-hike are less inspiring. But that extra distance and effort are part of what makes this place feel special.

The last big segment of my summer road trip was Glacier National Park.  I hadn’t been there since I was a child and so my memories were hazy, just a few visuals of a road with steep drop-offs and mountain goats perched on ledges.  Driving along the Road to the Sun is of course a necessary part of the Glacier experience.  It is not just the only way to get to many of the park’s most popular and beautiful spots, but it also provides incredible views from the driver’s seat while clutching the steering wheel and ignoring the fact that about a foot of shoulder room on the road and a thigh high wall of stones separates you from a precipitous drop below. 

At this point in my trip I had done a few solo hikes in grizzly country, and had learned that I felt safest by choosing popular routes, thus guaranteeing a certain level of background human presence and noise.  So I was prepared to embark on a lengthy hike alone if need be, and after a bit of research determined that the Highline Trail was the best option (particularly given that the eastern section of the park was closed this summer).  Gary had knocked out a 10 miler without difficulty the preceding week in the Tetons, so it didn’t take much convincing before he was up for the hike to the Grinnell Glacier overlook from Logan Pass.  My online resources told me this would be 15 miles.  To ensure that we’d get a parking spot at Logan Pass, as well as to avoid the afternoon heat, we decided to set off the next morning at 5:30am sharp.

The morning started smoothly.  We hit the road on time, the sun yet to rise above the horizon.  The parking lot was maybe half full when we arrived.  Clouds loomed in the sky for the entire first half of the hike, which we realized later was a blessing in helping us conserve our water resources.

The mile offshoot to the overlook from the Highline Trail adds about 900 feet in elevation, so it is quite the climb.  The effort is well worth it though, particularly with the east park closure, as it gave us a chance to peak into the otherwise off-limits section of the park.  It had started raining during our ascent, but shortly after reaching the top, the rain stopped and we were able to savor the experience, indulging in a glacier-top sandwich lunch.  Shortly after that, the clouds began to part and sun appeared for the first time.  We were in good spirits as we descended and headed back.  

The return trip was just as beautiful, but physically more demanding given that the sun and heat were more intense than in the morning.  By the time we made it back to Logan Pass, it turns out we’d walked 20 miles, not the 15 I had expected.  Undeterred, I still wanted to maximize our location and so added on another quick 5 miles to the Hidden Lake overlook and back.  After an unsuccessful rendezvous with the rest of the crew, we felt satisfied with our day in the park and so headed back west. 

As we drove along Going to the Sun road now in full daylight, I kept getting the feeling that I was in some sort of fantasy world, with jagged, glacially carved rocks popping out of the ground around every corner.  Like in a video game where they just create the most dramatic landscape they can imagine, no matter how unrealistic it may be.  Throw in shades of green and grey splattered along the mountain bases and scattered patches of wildflowers to add some vibrant color variety, a big blue sky atop it all, and the occasional turquoise-colored glacial lake. 

For years, fly-fishing has been on my bucket list and so once I realized I’d be traveling through Montana this summer I knew it was the time.  Luckily, Gary and Paul were of a similar mind and so it was that we found ourselves one morning slipping into the Middle Fork of the Flathead River.  Our day started pleasantly enough as we tried to absorb our crash course in fly fishing basics.  We began drifting down the river, receiving continued instruction.  At some point, the intensity of instruction seemed to shift.  

As our guide Chad was barking orders to “Mend!” like a high school football coach, I was trying to remember the last time I’d experienced such admonition.  I recalled my high school baseball coach’s red face screaming as the ball I’d flung from the outfield sailed over the cutoff man’s glove into the dugout, or the garbled shouting of my basketball coach that seemed to rise in intensity with each mistake and eventually became unintelligible. 

I suppose it was probably more recent like in med school when I was berated by the thoracic surgeon for not retracting hard enough, or during residency when the GI radiologist would disdainfully shove me out of the way as he took control of the fluoroscopy tower.

My thoughts were interrupted by another coach-infused exhortation, only this time it was directed at Gary, on the other side of the boat.  “You had four different fish bite your fly just then!  Damn it, what are you looking at?”  Gary looked up a little flummoxed and then furrowed his brow while muttering something under his breath.  Chad looked away in disgust and paddled us to the other side of the river.  

Paul’s experience seemed much more serene as he drifted past smiling in the other boat, directed by the more mild-mannered guide, John.  Nonetheless, by the end of the day the coaching had eased, I had learned how to mend, and I’d reeled in nine fish!

Our evenings were mostly spent playing Trekking, the game introduced to Gary and Becky by Paul and Debbie.  Being avid travelers and fans of the National Park System, it had been their idea in the first place to visit Glacier this year.  Then my parents decided to join them, and as my summer road trip plans developed, I adapted it to my itinerary as well.  

As I think back on my entire trip – of all the wonderful places I saw, the fun experiences I had, the people I was able to share them with, the serendipities, the stars, the sunrises – it really was pretty special.  And as our last Trekking match was getting close to ending, I appeared to be in the lead for the first time.  I was feeling good about my chances, when Paul suddenly rattled off a signature multi-part move, and swiftly claimed victory.  I suppose you can’t win them all.   

After we hiked back out of the Seven Lakes Basin, our backpacking group began to disband. Vera headed south to California and a couple hours later I dropped Rebbie off at the Bend airport.  My next destination was Skull Hollow Campground, located close to Smith Rock State Park.  I arrived in the afternoon and the entire southern horizon was filled with a menacing dark cloud.  I had initially thought I would go explore the park that afternoon, but thought better of it given the weather.  It ended up not raining much, but the winds sure did arrive and illustrated one of the few scenarios where a rooftop tent may be less accommodating than the ground.  The wait was worth it though, as the following morning was a gorgeous day and perfect for a hike.  I would highly recommend Misery Ridge Trail for any incline enthusiasts who also enjoy great vistas.  

As I drove east on US Hwy 26, I was reminded of Oregon’s geographic diversity.  Images of densely wooded forests or rugged coastlines may first come to mind, but after a morning amid dramatic rockscapes, I was now driving past stately ranches, barns with big bales of hay, and cows indulging in a bounty of lush, green grass.  Soon the landscape would become more dry, undulating and rocky.  I drove until I reached the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument.  

John Day was a fur trapper from Virginia who explored the Pacific Northwest a few years after the Lewis and Clark Expedition in the early 1800s. He is apparently most famous for being robbed and stripped naked by native Americans near a river mouth that now bears his name.  Due to well timed volcanic activity, many plants and animals between the late Eocene (45 million years ago) to late Miocene (5 million years ago) were nicely fossilized in this area.  Ash and debris from different volcanic eruptions resulted in layers of varying color and composition, such as the red ash in some of these photos.  I completed another hike here in order to fully appreciate the geology of the area.  Once again, there were some afternoon clouds in the distance that looked a little rainy, so I hiked at a brisk pace.  Afterward, I continued driving east and after a few hours had arrived in Idaho with enough time to find a campsite, prepare dinner, and settle in before nightfall.

A brief stop in Boise revealed it to be as pleasant as I could have imagined, and so onward I continued towards Sun Valley and the Sawtooths.  I figured there must be an appeal to the area.  Hemingway had lived in Ketchum at the end of his life, after years down in Cuba and Key West.  The author of the book I had just read about the Portola expedition resided in nearby Hailey.  Not to mention the mountain resort and ski scene in Sun Valley.  Perhaps because of these expectations, the first part of the drive was somewhat underwhelming.  Expansive fields of amber colored grass had their own sort of beauty, but I was looking forward to more mountainous terrain.  

Finally I caught my first glimpse of the Sawtooth range and immediately understood its name, with a long row of jagged peaks splitting the horizon.  The Salmon River began weaving in and out of view from the road, little sparkles of light dancing along its surface, the occasional fly fishermen gazing upstream.  I approached my destination of Redfish Lake and promptly realized I was far from the only person with this idea.  All the spots being full, I continued northward past Stanley.  I began seeing signs mentioning dispersed camping for the next several miles, which at the time I interpreted solely as the presence of scattered campgrounds.  Being a Friday in the middle of summer, and in the year of the pandemic, the next several campgrounds I drove past were all full.  Finally I came across a spot far enough from civilization that it had some spots.  The site was located right next to the East Fork junction with the Salmon River.  Some of my favorite sounds to fall asleep to are associated with water – rain drops steadily tapping on the roof or the soothing rustle of a flowing river.  The sound of the nearby rivers carried through the air crisply as the night was otherwise perfectly quiet.  I took advantage of the clear night to try my hand at some astrophotography, but even the subtle clicks of my camera seemed to disturb the almost silence.  

The next day I made my way further east through Idaho until I reached Montana, then started heading southeast towards Bozeman.  I encountered the same problem with full campsites, and as I despaired about my next move, I came across an explanation of dispersed camping.  “Great!” I thought, no reservation necessary, I just needed to venture a bit more into the wilderness and find a plot of open land.  Going off a tip from a helpful internet forum, I headed up toward Squire Rock, passed the campground, and then drove another 5-6 miles up a dirt road until I started seeing suitable spaces along the side of the road.  I wasn’t picky as it was nearly dark and I was relieved just to have a place to stay for the night.  For the second night in a row, I was lulled to sleep by a mountain river, this time the Gallatin.  

The next morning I headed a little farther up the road to Big Sky.  The only other time I have been there before was the winter of my freshman year of college when a group of my friends met there for a ski trip.  

I called my friend, Charlie, who had spent many childhood and adolescent summers in Big Sky with his Uncle Chuck, who still lives on a ranch outside of town.  Charlie quickly oriented me to my surroundings, using the highly visible Lone Mountain in the distance as a reference point.  He made a quick call to his uncle, and then within minutes I had an itinerary of two hikes, a brewery, and a restaurant. 

Thus, with no time to waste I shot up the road to Beehive Basin, a beautiful trail bursting with wildflowers throughout.  On the way back down the trail, I looked over to my right and stared at Lone Mountain, where Big Sky ski resort is located.  Even in the summer, you can still see the ski runs due to the pattern of cleared trees.  I only remember one run’s name from the mountain – Mr. K.  I scan the center and think I’ve identified it.  That is a story for another time, but now this moment is connected to that, new memories are blended with the old, and I continue onward as I still have other trails to climb.  

As I approached Yellowstone from the North driving through Paradise Valley, it became clear that the vast terrain I was traveling through would continue.  Montana is a landscape with immense sweeping plains, long mountain chains, and big blue skies.  Animals and geologic formations don’t abide by artificial boundaries like national park or state lines, and so the only interruptions to my otherwise smooth and natural entrance were manmade – shops full of t-shirts and coffee mugs, and cafes sustained by the tourist economy.  As I passed the Roosevelt Arch off to the right, I thought of Teddy’s importance to the conservationist cause and how his travels to this very spot helped inspire his influential voice.  It is a cool connection with past generations, to realize that many before have felt the same sense of awe upon seeing a National Park for the first time, and perhaps even felt the same sense of inspiration.  Yellowstone has likely had this effect as much as anywhere, seeing as how it was the first National Park established in the United States, back in 1872, and is one of the most highly visited of the NPs.  And the vastness certainly does not stop at the park entrance, as Yellowstone is the 2nd largest of the the NPs in the lower 48 (setting aside all those giants up in Alaska).  

My first stop in Yellowstone was at Mammoth Hot Springs.  Travertine terraces are formed here by hot springs dissolving and then reforming the original limestone into a mound of rocky steps.  Glistening, boiling water slowly cascades down the calcite formation, the differing colors due to thermophilic organisms.  

I then began driving east toward the Lamar Valley and soon enough had my first bison sighting.  Not just one bison, but dozens of them – some crossing the road blocking traffic, others chest butting each other, an occasional bison body slamming himself onto the ground, and many grunting as they smacked on fresh grass while exhaling bison breath.  These guys certainly are beastly animals.  After having to backtrack due to a road closure, I finally arrived at Canyon Lodge where I met my family, who would be my travel companions for the next several days. 

Our first full day in the park we made a quick stop at Artist’s Point on the south rim of the canyon and then continued on to Norris Geyser.  Given the extreme temperatures that come with geothermal activity, not many types of vegetation are able to flourish, so the result is a barren landscape almost like a bombed out war zone, only the thermophilic organisms punctuate it with occasional bursts of color.  The sulfur presence is strong and so be prepared for a throwback to the days of middle school flatulence jokes.  After the sulfurous onslaught of the Green Dragon Spring, we decided we needed to recalibrate to fresh air, so stopped for a relaxing picnic lunch alongside the Firehole River, also the first of our river damming exploits.  The next stop on our tour of geysers was the Midway Geyser Basin, home of the Grand Prismatic Spring, my favorite of the geothermals.  We finished our tour with a necessary viewing of Old Faithful, who once again pleased the crowds.  

The next day while driving east through the expansive Lamar Valley, we made a detour over to Slough Creek and quickly began a hike into the fringes of the Yellowstone backcountry.  Being in grizzly bear country, we had our bear spray holstered.  Apparently, the best ways to stay safe from bears are to hike in groups and make noise, ideally with human voices.  Luckily, we had the best bear deterrent this side of the Mississippi within our outfit.  For the majority of the first couple miles, Audrey waxed poetic about her shiny new bike, replete with pink and purple sparkles, and the advantages of a cat motif bike bell instead of ponies or princesses.  

Dane may not have the verbal firepower equivalent to a machine gun like Audrey, but with the mind of a young philosopher, engage him on age-old questions such as whether you’d rather face a pit of snakes, a mountain lion, or a pool of acid, and his lower volume but smoother cadence dialogue is also quite effective.  Needless to say, we saw no bears.  

Our hike here again reminded us of the diversity of landscape that is present within Yellowstone.  After a hilly, wooded section, we arrived at an inviting, open meadow – mountains nicely framing a nearby pond, horses trotting up along the trail in the distance.  We even felt a few raindrops, after many days of complete dryness, before turning back to the trailhead.  

The last day in Yellowstone began with a hike along the North Rim Trail of the Grand Canyon.  Hiking the rim allowed for periods away from the crowds at the main vantage points, which allowed me to really take in the magnitude of this wide chasm with alternating shades of red and brown, through which a raging river flows and thunderous falls add yet more drama.  In the afternoon we meandered along Pelican Creek out to the windy and aptly named Storm Point.  Skipping rocks along the shores of Yellowstone Lake, I felt like I could have just as easily been on a beach along the Puget Sound in Washington or somewhere else in the Pacific Northwest.  There is an impressive variety of terrain throughout Yellowstone, even when considering its large size of 2.2 million acres. 

Lamar Valley in the northeastern part of the park is sometimes called America’s Serengeti due to its abundance of wildlife and far-reaching grasslands where you can see for miles.  Hayden Valley has a similar landscape, but it is more centrally located within the park and is conveniently located near the Canyon Lodge where we were all staying.  Our last evening we found a bluff overlooking the valley, set up our chairs and blankets, distributed cups of wine, and soaked in the vistas.  Off in the distance, a bald eagle soared over his little patch of America and disappeared into the Western horizon. 

Given that Crater Lake is a long drive from Santa Barbara, I decided that the perfect midway point would be Napa wine country, especially after I found out that they have a campsite actually within walking distance of a few wineries.  Well it turns out that it was about 93 degrees on the afternoon of our arrival, so we reverted to the driving option, still an easy 1.4 miles down the road to Castello di Amorosa.  Our all-reds flight opened with a pinot, included Napa staples such as two different cabs, and also a Super Tuscan as would be expected by the winery’s Italian name.  As we basked in the castle-like surroundings with a European flare, we debated which bottle to take home with us in order to complement the steaks and asparagus we had waiting in the cooler.  This was certainly a rough way to start a camping trip we remarked.

The smooth start to our trip would take a turn overnight.  We had been pestered by swarms of yellow jackets surrounding our food, but little did we realize that one had slipped into Vera and Rebbie’s tent and chosen Vera’s hand to sting.  Given her propensity for allergic reactions, redness and swelling quickly developed.  A day later the redness had extended further up her arm and she was having difficulty bending her fingers.  Undeterred, she was willing to forge on, but the plight of Vera’s arm was a primary theme for much of the trip, as was our disdain for any other flying creature somewhat resembling a yellow jacket.  

As we approached Crater Lake and ascended in elevation, the air began to cool.  A line of cars waiting to enter the park delayed our arrival, but this turned out to be a blessing in disguise.  Of the three hikes I wanted to do, the closest to the Mazama campground was Garfield Peak, on the southwest side of the lake.  After doing some initial camp setup, we had a couple hours before sundown, so decided to go for it.  The first time you catch a glimpse of the Lake, it is pretty breathtaking.  It has such a deep and pure blue color, indeed the bluest of blues.  There is in fact a reason for this, as since the lake is a crater surrounded by a rim of peaks, there is no water runoff from rivers or other tributaries.  Thus, the water clarity is always pristine.

We inadvertently timed the hike such that we reached the peak as the sun was low in the horizon and it was setting for much of our walk back down.  The color display above the rim was delicious, the tangerine hue of the sky reminding me of an orange popsicle.

As amazing as our sunset hike was, the downside was that meant we arrived back at the campsite after 9pm when it seemed like everybody else was asleep.  We’d come prepared to continue our gourmet camp dining experience though, so elaborate food preparation began, followed by a feast of s’mores.  Despite our best efforts to whisper and be quiet, I am almost certain our neighbors thought we were loud jerks.  

Our 2nd day at Crater began with a fairly strenuous hike up Mount Scott, the highest peak in the park at 8934 ft.  It is located on the east side of the lake and further from the lake, so it affords a different vantage point. 

The final spot I wanted to see was Cleetwood Cove on the northeast part of the lake, the only place where you can get in the water and swim.  The walk down to the water’s edge is steep, dropping over 700ft in 1.1 miles.  Despite its cold temperature, I just had to jump into the big bowl of pure blueness.  Chilling and invigorating, I was thankful for the warm afternoon sun.

The campsite seemed much quieter the second night, without jerks like us cooking dinner after 9pm.  We were treated to a full moon, surrounded by Saturn and Jupiter.  My temporary s’mores obsession continued. 

We wanted to do some backpacking, so I had found an enticing option a little south from Crater Lake called the Seven Lakes Basin, part of the Sky Lakes Wilderness area.  We were still dealing with some uncertainty about Vera’s condition, so before continuing too far into the wilderness, we stocked up on some more Benadryl.  After about 6 miles on a dirt road, we reached the Seven Mile Trailhead.  Disembarking from our climate controlled cars, we were greeted by the hot afternoon sun and excitable bugs.  After lathering on sunscreen, dousing ourselves with bug repellant, and hoisting up our backpacks, we were off.  It was approximately 6 miles to Cliff Lake, which was our planned campsite.  If you haven’t carried a pack in a while, your upper back muscles feel it almost immediately.  The hike had a slight uphill gradient and the heat wore us down a bit, but before we knew it we had arrived at Cliff Lake.  The foreboding Devil’s Peak loomed in the background and we walked around to the far side of the lake where there was a pleasant little camping area.  Nobody else was there.  Or so we thought…

After a little while we saw three guys with matching purple shirts walk by.  A little time passed and they walked by again.  It happened a few more times and so we became suspicious.  Occasionally catching a glimpse of them across the lake, they seemed to be making odd, ritualistic movements.  After nightfall we saw what looked like a giant bonfire across the lake, and assumed they must be part of a much larger group.  After retreating to our tents any unexpected sounds that we heard we attributed to them spying on our campsite.  Our exaggerated perceptions were overblown.  We saw the three the next morning on our way to Devils Peak and they wished us a happy hike like normal people.  Cliff Lake was now completely ours. 

Without the luxury of easily accessible bundles of already chopped up firewood, at our lakeside campsite we now had to find it ourselves.  Rebbie took to this task quite enthusiastically and she was soon searching with the fervor of the resulting fires themselves.  Continually disappearing on firewood missions, she had located some repositories on the opposite side of the lake, as well as patches of a yellowish dried grass that nicely augmented our wooden kindling. At this point in the trip, Rebbie had essentially become our group fire-making expert.

As the air finally cooled in the early evening hours, the tranquility of the lake increasingly hit us.  Any day hikers in the region had since passed and we were probably miles from another human.  Following dinner and a few hours of peaceful calm, we decided a little music would be nice.  One of the few options loaded onto my phone was my high school reunion playlist, and so it was that we found ourselves serenading the creatures of the forest to the likes of Savage Garden and K-Ci & JoJo, ballads that the young squirrels and deer had possibly never heard.  The more experienced trees on the other hand seemed to slow dance along to the old familiarity of Dave Matthews, and as Jewel’s last melodic notes wafted into the still night, we headed to our tents.  

Within a few miles of pulling off the 101 and shortly after passing the last of several industrial-size agricultural fields, the surrounding landscape quickly felt rural and remote.  The striking blue backdrop of a cloudless day nicely complemented the rolling golden hills.  The temperature gauge on my dashboard slowly ticked upwards into the 90s.  

At the turnoff for Pinnacles National Park, I was immediately greeted by an abrasive COVID-inspired orange & white barricade. Barely emoting, a bearded park ranger handed me an information sheet and indicated I should just read the scattered, brief highlighted sections.  Within 40 seconds I was on my way forward to the campground.  I already appreciated the simplicity and unpretentiousness of this park, which does not attract the attention and number of visitors that more famous National Parks in the West do.  

Despite the afternoon heat, after doing a quick camp set up which mostly  consisted of deploying my new rooftop tent and studying the park map, I decided to casually stroll down the nearby Bench trail toward the center of the park.  My campsite had absolutely no shade, so getting on the move at least provided the possibility of finding some.  I suppose I can’t help myself once my body senses it should initiate “hiking mode”, so the next thing I knew I had walked several miles to the Bear Gulch reservoir.  On the way, I saw the Pinnacles looming off to the right, uphill over sun-exposed sections of trail.  I would save the High Peaks trail for the next morning when it was cooler.  

The Pinnacles are a result of volcanic activity roughly 20-25 million years ago.  After the old Farallon plate subducted under the North American plate, the Pacific plate later collided with the North American plate, resulting in the San Andreas Fault zone and seeping molten rock.  Subsequent northern migration of the Pacific plate actually split the volcanic rocks, with a third remaining 195 miles southeast, called the Neenach Formation.  The migrating portion became submerged, but has eventually re-emerged as the Pinnacles we know today due to many years of erosion.  

After the stifling heat of the afternoon, the slowly arriving cool air after sundown felt absolutely delicious.  I drifted off to sleep while gazing at the the front edge of Leo the lion, demarcated by its brightest star Regulus.

I awoke early the next morning, which is what I wanted in order to get started before the inexorable heat.  I was on the trail by 7am.  Following the Bench and Sycamore trails as I had done the prior afternoon, I again walked along Bear Gulch, but today took a right onto the High Peaks Trail.  I encountered my first fellow hiker of the day.  Moving much slower than me, I was glad he had also gotten an early start.  The approach up to Scout Peak and view from the top looking northwest are some of the highlights of the park.  Due to social distancing precautions, the Steep and Narrow section was not open, which I have been told is the real highlight.  As they say…next time. 

After passing Scout and the other High Peaks, I descended down the Juniper Canyon trail, before hopping onto the Balconies trail.  This place is a rock climber’s dream, with a plethora of inviting boulder faces scattered about.  I continued along the Old Pinnacles trail, where the terrain becomes less dramatic, and eventually completed my loop by rejoining the Bench Trail.  The next morning I hiked a shorter inner loop consisting of the Blue Oak and Condor Gulch Trails.  

If you only have time for one hike, I would do a loop incorporating the High Peaks and Condor Gulch trails.  These provide the best views of the dramatic pinnacle peaks and best chance at seeing a condor floating along a warm burst of air from the aptly named Condor Gulch.  

Finishing up my long hike, I passed a man jogging.  I did a double take.  At this point it was nearly noon and the sun was quickly intensifying.  Several hours later in the afternoon while I was chatting with a park worker, he passed again jogging in the other direction.  They exchanged pleasantries and the park worker explained: “Yeah, that’s Bob from Santa Cruz…he’s uhh a little crazy.  He camps here often and I see him leaping between rocks up on the trails during his long jaunts into the heat.” He’s also been known to entertain fellow campers with the didgeridoo and show off his championship yo-yo skills.  He took a swig of Modelo and gave his Dachshund a soft stroke.  “Yep, some folks are interesting.”  After offering free firewood from his nearby abode, he took another sip of his Modelo and wheeled off in his cart, just another day in The Pinnacles.