A ramble in the Southern Sierra

The morning started off gloomily with a rare thunderstorm in the desert town of Mojave, about half-way to the trailhead from LA.

This development warranted a stop at the newly opened Mojave Starbucks (previously a coffee desert in the desert) to check the up-to-date weather forecast. I started to have thoughts of turning around and heading back to LA at this point. Glad I didn’t! The air had an incredibly strong smell of ozone.

The forecast was still looking good, so after inhaling a cheese danish (290 kcal) and another coffee, it was time to hit the road again.

I didn’t take pictures of the spectacular little road leading off the 395 up to the trailhead because of the winding curves and the very steep drop. The trailhead is at 10,000 feet elevation, so it’s a long way up.

The trailhead parking lot has a few cars, but is mostly empty. I go rummaging in the Subaru looking for hidden scented items stashed away in seat pockets and find toothpaste, shampoo, and some scented wipes. Everything goes in a parking lot bear box to (hopefully) pick up again at the end of the trip.

First stop ahead is Cottonwood Pass (elevation: 12,126ft), which will take me over the crest of the Sierra Nevada via one of the easier routes and into the wilderness beyond. This is probably the easiest pass in the Eastern Sierra — at one point someone had the idea to build a road over it, which thanks to some intrepid folks didn’t happen.

After some sandy trail meandering through meadows and a sparse forest, I get to the inevitable switchbacks, where after seeing nobody for an hour, I run into three pack mules on their way down. Probably from a resupply run for through hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) on the other side.

Still a ways up to go. But the views are already delivering.

A few hundred calories later (probably that whole cheese danish worth), I make it to the pass. Just on the other side runs the PCT, which I join at this point to continue heading west, towards my 2nd stop of the day: Chicken Spring Lake. Based on my pace so far, and despite a relatively late afternoon start, I’m starting to feel like I’ll be able to make it to my more optimistic first night campsight at Soldier Lake. But that means hustling to make it before dark.

A relatively short stretch of the PCT and we’re at Chicken Spring Lake! Time for a snack and a stretch. The chipmunks here have been well-trained by thousands of PCT through hikers who stop here to know that those big packs the humans carry are full of very tasty, high energy density food. So better not venture too far.

I chase the fearless critters away from my pack, have a quick chat with some other hikers filling up with water here, and it’s time to hit the trail again.

The next section is a sandy slog with some incredible views into the Western part of the range. After several more miles I make it to the helpfully signposted boundary of Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Parks.

I was in high-speed mode here, so less photos, more walking. But the GPS says I’m getting close to Soldier Lake, and looks like plenty enough daylight left! After a jaunt through another sparse pine forest I make it to a big clearing with some views of the crest.

I haven’t seen a single person in at least five miles, and I don't mind a bit. Into the forest on the other side.

The approach to Soldier Lake has some lovely meadows.

But it’s time to find a campsite! I pass the junction where the New Army Pass trail connects, and there’s a big group camped in the trees. I want to be near the lake, so I continue on. Reaching the lake, though, I find a sign saying restoration in progress: no camping! Tired, hungry, and itching for a well-deserved break, I start looking around and finally spot a forested hill that looks promising…

With camp set up and the sun disappearing, I get my final views of the evening as alpenglow lights up the range.

It’s a windy night before midnight, and I can hear the gusts coming well in advance before they hit my tent. One manages to pull out a tent stake, so I reluctantly exit my sleeping bag to secure the flapping vestibule. Then it’s tossing and turning until 6am. I can never sleep properly in a tent. A small price to pay for waking up here:

And here's a view of the campsite from the spot I stashed the bear canister for the night. It’s just me out here!

I pack up and get moving. I have a tentative plan to circle Soldier Lake and pick up a use trail on the other end that’s supposed to connect to the Mount Langley trail up on the crest. Unfortunately for me, I had reset my Garmin inReach GPS unit the day before and stupidly forgot to download the additional TopoActive maps in addition to the official topo maps, so when I checked, the trail didn’t show up! But the map is not the territory and I knew it was up there somewhere, so I’d have to eyeball it once I got around the lake and make a decision.

Rounding the lake, I could see where I should find a trail, but when I got there I couldn’t find a way to get through the thicket and muddy meadow where the stream flowing from the higher Soldier Lake 2 comes down. After picking up and losing the trail several times, and getting my feet very muddy in the process, I made the sensible decision to call it quits and take the alternate route back around the lake and over New Army Pass. Next time! I’ll definitely be back here again on a deeper trip into the Miter Basin.

After some climbing, the New Army Pass trail exits the treeline and I end up in the God Zone:

At some point these panoramas will get old and tired, but today is not that day. About to start up towards the pass.

Approaching the switchbacks, I run into a ultralight backpacker flying downhill, long white hair creeping out from under his safety orange hat. He looks to be 70! He asks me if I’m “coming or going”, we chat about the weather, and he’s off. Maybe one day I too will be one of the ultralight gang. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet.

My second optional idea of the day is taking Old Army Pass instead of New Army Pass down to the Cottonwood Lakes — doing that would put me right where I wanted to camp for the night, but again, my GPS topo maps fail me: Old Army Pass hasn’t been maintained since the 1930s after being dynamited into existence in the 1890s, and isn’t on the official USGS topo maps anymore. Not knowing its condition, I opt for the sure thing of New Army instead.

Making it to the top of the pass (elevation 12,300 ft), I’m instantly glad of my decision. The view of the lakes is spectacular.

And yes, I have another obligatory panorama:

Clearly made an impression if it got me to take a selfie. Of my face.

Lots and lots of switchbacks later, I make it down to High Lake.

It’s still early as I make my way down past High Lake, lunch time, and my plan is to explore the entire Cottonwood Lakes area to find the perfect campsite for night #2. Money is no object. I want a view. Speaking of views, this is looking back up at the top of New Army Pass:

And we’re in picturesque meadow country again.

Balancing out the views is the fact that every part of my body hurts. My back says stop. My hips are chafed. The hiking poles are doing a number on my trapezoids. But I soldier on, past fishermen and large groups, reasoning that the further up I go, the better chance I have at finding what I’m looking for. And then I do, up at the very top, on the shores of Cottonwood Lake #5:

Having pitched my tent, I meet my neighbor, who lives in a boulder a few rocks over:

I name him “Pikachu”, because he keeps coming out of the crack to watch me set up camp, and only later do I learn that this is not a rodent but rather a type of rabbit called, wait for it… a pika. We become fast friends.

They’re found in the Himalayas, too, and make their homes in boulder fields, collecting grass all summer, which they dry and store underneath boulders to eat all winter.

A pika (/ˈpaɪkə/ PEYE-kə^[3]) is a small, mountain-dwelling mammal native to Asia and North America. With short limbs, a very round body, an even coat of fur, and no external tail, they resemble their close relative, the rabbit, but with short, rounded ears.^[4] The large-eared pika of the Himalayas and nearby mountains lives at elevations of more than 6,000 m (20,000 ft).

Is this the final panorama? We’ll find out soon enough!

And the final brushstrokes of evening light on the range.

It’s a quiet night, with the usual High Sierra star (and Starlink) studded sky. But it’s cold. I wake up for the 10th time and crawl out of the tent after 5am, finding the water in my Jetboil frozen solid.

After a quick coffee it’s time to head up to the hill above camp for a 360 view of the lakes and the crest for sunrise.

Looking back towards the lower Cottonwood Lakes as the sun came up:

Can you spot my tent?

Okay, we get it, it’s pretty.

Frost-covered Bear canister. Didn’t expect to find any bears this high up, though.

Pikas, on the other hand… (s)he’s back!

As you can probably tell, I was really going for a “dramatic chipmunk” reveal, but poor directing on my part. Maybe our pika friends just aren’t all that dramatic.

Saying goodbye to my new friend, I packed up and huffed it the six miles back downhill to the trailhead, sad to leave this picturesque section of the Sierra Nevada.

Thanks for tuning in! ~SK