10/18/22
L2H Day 6
Long John Canyon to Lone Pine, CA
Bug Saddle Camp to Movie Star Camp
L2H miles: 9.83
L2H total: 111.9
Elevation change: 167ft gain, 3904ft loss
As much as Arthur and I had been concerned about spending a potentially frigid night at our elevated altitude, it was the surprising warmth that caused more of an issue. Instead of dropping into the 30s like we expected, the temperature stayed warm enough to keep me comfortable even with my patchy quilt, and also keep the mysterious night bugs happy and circling.
In the darkness, I couldn’t see them, and I could barely feel them, but they were there. Considering our location (desert, no water), I would have thought that I dreamed them up if not for Arthur’s confirmation that they were buzzing and bothering. I smooshed two on my forehead, more from surprise than malice, then managed to fall asleep before the others could regroup, if they ever did.
When the alarm sounded at 6am, the bugs were a hazy memory from another lifetime. Comfortable as I was, I didn’t really want to get moving, but I didn’t have much food left and there were french fries and sandwiches waiting for us in Lone Pine. Hunger won out, as usual. I ate my breakfast cookie and tipped back the dregs of my granola.
Performing a water audit, I counted about two and a half liters left to hydrate me for the final 10 miles to town. Of the 13 liters that I had carried at one point during the day before last, this was all that I had left. It was plenty, but not by much, which was both satisfying and sickening to consider. The plan had worked and we’d rationed well, and that was awesome, but I couldn’t help thinking that I easily might have budgeted less water.
What would have happened then? I’d been down that road before, many times. It sucked — headaches blow. Arthur had some more water to spare, and a similarly diminished food bag. Compared with yesterday morning, our packs were going to feel like pillows today.
My second poop of the morning made up for all the shortcomings of my first, so that by the time we were hiking at 7am, I was feeling fine and light as my pack. We tipped off the saddle to prod the lower reaches of Long John Canyon for safe passage to the Owens Valley many thousands of feet below. In no time the day gave us our first great gift.
As we wiggled along a narrow wash of a tributary, the hills drew back like a curtain to reveal the eastern slope of the Sierra in all its sunrise glory. From tip to base, the accommodating canvas of pale granite reflected an unearthly warmth of electric cherry that sizzled above the hazy twilight of the valley floor. Shadows and light slow-danced, accentuating the depth of the mountains in clashing stripes and puddles. After yesterday’s consistently marvelous views, I wasn’t surprised to be surprised yet again, thanking Arthur, and my legs, for getting me out here.
Remembering the route notes, we kept our eyes peeled for a light trail that contoured above the wash rather than follow it on its journey way down to an impassible dry waterfall. A cairn confirmed our exit point, and we followed the light track easily around brushy shoulders while the canyon fell away to our right.
In just a few minutes we were soaring again, surrounded by more air than solid ground. The immense shadow that the Inyo Mountains cast across the Owens Valley was a dead giveaway of their bulk, and thinking that we were wrapped up in it helped the bottom feel very far away indeed. We were flies on a wall, but wait, we couldn’t fly. So really we were ants on a wall. A really tall wall made of sand and crumbly rock covered in brittle bushes.
My legs were feeling alright, benefiting from a lighter pack, and I was grateful that my right knee didn’t twinge when we pointed down into the depths of Long John Canyon. All that stretching had loosened up some things that needed loosening. Yet even after that success, I didn’t promise myself to stretch more frequently. No need to make a liar out of myself again, like I had so many times before.
The canyon bottom looked gnarly below us, cliffy and narrow, but we trusted that there was a way down. And there was. Unfortunately, it wasn’t carved by wild burros, and so was not of the same quality to which we had grown accustomed. Instead of easily flowing switchbacks, a scattershot of unconvincing cairns led us straight down the fall line as if gravity wasn’t already dragging us that way. I pushed hard on my poles, trying to take as much weight off my suspect knee as possible, while choosing each footstep carefully. The rocks were mostly well-planted in the hillside, but a fall here promised to do some damage.
The trail faded away completely at the steepest section, so Arthur and I split to find our own paths to the bottom. Aiming for the obvious cottonwood at the bottom, Arthur took the direct line over some bigger slabs, while I weaved across the soft stuff, hunting for the elusive use-trail that was all but guaranteed to be there. I found it after a few slips, and zig-zagged down to the beautiful solidarity of flat ground.
The great tree was a wonder. The bushy limbs were the greenest things we’d seen in days, since leaving the vibrant overgrowth of China Garden Spring. But there was no spring here, just a few scraps of unidentifiable rust amidst the muted earth tones that screamed “dry!” with a unified voice. We sat under the tree even though it wouldn’t cast any shade for another hour after the sun finally climbed high enough to penetrate these mountain depths. As fellow water-loving creatures, it felt right to say hello, if just for a few minutes while I emptied the gravel from my shoes.
After throwing a couple of our few remaining bars on our fiery hunger, we pushed through a dense thicket of brown brush. It was like walking through a portal. On the cottonwood side, the canyon was more of a gorge, with shear walls of solid rock, sinister and uninviting. Not a place to explore without a healthy dose of adventurous curiosity, or during a rainstorm. Emerging on the other side, the canyon bottom doubled in width, inviting us to flow like water around wide bends between airy ridgelines of orange rock. With the change, we were optimistic that all we had between us and hot food was a smooth transition from shady wash to dirt road.
Aside from a few violently eroded banks of gravel, our hopes were realized. Unlike Tuber Canyon, which refused to let us go, Long John ended abruptly, depositing us on a rugged dirt road long before we could say that we’d left the Inyo behind. Into the sun we crunched, the wide Owens Valley in front, the wider blue sky above, and the end of this trek shining brightly directly ahead.
It was easy to feel intimidated by the massive prominence of Tumanguya (aka Mount Whitney), but the vision provided me with such joy that any apprehension about our final, 8,000ft ascent was pushed to the unconsidered deeps of my consciousness. Reaching the Sierra (or just about) was reason to celebrate. The bright bare granite was welcoming, and I couldn’t wait to wander into the open embrace of these mountains once more. The elevation gain was burly, but the smooth trail would allow us to fly.
Conversation flowed with our easy steps to Arthur’s upcoming attempt of the Colorado Trail, then to backpacking in general. Arthur and I shared the same brotherly foundation that supported almost every aspect our our lives, so it was like looking in a mirror that reflected my past self, the person who existed before my first long thru-hike, the PCT in 2015.
I remembered the days of carrying a 70-liter pack, filled with enough clothes to keep me warm during hours of inactivity in camp, when I would dream about a 30-mile trip instead of a 30-mile day. Those were the good old days, and I wished to remember the patience and peace necessary to call it a day at 2pm. Arthur was now embarking on his own exploration of long hikes and big days. I was looking ahead, yet searching for a way to circle back to my roots.
After a succulent grape Jolly Rancher, we bottomed out at the softly dusted Owenyo Road. A steady breeze kept us cool despite the blazing sun as we beelined across the valley to the distant oasis of Lone Pine. On the way, we stopped where the road crossed the Owens River to dunk our feet in the frigid water and take one final break. This close to town, it is always tempting to push hard and skip breaks, but that urge must be repelled. As SpiceRack put to words, soaking your feet before reaching town is the kindest thing you can do for the body.
Because reaching town is never the end. There wasn’t a couch and mini fridge waiting for us at the Lone Pine city limits. Nope, you get to town, and pretty soon you’ve been on your feet for an extra hour, wandering around eateries or a grocery store, gathering supplies and finding a bathroom. Town visits are exhausting. Show up already gassed, and you’re gonna have a bad time.
With chilled tootsies and rested bodies, we finished the long traverse into Lone Pine. A veritable forest of hardwoods lined the streets. Green lawns insulted the natural landscape, shaking their soggy fists in defiance of the sun. Semi-trucks burped and belched with the force of a thousand horses as they slowed to the still ludicrous 35mph speed limit through town.
Then a dream came true. Sure, it wasn’t a couch, but Carl’s Jr. had not just fries, but criss-cross fries. Arthur went a different direction, ordering onion rings and jalepeño poppers. We slathered sauce over our bounties before striking out to strut our stuff down the main drag. Yeah, we hiked here from Death Valley. Yeah, like, we walked, all the way. We were hot shit, and we knew it.
On the other side of town, we ran into our dad, right where we could have guessed he would be, sitting on the porch of our motel, the Dow Villa, with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He welcomed us with hugs and congratulations before ushering us inside to find our mom and give us a tour.
I felt the Eigenbrot whirlwind start tugging at my legs, trying to sweep me up into a maelstrom of good ideas and life updates, but I stood firm, selfishly targeting a shower and sit before getting carried away. I wanted it all, to be surrounded by the ones who had been there for me my whole life, to refresh our tribal bond, to be loved, to catch up, to be overwhelmed, but I was tired, baked, nasty, and needed to recharge.
Finding our room, I let Arthur take the first shower while I gave our socks a scrubbing in the sink, almost reaching the point where the water squeezed from each soggy bulb ran clear. Almost. Then it was my turn, and I let the scalding water strip away the dust, salt, and grease of the trail. I emerged rejuvenated and revived, ready for the rest of the day.
The afternoon merged seamlessly into evening, following a common theme of food and family. We started with sandwiches at a cafe, then provisioned our patio palaver with chips and salsa. During a phone call with Spice, I was transported back to the East, which was suffering through a wicked cold snap. It was nourishing to hear her voice and reconnect, and I was proud of her for finding a community of SOBOs to hike with. Wow, she felt so far away. My life had changed with the flip of a switch. How did I get here? My life on the AT didn’t feel real while in Lone Pine, but the L2H wasn’t home either. For an unsteady moment, I was uprooted, confusing up for down and right for left. Fortunately, I was already crouching against a stuccoed parking lot wall.
Finally, we found space for American-sized dinners at the Mexican restaurant. Stopping in the local “Lone Pine Mark[et]” on the way home, Arthur and I filled our baskets with enough food to fuel us for the final two days. It was literally all uphill from here. Hungry work ahead. Will half a box of Oreos be enough? For my part, I was most excited about carrying chips again. Can you really call it a successful summit without chips?
Back at the room, we did a quick tidy and organize before getting horizontal and saying goodnight. With a pretty short day scheduled for tomorrow, we had zero plans to force the morning to start earlier than our bodies decided. It was just 12 miles to Whitney Portal, the staging ground for our summit bid, and we had all day to make it there. If we were blitzing, combining today’s mileage with tomorrow’s into a single push with just a resupply stop in town seemed viable.
However, I was glad to extend the trip by an extra day. This brief intermission was jarring, no doubt, and most of me longed for the desert quiet and fresh air, but it would pay dividends to our physical bodies, if not mental and spiritual bodies as well. I was ready to completely soak in the rest of this L2H mountain extravaganza, like the most absorbent sponge. The stress of preparing for this trip (overwhelmingly borne on Arthur’s capable shoulders), and the immense physical effort and stress of the actual hiking were mostly behind us. Now it was time to enjoy what little time we had left out here. It would be gone in a blink, if we weren’t careful. The best of times tend to go fast.
Hike For Days 
Good stuff as usual. Thank you.
Cheers!
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