John Muir Trail Day 18: Forester, Whitney, and Feeling Pickled

JMT Day 18 — 8/21/24
Center Peak Meadow to Bighorn Plateau
Big Sierra Camp to Bigger Sierra Beach Camp
JMT miles: 9.8 miles
JMT total: 171.5 miles
Elevation change: 2,287ft gain, 2,178ft loss

Another pass today, and now there’s just the end. Mount Whitney literally looms over our camp on Bighorn Plateau. It’s big, it’s beautiful, and I can’t wait to walk the serrated ridgeline to the rounded summit. And with that view returns all those mixed feelings about reaching the terminus of this journey, only they’re one day more potent. Bittersweet chocolate is now pickle juice, still yummy, but sharper. I know that tomorrow, the final full day, will be a blur too busy with excitement to provoke any profound reflection, but until our early alarm jangles me awake on summit day, the complex brew of emotions will continue to ferment in my mind. Do I want this to end? Of course I do, but how could I? Fortunately, I don’t need to have it all figured out. One step at a time, the end draws inevitably nearer. I don’t actually have a choice. My food will run out and my farts will dry up whether I solve the contradictory pulls in my heart or not. Life rolls on whether we have all the answers or constantly scratch for them. When it comes to the end of the JMT, the scratching is worth it.

But before the end and before even seeing Whitney, we still needed to hike over Forester Pass. As with all previous passes, it had become the topic of discussion the night before, and continued to be first thing in the morning. So when we started hiking around 8am to finish what we started yesterday, it was all figured out. We would hike and we would get there. The trail was what it would be, and we were capable of hiking past it. The altitude, the cold, the wind, the infamous notch, these were all within our capabilities.

I was in my wind jacket, Flower Power in her fleece. It was cold up here above 11,000ft, and the sun had yet to reach the trail where it snaked between rugged ridges of granite. The night had been cold and calm, and this peace remained for the early morning push until we crossed a shallow stream rushing through the talus. The crunching of our steps had been meditative in the cool shadows. Now the world was alive and full of motion other than our own. I washed the crud from my eyes, applied sunscreen, and finally woke up for the day.

Even in the sun, I was perfectly content to keep my jacket on. The air was thin and getting thinner, and the slightest breeze carried away whatever warmth the bright sun delivered. Slowly and steadily, we climbed up the switchbacks into the heart of the basin, finally seeing the pass come into view high above. There was no sense of scale to help us judge our progress, but we trusted the trail. It would take us there eventually.

And a fine piece of trail it was. The tread was smooth and well-graded, turning the horrific jumble of talus and boulders into a lumpy sidewalk that safely traversed a wild landscape. The big tooth of Junction Peak was impressive where it pointed over a sparkling lake, and I was grateful for the view’s easy access. That there was a trail here at all was pretty cool.

Finally, a little before 11am, I followed Flower Power up the shrinking switchbacks to the diminutive pass. Forester was just a narrow cleft in the ridge and the view south was as dramatic as it was airy. Wind rushed through the notch to buffet us as we poked our heads over the edge to look at the new view. The air was still clear of smoke, so the red of the Kaweahs popped above the muted gray of the basin below. Two huge lakes sparkled with the shifting wind. Behind us, I could easily make out the black rock Palisades on the other side of Mather Pass. To the east, we had our first view across the Sierra crest since Alger Lakes on day 2. It was just the distant tops of an unknown part of Nevada, but it was like looking over a wall into a new world. There were edges to our mountain bubble after all.

We were both breathless at 13,200ft, but I loved every minute of it. The vistas were hard to beat for me. Previously large mountains were below us. The red peaks around Pinchot Pass were weeny now that we had climbed to the crest of the mighty Kings-Kern Divide.

Flower Power was anxious to get the dicey stuff out of the way, so after a tense and somewhat forced break to eat something, we scrambled to the other side. I’ll admit it, Forester Pass has some sketchiness going for it. The trail might be as wide as a sidewalk, but trip and fall in downtown San Diego and you get a face full of flip-flops. Lose your balance at the wrong spot on Forester and you fall a very long way. For this reason, I was happy to move slowly and admire the nifty trail work. It was truly a marvel, scratched into a tall cliff and safe enough for the masses of top-heavy backpackers.

The rocky descent left us exhausted and ready for a break. Fortunately, a sandy campsite welcomed us at the bottom, with a rock wall to block the wind and a friendly marmot to say hello. I dug my bare toes into the warm sand, surprised by how soothing this was. When was the last time I went to the beach? The dry heat and abrasion were exactly what my sweaty feet wanted. The trail mix, dried fruit, granola, corn nuts, and vegan jerky were exactly what my belly wanted. It was a great break after a great pass, salubrious for both body and spirit. I congratulated Flower Power for completing yet another fearsome objective and we watched the clean NOBOs zig zag up to the notch. Even having just been up there ourselves, the ascent looked darn near impossible. I wondered how PCT hikers ever did it when there was lingering snow.

While we sat, smoke plumed and blew in from the other side of Black Kaweah. This must have been the source of my burning eyes for the past few days, and I was thrilled to see that we might finish the day south of its drift. We made great time on the long, gradual descent to Tyndall Creek along a sandy trail, all while the mountains opened around us into a majestic expanse of uncountable summits. Williamson, Tyndal, Not Tyndall, and then even Mount Whitney were the ones that I recognized. Many others I had wondered at before on previous trips. Like stars in a dark sky, there were too many of them to comprehend. The individuals were all one, like an earthly milky way lassoing the horizon. This is my favorite spot, perhaps on the entire planet, and I was reminded of that now. The open space, the emptiness, the intriguing basins, it felt like home.

The return to foxtail pine forest was another forgotten gem of the Southern Sierra. The rich reds, twisting and blending, were texture brought to life, and I ran my fingers over the weathered grain of the colorful wood. The dust, the dry, the empty space filled with thin air, it was all too good.

After the gradual climb to Bighorn Plateau, I was again delighted, this time to find that the wind had calmed, allowing us to pitch our tent on the exposed flat in the middle of it all. Other hikers joined us around the shallow lake that filled the slight depression in the gravel, colorful dots populating the empty expanse. We gathered water, then watched the sun sink behind a distant ridge before flipping around to watch the alpenglow on Whitney and the rest of the Sierra Crest.

Suddenly, after 18 days, here we were looking at Whitney before our penultimate night on the JMT. It was so close now and obviously impossible to ignore. The end, with all its confusing pickle juice, was before us in magnificent splendor and confusing thoughts. Did I want the end? It didn’t matter. Here it was. I dipped my toes again into the Sierra sand. Without the baking warmth of the sun, there was no more comfort to be found there. My toes were cold as the color drained from the sky. My heart was a mess.