“Time to put rain gear on, boys.”

Dumptruck, Argonaut and I were several miles into our first official day in The Sierra, having hopped on at Carson Pass. The wind had been steadily amplifying since the previous day, roaring over the exposed ridglines with the persistence of a 5 year old who really wants french fries. We’d camped by the pass, at the edge of a cliff. The wind had been blowing so hard when we tried to set up camp that we had to have all-hands-on-deck for both tents, lest they get ripped from their stakes and sent catapulting into the night air as a pair of large ungainly headless birds, cavorting across the sky, silhouetted by the full belly of the moon.

After successfully securing our tents, I took a step toward Argonaut, telling him how happy I was to be here with him. He immediately threw his arms out for a hug, but to be fair, I think Argie would throw his arms out for a hug if anyone took a step toward him. Perhaps not if they were brandishing a knife or a broken Miller High Life bottle, but honestly, maybe so, as I think he probably could calm down just about anyone with a hug.

None of us slept well, the fabric of our tents pressing down against our foreheads with the steady onslaught of air, our sleeping bags and faces dusted in a perfect layer of dirt that had blown into the tent. At one point Dumptruck had to press his hand flat against a pole to keep it from snapping inward. We woke bleary-eyed and mildly disoriented, as we were had been camping at a much higher altitude than we’re accustomed to. We stopped by the volunteer station at Carson Pass before starting the hike, and the volunteers there were awesome and quite kind. They said that with the incoming storm we might consider not hiking the next 2 days after this, as it could be markedly dangerous with the unseasonably frigid wind, rain, and rapidly descending line where rain would likely turn to snow. This day however, we thought was only liable to be windy.

Oh, how wrong we were.

Toasty hiked out with us for a mile, said his farewells then turned around to head back to the car. We hiked on, utterly overcome with the beauty of the Sierra landscape. Just after we had lunch, the sky began creeping from overcast toward the kind of ominous darkness reserved for the cartoonishly threatening entrance of a villain in a rotoscoped 80’s cartoon. All that was missing was a dolorous thud in minor key.

The moment the first drizzle turned into a bulbuous raindrop, Dumptruck announced that we should upgrade from our wind breakers to our rain jacket and rain pants. We threw our packs to the ground, jumping into our raingear as quickly as possible as that first raindrop told all of its friends that it was time to party.

The higher we hiked, the stronger the wind became, whipping the raindrops (which had turned to mini icicles of freezing rain) into our bodies with the frenzy of 10,000 ball bearings let loose from some dastardly person in the front car of a rollercoaster. The combination of wind and rain was so loud that I couldn’t even hear my (extremely labored) breathing.

At the top of our climb we were well above 9,000ft, the wind gusts were 80+mph, and the temperature was hovering around 23 degrees. The rain never eased up, rather, it appeared to delight in it’s continued assault of our senses. The trail had been turned into a continuous river, our shoes becoming little more than sodden sponges strapped to our freezing feet. Dumptruck sent a beacon to Toasty with our satellite spot, and planned to meet with him at a road crossing 10 miles ahead, so we could get out of the escalating genuine danger. I just kept hearing, with the steady repition of a metronome, Sam Eagle in Muppet Treasure Island saying in his deadpan baritone: “Unsafe.”

Once we were on the descent, I don’t think I’ve ever moved faster, and that’s saying something, as I did sprints on the track team in high school… To be fair, I only did it for one season, I consistently came dead last in every race, and there was one time I didn’t even finish because I accidentally inhaled a gob of my own saliva right as the gun went off, collapsing to the ground and choking in what was likely a very dramatic display but ultimately did very little to bolster my reputation as an athlete.

By the time we got to Toasty, the combination of screaming wind and rain made it such that we were soaked through, in spite of our rain gear. We peeled off our frozen gear and folded ourselves into the car, feeling extreme gratitude for the privilege of Toasty being out here and saving our sorry rear ends.

As the next 2 days were set to be even more harrowing, we took the advice of the locals and got off trail until the unseasonable storm had passed. We found a coffee shop that had Settlers of Catan, so suffice to say, it was better than freezing to death on the top of a mountain.

Once we got back on trail, The Sierra had settled itself back into it’s gracious September rhythm: 60 degree days, 30 degree nights, and gentle, calming breezes. A far cry from the wind that had been trying to peel our faces off a few days previously. We hiked through a section pockmarked with the landmines of cowpies, left behind by free range cattle. We didn’t personally see any cows, but I did lull myself to sleep one night fantasizing about the potential of waking up in the middle of a roving herd, forced to take a zero day due to a torrential influx of livestock.

Sometime during this section as we were hiking through a stunning mountain meadow, I saw Argie stumble behind me. He said, in the calmest voice, “I think something has snapped.”

I whipped around, thinking he meant a bone or a ligament, but as it turned out, it was the load-lifter on his backpack shoulder strap. Much less immediately awful, but nonetheless troubling, as backpacks carrying 40lbs kinda need to be able to carry the weight. We did some paracord pack surgery to great success – but 24 hours later (unrelated to the fix we’d done), his entire left shoulder strap ripped off of the frame of the bag. We did pack surgery yet again with more paracord, and thus far it’s holding strong. Argie is in good spirits considering his backpack has become geriatric within 2 months of hiking. Adds to the character!

We’ve been seeing a fair amount of Northbounders we’d met in Washington, who’d had to skip The Sierra initially due to snow, and are now back to it. We re-met a lovely couple named Voldy and Treadmill, who remembered us as being “that cheerful lot” they’d met up north. We also saw, at the Carson Pass volunteer station, a flag someone had tied to a tree 40 ft up, where they had snow-shoed to mere months previously. The northbounders definitely had made the right choice.

We’re currently in the middle of a 10 day section, but have found temporary service (and a Toasty!) at a road crossing. Yesterday we went to 10,540 ft, and on the ascent I had to stop multiple times to catch my breath, as I was wheezing and dizzy from the altitude. Both Dumptruck and I have been struggling with the elevation, but Argie, who has spent a lot of his career as a lifeguard trainer, has the lung capacity of a sea turtle, so he’s left to fret idly while my breathing sounds like the whooping death rattle of a large, unfortunate elephant. I’ll adjust eventually.

Near the peak we came across a snow patch covering an open rocky mountainside at a perilous angle. Two other hikers, Down Under and P.P.S., were standing at the precipice of the patch with their hands on their hips, staring at the 45 degree angle of icy slick snow. As we approached, they dropped their packs to put on their ice spikes. We followed suit, and while strapping our spikes to our feet, we made the sort of ultra-calm small talk that people engage in just before doing something totally life-threatening. Before P.P.S. crossed she assured us: “If I crap my pants crossing this, I just need you to know that it was gonna happen anyway, and not because I’m terrified… Even though I am also terrified.”

One by one we cautiously made our way across the snow, having to stamp our feet into it with each step to made flat landing pads in the diagonal surface. As each person made it across we cheered, joyously shouting encouragement to one another as we went. Everyone made it to the other side, and beautifully, no one crapped their pants.

Every day here has been indescribably beautiful. We met an awesome trail maintenance crew at the top of the pass, including a rad triple crowner named Prodigy, who gave us a wealth of excellent advice and pointers for our continued journey South. We are resupplying from the back of Toasty’s car, and headed back out for another week before our next planned break. Even though my hands have been routinely falling asleep due to elevation, and my muscles feel like sludge, I have been so exquisitely joyful. Welcome to The Sierra friends, I’m so glad to be here.

Love,

Thresher