Evo Davo: Joy and heartbreak in the Sierra

I felt confident amid difficulty until I was rattled to the core in tranquility

A key part of my professional life is to identify potential future problems and develop and implement mitigation plans to prevent adverse outcomes. Alas, in my personal adventure, I did not see this one coming and it bitch-slapped both me so hard it left a mark on my son.

There are times when a failure means a momentary pause in progress. Other times, failure is like a collapsing building and you helplessly ride the destruction down to the ground until it crashes in a pile of rubble. The dust from this mountain of rubble has yet to settle.

Humbled by my own stupidity I find myself questioning my logic, my choices and my skewed perceptions of realty, upon which my bad decisions were born. Those decisions now look reckless in the harsh light of hindsight. With so much to be grateful for, why did I choose to push my luck? After a lifetime of audacious undertakings why can’t I just take it down a notch?

In my continuing effort to deny my age and responsibilities my son Tim and I began an ambitious backpacking trip on a section of the John Muir Trail in California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. The plan was to complete the middle one hundred miles that we had skipped when we did the two hundred and thirty mile hike in 2002.

2002

On top of Mt. Whitney. August 2002

Back then blisters on Tim’s feet forced us to pull out after the first sixty miles and rest while he healed and then we did the last seventy some miles’ leaving a chunk of just under a hundred miles to be completed later.

Heeeeeere we go!

“Later” started earlier this month. I had hiked these mountains countless times starting in my youth and my adventures continued into my early forties. I was looking forward to refreshing my mind and sorting out what were factual memories and what fictional mental images had sprung from imagination. My head was full of memories and an array of emotions as the trip got underway.

The hike began just like old times. Effortlessly catching and passing people as we made our way up the trail. “This isn’t that hard,” I thought to myself. The trail is now hugely popular and Tim counted 35 people the first day. Another thing that was different was that for the first time either of us could remember people passed us going the same direction. I asked Tim if they were faster or if I was slower. His perception was that both were true.

The increased foot traffic had an upside in that we got plenty of beta as we went. “Mosquitos get real bad in about a mile,” was a tip that was appreciated. This and other bits of information helped us every day.

The air was smoky from wildfires to the north so our views were more like ghostly silhouettes. I recall thinking that the mountains would be gorgeous if the smoke wasn’t there. There was cloud cover high overhead so the sun wasn’t melting us. It felt good to be in the wild again. My phone was turned off and buried deep in my pack. I was looking forward to being unplugged.

My biggest health concern was my knee. So far, it was behaving. This was a good sign. Maybe all would be okay? There were many things that could go wrong. My son’s foot had been bothering him earlier this summer. He tweaked his back the morning we started. My knee had felt so bad I visited the doctor a couple weeks prior to the trip. My left foot was sore as I started. I felt this was a gamble even before we got underway.

With so many of my undertakings requiring four to six months of trip-specific training I almost felt like I was unworthy to be on the trail. I had thrown in some hiking with weights in a pack, but nothing like the months of training that preceded my bike trips. My fitness was fine and my mind jumped between “I haven’t trained enough” and “It’s just walking.”

On the final climb to the lake where we would spend the first night it started to sprinkle. We knew we were close and hoped the rain would either pass or hold off until we made camp. A flash of lighting and an immediate explosion of thunder shook the ground. Tim and another fellow who had joined us were nervous but based on the immediate topography I knew we were safe. I guessed that the rain would get serious fast so we sped up.

The rain picked up and we quickly fished out rain gear for the final fifteen minutes until we reached the lake and found a campsite. We got the tent up and jumped in while the rain came down and the thunder roared around us. Although the day had included a lot of up and down we were feeling both the 4,000’ of up in our legs and the thin air at our campsite 10,300’ above sea level in our lungs.

In the morning we dried out the gear that had gotten wet and then we were underway. The storm had rushed us the previous evening and I felt a bit out of sorts. Kind of like going out before you shower, you just feel less than a hundred percent.

We were moving well and had found a decent daily rhythm. The air was fresh after the rain and we covered ground quickly.

By the early afternoon we were approached Silver Pass at 10,900’. The rain returned followed by thunder. We put on rain gear and kept moving. We were just a few hundred feet from the top but the approach was exposed and lightning was a threat. We weighed our options and decided to put up the tent and wait it out.

We relaxed in our shelter and listened to the thunder rumble up the valleys bouncing off the granite walls as the rain and wind changed direction almost constantly. As the thunder roared I felt peace and savored the multi-sensory experience. We had numerous trips filled with sunny days and the show playing out across the sky was a unique experience.

After a couple hours the sky brightened and the rain stopped. We packed and were on the snow in minutes and then we rejoiced at the pass. The first of many we proclaimed. We felt strong.

To the top..

At the top of Silver Pass

On the descent we discussed our options regarding how much further to push as the sun was heading down. I was feeling the altitude and was dehydrated. Part of dehydration is a lack of appetite and I had eaten little since breakfast. Still I felt fine and decided to push the pace on the downhill and began swinging my arms as I sped up. The exaggerated arm motion was familiar and with it our pace quickened. This was like old times.

Silver Pass Lake to the right

The elevation caught up with me rather suddenly and I stopped for a second to catch my breath. My heart was going faster it should and I took my pulse. Shit. The monster that I was never supposed to see again was back.

Tim sensed something was wrong with me right away. “Dad, you okay?” It isn’t wise to bluff twenty five miles from any paved roads. I said my heart was being funky or wonky or goofy or some other term to soften, if only in my mind, the harsh reality.

I was three months and a couple weeks out from surgery. In those three months I had a quiver full of five and six hour sufferfest rides I had completed without incident. I had zone five hill repeat workouts where my legs were the limiting factor. No episodes of any kind since the first week after surgery. Hiking is just glorified walking, albeit with a pack, and it wasn’t even the heavy packs of my youth. This was not supposed to happen. I was pissed. Tim was supportive but nervous.

This is what camp looks like in the dark....

A couple miles on we made camp on the edge of a cliff overlooking a valley. The streaked silver granite and deep green trees fulfilling the unique color palette of the high Sierra. I made dinner while Tim got more water. I had forgotten how weak and helpless I feel when this happens.

Today was Tim’s birthday and we celebrated by baking a cake complete with candle. You should know that I can make ANYTHING on my MSR stove.

I felt better in camp but my heart had not yet returned to normal rhythm. As darkness took over the moon played peek-a-boo though the thinning clouds. It was a show and we watched it for quite a while before retiring for the night. I went to bed assuming I would feel better in the morning, but knowing the right thing was to bail out. Tim went to bed hoping not to wake up next to a dead dad. My efforts to reassure him proved futile.

The morning came and I had not reset. I studied the maps and considered our options. This was the one camp on the whole trip where we could walk out with almost no uphill. It was almost twenty miles to the nearest paved road, which was on the wrong side of the mountain range. We had both resigned ourselves to having to end the trip early.

I made coffee and watched the sunrise. It was a beautiful day. The beauty made it a terrible day to leave.

I could not help but contrast how peaceful I had felt yesterday during the storm with how weak I felt this morning watching a majestic sunrise. Irony is the theme of my life.

Tim knows the power of coffee

On the march out I was painfully slow on the few short climbs which did reinforce our decision. Tim took more weight from my pack and was patient as I plodded along.

Egyptions built the trails in the Sierra

On the flats I could move fine which only served to frustrated me. Yet on we marched..

At the trailhead we paid a guy forty bucks to drive us to the pavement where we could hitch a ride to civilization. Henry had shifty eyes and resembled Charles Manson except not as friendly looking as the mass murderer. His truck was held together with wire and tape and he plowed straight through the potholes on the roughest road I have seen in my life. The road was like a post-apocalypse Flintstone road. When I placed the two twenties into his greasy hand he avoided eye contact with me. I had no doubt his life was a tragic story, however, I had my own drama to resolve.

When he dropped us off at the paved road we stuck out our thumbs. In less than ten minutes we were picked up by two guys who had just finished a hike with their sons who were in another car. They played rock from my era which contributed to the back to the future theme of the trip. On the car ride out I checked my pulse and I was finally in rhythm again. Without a word I tapped Tim, pointed to my chest, pretended to take my pulse and gave him the thumbs up signal. He was relieved. I was relieved.

We were dropped at a Starbucks in Madera and through the miracle of wifi we managed to figure out a plan to get back to our car. Only after we had a plan in place could we relax and shift out of trail mode and think of things civilized. Had we been forced to we would have fired up the stove and cooked a meal on the side of the road without flinching. Now we wondered what kind of restaurant we wanted to visit for dinner.

My son and I discussed what we would do different next time and he wisely proposed more acclimation. Perhaps two or three days of day hikes at altitude, with nights spent at a lower elevation hotel, before setting off. This would happen some summer in the future. With forty more miles knocked off the trail, the section remaining was now smaller and more doable. Finishing the trip now has some urgency as we realize the window of opportunity is not unlimited. Maybe 2019. Maybe later. Maybe.

Evo and Tim getting fat in the Methow

A week later my doctor told me to consider the episode on the trail as the final (and perfectly normal) swan song from my surgery and consider myself healed. Follow up tests only reinforced this outlook.

Bailing out was the right thing. I am not second guessing that decision. My logical brain accepts what the doctor said and ascribes the event to a random, yet normal post-surgery episode. My heart still wants to place blame on my lack of preparation and bad decisions regarding acclimation, hydration, nutrition, rest, etc. Perhaps this is my inner control freak seeking to deny that there is anything that is beyond my ability to influence. With so many of my adventures requiring months of training and preparation I cannot help but feel that any shortfall is the result of actions, or a lack of actions, that were within my control. I could have been Catholic.

In the future if asked about the trip I may be able to give a concise reply. For now, I just shrug and make a face that says, “Too much for a short answer.” There was so much that was good about this trip. A better version of myself could step back and offer a peaceful smile, grateful and wiser for the experience. The real version of myself can only look at the premature exit and the remaining unfinished business and see a failure brought on by greed, amateur mistakes and/or an overinflated confidence in my abilities.