Backpacking into the Lyell River Canyon

Part 2 | Twenty days solo hiking in the Sierra Mountains via the John Muir Trail

And so it begins! First footprints on the John Muir Trail (JMT) today, and what a stunning start it was. The actual beginning of the John Muir Trail is way back in Yosemite Valley, but the section from there to here is a one giant uphill that my aunt advised we skip, and I’m so glad we did. The hills ahead will have plenty of ups and downs! And, since I’m not attached to “finishing every step of the JMT” like many hikers are, starting in Tuolumne meadows will give us a nice mellow beginning with minimal elevation gain the first day.

After the prolonged rain most of the night the tents were still soggy and rather ridiculously wet when we packed up early this morning, putting us on trail at 7:15 am. This is, I hope, the first of many early morning starts, and I find I already love getting out when the sun is first starting to light up the landscape. All the rain coated the forest in drops of water, each becoming a reflective sparkle when backlit by the early rays. Pine, trees, every blade of grass, each and every tiny lupine flower and leaf just inches off the ground – all sparkling like someone bedazzled the woods in Swarovski crystals.

And this magical light lasted a long time. Even as shadows from the rising sun stretched across the trail, the meadowland below glowed and felt welcoming with the open forest and long sight lines through the trees.

After a brief steep uphill getting from the campground to the riverside the trail settled into the pattern for the day, which was flat or very gently uphill with a smooth surface for the most part. Easy walking (and the last easy walking for a long, long while!).

After a few miles the trail transitioned from being right by the riverside to meandering a bit above, now in more barren and rocky terrain of rock benches and golden meadow and pines dotted with granite slabs. It seemed like around every bend there was anther picturesque boulder perched on the bedrock. These were some of my favorite small-scale views – golden meadow, gaps in the forest, blue sky and big grey-bottomed clouds.

The trail also wandered through a few meadows, but for the most part tries to stay out of them to avoid damaging the plants and the meadow’s water table. In these short sections the puddles were a commanding presence, with the sun at just the right low angle to reflect white light off each watery splotch directly under my hat and be blindingly bright.

With fewer miles to cover today, we took some short breaks in the forest and then a longer stop along the river. A fisherman fly fished in the distance (perhaps a bit ineptly, as he took nearly as long to disentangle his line from the trees, but be cut a striking and peaceful silhouette along the river until that point). Our spot on durable grass was the most delightfully idyllic, bucolic was the word my aunt used. We sat in the sun and dried out the wet tents and enjoyed jelly beans and tasty snacks, spending a relaxing and rejuvenating hour. It was hard to leave such a wonderful spot.

Once we got going we finally see other hikes. Fewer than I expect, and I wonder if folks were waiting out the rain. The next hours of hiking pass easily in a happy haze of meadows and pine trees and clouds getting greyer each time I look up. My pack is heavier than I would like, and coming off a nagging irritated hamstring in the spring I’m trying to take it easy. Moderated pace, keeping my steps a controlled length to not over-strain the leg, and enjoying the smooth trail that allows me to look around a lot instead of focusing on my feet.

We stop for lunch on a large granite slab, and my aunt confides in me that she’s in pain. Her pack is causing shoulder pain, and her foot isn’t looking good, a toe giving signs of infection. She tells me that had she been alone she would have bailed hours ago to go get it checked out, and I realize our time together on trail is ending much sooner than I hoped. While I knew hiking alone was a very real possibly and had planned to do this for the later part of the trip, it was still sad to realize we’d be parting ways soon. I knew I would miss the cheery intermittent conversation, her presence, her patience when I stopped for photos all the time, and our shared joy over the small things on the trail, from puddles to jellybeans.

Over the prior months of preparing my resupplies and mapping routes, I'd also thought through various eventualities and plans. This included mentally preparing myself for changing plans along the way or hiking solo from the start if something came up for my aunt, just as she'd been prepared to hike without me if I had to stop for some reason. But, even with that in mind, it was still sad to think about her leaving. I'd really enjoyed our days together, as my aunt Muggie had always been an important touchstone in my life, and this time in person was a gift.

As we chatted and planned for her exit the next day, she looked up and said for the third time those clouds look like rain. I stood up, and a the light breeze smelled of water on rock and damp dust. Rain, soon. While my aunt was willing to continue farther to make my next day easier, we'd agreed that the weather would determine our stopping point. So. we headed up the hill to a very promising copse of trees and found a delightful flat camp area where we could tuck in along the forest edge. And just in time, too! As we pulled tents out of our packs the first large drops fell and we hurriedly threw the tents up, raingear on, and leapt under the rainflys and vestibules to unpack the rest of our gear out of the rain.

The storm would be another wet one, with heavy rain and thunder, with a few bright flashes of lightning that illuminated the woods. Thanks to the early stop, we stayed perfectly and contentedly dry in our tents reading and listening to audio books and taking naps. Eventually the main storm passed and we were treated to lovely light on the meadow and river below and dry conditions to make dinner. Clouds continued to build again in the distance, rolling slowly closer and illuminating and shadowing the large meadows of Lyell Canyon in a dramatic and mesmerizing pattern of ever shifting light and dark. Once dinner and the bear cans were squared away I wandered down to the river’s banks to work on a quick sketch of the valley.

Initially I wasn’t too happy with the sketch; the shifting lighting conditions felt really hard to convey in paint, and that glowing quality of light feels hard to capture in any medium, especially when I have limited time. But, over the next few weeks the little sketch would grow on me, and I’m so glad I made the time to create it.

Soon after hiking back up the hill to camp with water bottles full and ready for the next day the rain arrived again, and it would not let up until early in the morning. This would be the last night I would chat with my aunt through the space between our tents and listen to the comforting muffled sound of her audiobooks playing as we fell asleep.

Tomorrow, I’d head south and she’d head back north, marking the beginning of my solo adventure.