Thousand Island Lake to Ediza Lake
5 | Twenty days solo hiking in the Sierras on the John Muir Trail - July 17, 2026
Today felt hard. Harder than I expected. Maybe it was the longer day yesterday, extended by the extra 1.5 miles around the lake to find a campsite, and then adding that mileage to today as well. Maybe it was the accumulated physical strain of five days of hiking and my sore feet. Whatever the cause, I was rather cruxed and at the limit of what I wanted to do in a day when I rolled into Ediza lake. But, as I sat with my feet dangling in a burbling stream and watching the light fade in the valley, I knew this side trip was worth the extra miles.
And this morning! And the night! I got up at midnight to look at the stars, and oh my goodness they were incredible!! The milky way was vibrant and clearly visible behind Banner Peak. Even though I was so tired, I wandered to the lakeshore and sat mesmerized for a good 15 minutes looking at the stars in the sky and reflected in the lake water at my feet. The startlight was so bright that I could just walk around camp and not need my headlamp. This may have been the best start viewing ever, better than even Nepal, as there was no light pollution at all. Here’s a few photos from my phone of the stars!
In the left image you can just see the stars reflected in the lake, and right image shows the milky way a bit better. The photos aren't anything fancy, but give a slight idea of what it was like to see.
Then too soon the sun was coming up, and from my camp at Thousand Island Lake I had the best seats in the house to watch the bright colors of alpenglow on the peaks around the lake. I knew from photographs online that the light could be phenomenal at sunrise, but I needed clear skies. Low lying clouds or smoke would dull the sunlight’s first rays of color, but I got lucky with a sky as clear as I could wish for. When I looked out of my tent at an early hour, I saw the first rosy hues alight on the peak, and proceeded to launch myself with my jacket and camera out the door in such a flurry of activity that I was glad no one camped nearby to be awoken by the commotion.
The alpenglow was some of the best I’ve seen in my life. I hopped giddily around camp, on nearby rocks, and around the lake shore like a rubber bouncy-ball let loose on hardwood floors. I had to remind myself to stop and just sit and look, look deeply and fully, and try to etch those moments into my memory. Between moments of quiet observation, I bounded between photo locations. Wandering over tiny islands and rocks sticking out of the lake, it is a minor miracle that I didn’t dump myself in the cold water as I moved from one viewpoint to the next, eager to see the light changing and see how different rocks looked in the foreground.
It seems like Alpenglow lasts longer here in the Sierras, and this morning was another glorious moment when time just doesn’t matter, and it feels like awe tethers me so firmly to this moment, to this present experience, with such joy and wonder. And once the hues of pink and gold faded, the lovely early morning light continued to develop into a soft pale yellow with deep blue and indigo shadows. I wandered farther and farther along the lakeshore, knowing each step was more mileage on my feet, but I didn’t care; I just wanted to see all the beautiful things, from the peaks above to the tiny flowers at my feet.
Eventually I circled back to camp and decided that there was no way I could leave without painting that alpenglow light. Even though the magical colors were long gone, and I really should have started hiking, I still wanted to embed that memory on a page, so I painted the light as I saw it that morning. Bright and vibrant and transfixing. The finished sketch is another favorite!
Once I finally got myself on the trail, I headed back the way I’d come the day before. This time I was better able to appreciate how beautiful the lake’s shoreline is without fatigue and wind keeping me focused on my feet and the stressful hunt for a campsite. I stopped to take photos and wander onto little sandy beaches rimmed in lupine. Looking back, I really wish I’d built in an extra day of rest here at Thousand Island Lake so I could relax, and give my body time to recover. But, this just means I’ll have to come back next year!
At the outlet of the lake, I ran into a mule train and my second ranger of the trip, Katie. With a shovel, unmistakable park service beige and green attire, and smudges of black ash on her cheek, and a deep care for this place, she embodied the stewardship of federal workers in parks and forests across the country. We chatted for a while and she checked my permit, and our brief conversation stands out in my memory weeks later. Katie was just so kind, dedicated to her job, and so excited to see my paintings and hear about my teaching endeavors. I think we could have chatted all morning, but she had more illegal fire rings to dismantle (hence the charcoal smudges) and folks camping where they shouldn’t to usher to a different spot. And I had a long day of hiking ahead!
Leaving Thousand Island Lake the landscape continues to shift farther into the reddish and dark colored rock of this part of the range. No more white granite- this is the land of rolling black domes and crumbling rusty stone. It is still beautiful in it’s own way, with little flowers clinging to the poor sandy soil and growing out of rocks in an improbably display of resilience. And there are a series of unique lakes to explore along the way.
First up is little Emerald lake, which has a completely different feel from others because of the less jagged terrain that unfolds behind it, plus the trees that ring the shores. Next is Ruby Lake, where I stopped for a snack and to filter water. Along the shore a steep snowfield melts right into the lake, the edge shadowed in blue scales made by sun cups. I’ve never seen these interesting sun formations, created by the melting effect of tiny dust and debris on the snow, on such a steep slope. The morning is warm but not hot yet, and I keep my break short, knowing even better terrain is ahead.
Ruby Lake and the shoreline sun cups.
This section of the trail is also defined by a series of no-name pseudo passes that sure felt like passes to me, but apparently don’t warrant a name on the map. First was the climb out of Ruby Lake to the descent into Garnet Lake. The first views of Garnet were just as exciting as seeing Thousand Island lake from above. Another place I’d read about and dreamed of seeing, and there it was!!! Reminding myself to look at my feet to avoid tripping on the now very, very rocky trail, I noticed the interesting colors of rock and a new pink flower I’d never seen before.
Garnet lake was defined by the wind more than anything else. It was blasting down the length of the lake, and I had to cinch my sun hat strap down tight around my chin to avoid losing it to the wind. My field notes from that section were simple - "windy! Hot! Too hot. Time to stop and massage my sore feet."
The lake’s surface was ruffled in tiny waves, adding sparkle and a sense of distance between the outlet where I stood and the huge massive shape of Banner peak once again in the distance. The wind, while a nuisance in some ways, was also very welcome, as it was quite hot now, and the cooling effect was quite welcome. I thought about painting here, but realized I was likely to lose my sheets of paper, so I loaded up on snacks and put salt tabs in my fanny pack for the forthcoming ascent above the lake.
It wasn’t a very big climb up to the next no name pass, maybe 400-500 vertical feet bringing me up above 10,000 feet again, but it felt harder than I expected, so I turned on some music and brought out the sugary snacks. The views were, however, awesome as I hiked up above Garnet Lake with the peaks and their lingering stripes of snow visible through the trees. Plus the islands in Garnet lake, each a little green gem that invited me to stop and admire it from the shade and peek-a-boo views through the trees.
The not-a-pass—definitely-felt-like-a-pass was a moonscape of ochre rock and fractured stone. A short descent through switchbacks of broken umber rock led me to a delightful little hanging meadow. Green and lush from a tiny stream with little flowers, it was a place I wished I could linger. The rest of the hike down to Shadow creek is less defined in my mind. I remember a stunning big tree that I want to sketch, dust, switchbacks, and more dust. I know I stopped at one point for a late lunch in the shade, and saw a few hikers going the other direction who looked miserable, making me very glad I was slogging down this section of trail and not up it! At this point the trail is really living up to it's sawtooth reputation- up and down, up and down, all day, every day.
The first Sego Lily I found, one of my favorite flowers. R- partway through the descent, the Minaret Peaks came into view briefly.
The turnoff for the Ediza lake trail was very welcome indeed, and all of a sudden, the terrain changed. Less dusty rock and sparse weather worn junipers and pines. Now, a lush valley with the meandering waterway of Shadow Creek winding through meadows, wildflowers including a spotted Lily I’d never seen before, and rounded rock domes with huge trees (compared to the stunted ones on the hot rock basin above) once again surrounding me. It is amazing what a difference water makes in a landscape, and I relished the time hiking through this verdant little valley. Camping is no longer allowed anywhere along this trail; if it had, I would have been very tempted to stop along the way!
My water break at a lovely bend of the creek stretched longer than it should have, but as I get tired, I find it harder to get going again. I still had a few miles to go (more than I thought, given how far around Ediza lake you have to hike to get around the camping prohibited zone). Soaking my tired feet helped me regain the motivation, plus my excitement about seeing Ediza lake and more of the valley. I was very pleasantly surprised at how gentle the elevation was in this section, too.
Once my painful feet faded into the background again, I appreciated the rocky stairways built into hillsides, the flowers and granite cliffs varnished in blue-black stripes that look like they belonged in the southwest. Each new bend of the trail brought intermittent views of peaks above, drawing me onward, and interesting trees with trunks twisted by deprivation and limited resources. It is also still a bit mind boggling to me how far ten miles actually is, that peaks I looked at in the morning are now behind me.
Once I reached Ediza Lake I didn’t stop long to admire the view. The evening light and very slight haze in the valley made the peaks around me flat in shadows, and to be honest I was on a mission at this point to find a camp. Tired and at my limit, I did my best to take in the beautiful shoreline, the way a stream that took over a section of trail sent droplets of water sparkling into the air at every rock backlit by the low sun, and red flowers lining the shallow end of the lake. But, most of my attention was on finding a camp.
The first tiny spot I came to seemed like it might be too small for my tent, so I kept going toward a site I’d read about on an obscure reddit thread. But, since it was a weekend, a large group already occupied the site. I wandered dejectedly back to the trail, as it really was an awesome campsite, and prowled the edge of the rushing creek looking for a shallower and less rocky area to cross. I knew there were more sites in the woods a little ways away, but I wasn’t excited about the rushing creek. So, I backtracked, thinking I would cross in a more shallow spot, until I wandered by that little site again. I decided I was done walking for the day and gosh darn I would sandwich my tent in between the immovable rocks in the way if it was the last thing I did.
The spot was just about 100 feet from the water, and tucked in a tiny clearing beside boulders with marmots running around nearby. It was marginal, and my tent just fit between the rocks with some tinkering, but I didn’t care, because it meant I didn’t have to ford the creek and walk any farther for a camp. And it worked out, once I looked around and realized how lovely the area around my camp was. The meltwater fed stream which was a raging torrent up higher was now a wide and gently jingling 8 inches of water running cheerily over small rounded stones. Trees of progressively larger sizes rose in the hillsides into a v of green that framed one of the Minaret peaks above.
After setting up my tent in the wind I retreated to the creekside and soaked my incredibly sore feet, the throbbing of my toes tempered by the aching cold of the water, one discomfort cancelling the other out. I had a lovely evening and time seemed to slip by quickly while at the same time I felt like I was moving in slow motion. Filter water. Sit down and drink water. Think about getting up and making dinner for a half hour, and then finally rally myself to get up and eat food. Eat slowly. Gently reply to a hiker walking by that no, you are not at Garnet Lake, you are 3.5 miles off the JMT on an epic side quest and missed a key junction. Stare at my bowl for a while. Brain and body in standby mode, exhausted but so happy.
The setting sun casting rays of light behind one of the ritter peaks brought me back to my feet to scamper around taking a few photos in a last burst of energy. The light changed quickly, and I was all too happy to retreat to the tent, stretch, and crash in a sleep filled with dreams of the trail behind and imagined landscapes ahead.
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