Camping out at 9,000 FEET reminds me of how chilly it can get at these altitudes. But the spectacular views, the sheer wild beauty of the Sierra high country, swiftly make me forget both the discomfort and the effort it took to reach the spot where I am now standing. And ignore, too, the effort needed to continue. I break camp just after dawn, and with my dog Pawa, set out toward an 11,000-plus foot destination still shadowed by radiant peaks. This will be a new place to explore. As with all new places, I can feel the unmistakable rush of anticipation.
Mistakes, though, are bound to happen. Somehow we miss the unmarked switchback trail that veers from our traverse. I realize this when we arrive at a creek that “shouldn’t be here.” The dog looks happy to keep right on going the wrong way. Hmm.
The map in my pack renews my confidence. Relying on the creek and a few contours for reference points, I opt to make the ascent straight up the mountain, all the while hoping a sheer wall won’t stop us from reaching the top. These last 2,000 feet of elevation gain are definitely the most challenging.
When we reach the plateau I was seeking, a few others are hiking across it. I stop to talk with two backpackers, locals, who are traveling ultra-light to reach remote backcountry angling havens — the gear each carries weighs less than twenty pounds. I am satisfied, though, with where I am. The lakes here hold beautiful rainbows, and with winter approaching they prove they are hungry. I lose count of the eager fish that come to hand. (Does it matter, really?) I suddenly wish I was staying a few more nights, exploring more places, enjoying more views, experiencing more fishing. But I have commitments down below, and monstrous gusts of wind are making casting difficult. Pawa and I hit the trail out.
I pull into the Mill Pond campsite around four in the afternoon for the annual music festival. Friends from Tahoe greet me with smiles and beer. The wind has followed me off the hill, bringing flurries of snow. The bands play on, great tunes and a fine time. A dozen of us huddle under our awning while I barbecue kokanee for tacos. The adventures never cease, and that’s a good thing.
