Day 4: Seasonal Streams
The thing about seasonal streams and creeks is that they seldom show up on topographical maps. When they do, the maps frequently fail to show them at their peak size.
The thing about backpacking in the high country in mid-spring (also know as "early in the [backpacking] season") is that there is a lot of snow melt and likely more seasonal streams and creeks than the map you're carrying probably bothered to make note of.
I started day 4 knowing I was going to have to hike through and over the top of themarsh meadow I had previously suffered through on Day 2. Since I was camping at a high enough elevation I knew the ground would be much more firm first thing in the morning, thus, as soon as I woke I struck camp, visited the posh biffy for the last time, and headed out—hoping that I wouldn't have the pleasure of nearly losing my shoe to the marsh gods, again.
The hike through the meadow was uneventful and my shoes were safe from danger (though more than a time or two I had to take the higher road—sorry mama nature). At the Northern most end of the meadow was a river I knew I had to cross. Using the map as a guide I didn't anticipate it being a big concern.
That was a mistake.
When I reached the river I quickly reevaluated. It was wide, but slow. While it didn't appear terribly deep, it was certainly too deep to walk across without getting my boots wet. I don't know about you, but hiking all day in wet boots is not my idea of a good time. Also, blisters. I knew what I had to do, and immediately sat down to roll up my pants and take off my boots. Once off, I knotted the laces together, shoved my socks in the toes, tossed the boots around my neck, unbuckled my pack, turned upstream, and stepped in. And immediately wanted to hop back out. However, I knew I either had to press forward through ice cold snow melt, or brave the snow field of doom from Friday. It wasn't really a choice on which I wavered. I slowly made my way as quickly as possible across the 20 foot river whining vocally to the birds and bugs flittering about.
Once I reached the opposing shore I nearly ran out of the water to a downed tree stump. I shivered as I dried my reddened feet with my socks and redressed myself. I sat for an extra moment laughing to myself as I watched drop after drop of freshly thawed snow fall into the river. It had waded through, quite literally, fresh snow run off. I just had to make it up this next mile or so, and then it was all down hill from there. Though I knew based on elevation and the melting pattern of the snow I would likely not see much more, I was keenly aware that once over this mountain I'd be blissfully out of snowfields. Thankfully, the map said I had to cross only five more rivers and seasonal creeks (in total) before reaching camp.
Once again, the map lied.
I ended up crossing eight more rivers that day (only one of which I'll allow a downgrade to stream). Each time I repeated the same shoe removal pattern, but, by the third river I had decided to dry my feet with my pack towel rather than my socks. It was a much better choice.
As the day wore on I started to question the accuracy of the rivers marked on my map. But more, I began to become concerned about how I was going to cross the raging river I had been hiking beside. When the trail turned I was pleased to see a well built bridge beckoning me. I crossed and decided to have lunch at the bottom of the waterfall I would soon see, right before crossing the penultimate river of the day.
Reaching the bottom of those falls was a magnificent experience. Though, by far, not the most grand that Yosemite has to offer, they were certainly the most spiritual I observed. I wept, and chose to not eat there, but, rather, held the experience close as I walked on.
A mile or so past the base of the falls I reached my penultimate river crossing. Another bridge. This one afforded a great lunch stop and I refilled my water bottles while sitting in the shade of the forest.
After lunch I hiked on, through a mile-long swarm of man-eating mosquitoes, towards my final river crossing. I came to another bridge and smiled, this was the last river, from here I had 2.6 miles to the camp ground. Then I crossed another, smaller, bridge. And another, even smaller, and yet another, smaller-er bridge. They were like Russian nesting dolls—when were these bridges going to end? Honestly, though, I'm grateful for them, though the streams really weren't worth putting on the map (and don't make my count of how many rivers I had to cross that day), the grooves they had cut into the earth would have made crossing them a challenge.
I pushed forward through another swarm of mosquitoes (this time pausing to defend myself with a nice slathering of DEET) towards my goal.
I rounded a bend, and looked up at the path before me. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. There was no way this was possible. The map had to be lying. The clearly marked trail markings were wrong. It was a sick joke. No. freaking. way. What I saw ahead of me on the well worn trail were two boulders—the shortest of which was at least 10 feet in height—and through them, the trail continued on the granite rock. Just on the other side of the boulders, crossing, nay, raging over the trail was a river. This monstrous rapid was un-marked on my map, no, wait... maybe it was this seasonal creek right here..., who are they kidding?! This was no seasonal creek? How was I going to cross this safely?
I set my jaw and figured I would find out when I got there, after all, the river was still fifty feet away. Maybe there was a bridge upstream that I couldn't see. Every steep was labored, I dreaded the sure knowledge that I was going to have to turn around. There was no way I would be able to cross it. Perverse curiosity drove my feet forward. Then, just as I was about to reach the gap in the boulders, I was delivered. The sharp left turn in the trail had been concealed by the rocky terrain. I wasn't set to cross this river, I was set to follow it due East for another mile or so.
Lest you think I'm exaggerating the ferocity of the river, I snapped this downstream facing photo after stepping between the boulders of doom, intent to provide photographic evidence that I'm not being unjustly dramatic.
This was the last river I encountered on my way to my day's destination. And, blissfully, one I didn't have to cross. But, for those keeping track at home, ultimately, I did have to cross three major bridges and ford six rivers. It was a long, wet, adventurous day. And, the adventures weren't over.
The thing about backpacking in the high country in mid-spring (also know as "early in the [backpacking] season") is that there is a lot of snow melt and likely more seasonal streams and creeks than the map you're carrying probably bothered to make note of.
I started day 4 knowing I was going to have to hike through and over the top of the
The hike through the meadow was uneventful and my shoes were safe from danger (though more than a time or two I had to take the higher road—sorry mama nature). At the Northern most end of the meadow was a river I knew I had to cross. Using the map as a guide I didn't anticipate it being a big concern.
That was a mistake.
When I reached the river I quickly reevaluated. It was wide, but slow. While it didn't appear terribly deep, it was certainly too deep to walk across without getting my boots wet. I don't know about you, but hiking all day in wet boots is not my idea of a good time. Also, blisters. I knew what I had to do, and immediately sat down to roll up my pants and take off my boots. Once off, I knotted the laces together, shoved my socks in the toes, tossed the boots around my neck, unbuckled my pack, turned upstream, and stepped in. And immediately wanted to hop back out. However, I knew I either had to press forward through ice cold snow melt, or brave the snow field of doom from Friday. It wasn't really a choice on which I wavered. I slowly made my way as quickly as possible across the 20 foot river whining vocally to the birds and bugs flittering about.
Once I reached the opposing shore I nearly ran out of the water to a downed tree stump. I shivered as I dried my reddened feet with my socks and redressed myself. I sat for an extra moment laughing to myself as I watched drop after drop of freshly thawed snow fall into the river. It had waded through, quite literally, fresh snow run off. I just had to make it up this next mile or so, and then it was all down hill from there. Though I knew based on elevation and the melting pattern of the snow I would likely not see much more, I was keenly aware that once over this mountain I'd be blissfully out of snowfields. Thankfully, the map said I had to cross only five more rivers and seasonal creeks (in total) before reaching camp.
Once again, the map lied.
I ended up crossing eight more rivers that day (only one of which I'll allow a downgrade to stream). Each time I repeated the same shoe removal pattern, but, by the third river I had decided to dry my feet with my pack towel rather than my socks. It was a much better choice.
As the day wore on I started to question the accuracy of the rivers marked on my map. But more, I began to become concerned about how I was going to cross the raging river I had been hiking beside. When the trail turned I was pleased to see a well built bridge beckoning me. I crossed and decided to have lunch at the bottom of the waterfall I would soon see, right before crossing the penultimate river of the day.
Reaching the bottom of those falls was a magnificent experience. Though, by far, not the most grand that Yosemite has to offer, they were certainly the most spiritual I observed. I wept, and chose to not eat there, but, rather, held the experience close as I walked on.
A mile or so past the base of the falls I reached my penultimate river crossing. Another bridge. This one afforded a great lunch stop and I refilled my water bottles while sitting in the shade of the forest.
After lunch I hiked on, through a mile-long swarm of man-eating mosquitoes, towards my final river crossing. I came to another bridge and smiled, this was the last river, from here I had 2.6 miles to the camp ground. Then I crossed another, smaller, bridge. And another, even smaller, and yet another, smaller-er bridge. They were like Russian nesting dolls—when were these bridges going to end? Honestly, though, I'm grateful for them, though the streams really weren't worth putting on the map (and don't make my count of how many rivers I had to cross that day), the grooves they had cut into the earth would have made crossing them a challenge.
I pushed forward through another swarm of mosquitoes (this time pausing to defend myself with a nice slathering of DEET) towards my goal.
I rounded a bend, and looked up at the path before me. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. There was no way this was possible. The map had to be lying. The clearly marked trail markings were wrong. It was a sick joke. No. freaking. way. What I saw ahead of me on the well worn trail were two boulders—the shortest of which was at least 10 feet in height—and through them, the trail continued on the granite rock. Just on the other side of the boulders, crossing, nay, raging over the trail was a river. This monstrous rapid was un-marked on my map, no, wait... maybe it was this seasonal creek right here..., who are they kidding?! This was no seasonal creek? How was I going to cross this safely?
I set my jaw and figured I would find out when I got there, after all, the river was still fifty feet away. Maybe there was a bridge upstream that I couldn't see. Every steep was labored, I dreaded the sure knowledge that I was going to have to turn around. There was no way I would be able to cross it. Perverse curiosity drove my feet forward. Then, just as I was about to reach the gap in the boulders, I was delivered. The sharp left turn in the trail had been concealed by the rocky terrain. I wasn't set to cross this river, I was set to follow it due East for another mile or so.
Lest you think I'm exaggerating the ferocity of the river, I snapped this downstream facing photo after stepping between the boulders of doom, intent to provide photographic evidence that I'm not being unjustly dramatic.
This was the last river I encountered on my way to my day's destination. And, blissfully, one I didn't have to cross. But, for those keeping track at home, ultimately, I did have to cross three major bridges and ford six rivers. It was a long, wet, adventurous day. And, the adventures weren't over.
posted by granola girl at 6:11 PM
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