Desolation Fools
It’s not so much a wilderness as a museum
Summertime in the flatlands. Springtime up here.
It’s about 70 degrees and sunny when we arrive at Echo Lakes. They’re 7,410 feet above sea level — the air is noticeably thinner.
It is not entirely clear to me how much water is being stored in Echo Lake; Jeffrey P. Schaffer’s 2008 guidebook says that Pacific Gas and Electric Company owns the top 12 feet of the lake, as they dammed it that high. Echo Lake chalet, the place that owns the water taxi, claims that 6 feet of water are stored by the dam on Echo Lake.
At any rate, by September, PG&E usually has drawn down some amount of the water, and the lakes become distinct. This hasn’t happened yet, though, and so we take a speedboat trip from the chalet directly to the Pacific Crest Trail at the top of Upper Echo Lake.
I am deposited near the famous Pacific Crest Trail with my boyfriend Alex, and friends Maia and Patrick. We will be following the PCT for the next two days. Dotted along the trail are wildflowers: scarlet paintbrushes, spreading phlox in both white and purple, mountain ash, red columbine, pussy paws, mule ears, yarrow. Not as thick as the orange blanket of poppies Mt. Diablo and Mt. Tamalpais spread in the spring — here, the flowers jut up between the talus, determined and beautiful in equal measure, living off the poor soil deposited above the granite bedrock. The phlox appear to be doing the best, though in places where the pines and hemlock trees hunch together, the scarlet paintbrushes are managing.
The trail is rocky and uneven, better than having to balance on the talus but harder on the feet. The first two miles are pretty much just up — we were only going about 800 feet uphill, but it’s concentrated on the first two miles or so. The air is so thin that I begin to have some appreciation for the horrors of the asthmatic; I wheeze even on some of the downhills.
Snow still cuts swaths across the granite, meltwater trickling onto the path in places. I have never liked snow — I find it cold and wet — but it’s hard not to admire the tenacity of these snowbanks, still stubbornly in place in June, despite the temperate weather.
It’s only about four miles to Lake Aloha, which drowned the Desolation Valley thanks to PG&E’s intervention. Actually, there are plenty of lakes to be had — more than 100. Anyway, the dam is visible when the trail first deposits us near the lake. We pause and snack, considering.
Before Lake Aloha, this area had what were called the Medley Lakes. That was a long time ago; the dam was built in 1875 and raised in 1914. PG&E’s dam giveth Lake Aloha, and taketh it away later in summer, leaving the remnants of what were once separate lakes. Not yet, though.
It’s true that nature frequently remodels all on its own — a volcanic blast here, a forest fire there, what’s a meteor strike between friends? Take a tsunami, a flash flood, a hurricane — it’s not like Ma Nature doesn’t move her water around.
But there is something decidedly peculiar about the hiking “leave no trace” philosophy when one is right next to an artificial lake, drained as we see fit. Preserve the wilderness? Why, certainly, I am happy to pack out my trash and forgo a nice fire, but what about the watery grave I am camped next to?
I can see the dead trees poking through the surface of the lake, an Ansel Adams photo come to life. Islands now, once land. There’s nothing for it. One more casualty of California’s thirst.
We make camp on the granite slabs above the lake and cook using a soda can stove, and have to climb down the talus for water. I have both a filter and iodine tablets plus neutralizers; the filter is unnecessary as the water is clean, and too slow, compared to the tablets — clouds of mosquitoes and gnats lurk by the shore. And the sun is going down.
“Desolation Wilderness” is something of a misnomer. Certainly, it is in Donner country — the fateful pass itself is slightly northwest, perhaps 11 miles or so. The name was officially bestowed in the 1930s to the 100-square mile area as a reference to the granite, which makes it difficult for most things to grow.
In fact, Desolation Wilderness is very popular — a playground for the Bay Area, where I live. Though Congress designated the area a wilderness in 1969, PG&E had already drowned Desolation Valley. In fact, the ranger who checked our permit on the way in mentioned some camp sites they were trying to get rid of, for the good of the environment, and how stubbornly people kept using them.
I do not mean to demean Desolation Wilderness, in noting the heavy tourist traffic and the fact that it is no longer properly a wilderness. There is something to be said for a beautifully cared-for piece of nature; and after all, aren’t humans animals too? We certainly aren’t the only ones who build dams — ask the beavers if you don’t want to take my word for it.
But when I think of the future of our national parks and wilderness areas, I reckon that sooner or later they will all resemble Desolation Wilderness — areas kept immaculate through the hard work of rangers and lightly-treading tourists, but that could hardly be called wild.
You can see the effects of the steady trickle of visitors to the park — even though we must all walk in, even though we aren’t throwing beer cans through the windows of our pickup trucks as we drive by the sites. When we get water at Lake Aloha, Maia discovers a juicebox in the lake. Bewildering for two reasons: first, that anyone would pack it in at all — too much weight! — and second, that anyone would litter.
Patrick suggests the culprit was likely a child. We quietly curse children. I was once a child myself and can tell you first-hand exactly how rotten the little fiends are.
We eat ramen with peas and parmesan for the dinner. The ramen briefly turns blue in response to our iodine water, but we boil all the sass out of it. Going back to my tent to get warmer clothes — no fire, a brisk wind, and a dropping temperature mean wool leggings — I discover that my water has spilled. I bail out the tent with a spare undershirt and we spread the sleeping bags and pads on the granite to dry.
As it happens, it takes only about an hour for the moisture to evaporate. The air is dry, and the wind helps. By the time we awaken the next morning, around 9:30, my shirt has long since dried and it is quite hot in my sleeping bag. Very well, onward. We eat a breakfast of cheesy grits and prepare to hike to Dicks Pass. It is the highest pass on the PCT in the U.S. at 9,380 feet.
We pass a number of smaller lakes as we gain elevation. About three miles in, we see a cluster of rangers around a site. Someone has had a fire there — the ashes are still fresh. Maia is angry, as are the rangers: having fires in Desolation steals nutrients from the plants. I am somewhat bewildered, since I know along with the entire state of California that we are in a terrible drought and have been for a few years now. Even in a place as comparatively wet as here, only a few sparks would be required to ignite dried-out dead foliage. Why chance it?
Still up. There is always more up. The climb will never end. The only solace is the astonishing view back to the valley. We come across a marmot in a tree and I cordially invite it to join us, but it declines. Just as well. Maia has had it in for marmots since one chewed off her backpack’s chest strap about a month ago.
The marmot is the only wildlife I’ve seen, along with some birds that got very angry when we pitched our tents too close to their nests. The night before, unseen frogs were as loud as car alarms. Fortunately, physical exhaustion is a powerful sleep aid regardless of the racket.
Today it is easier to breathe, at least at first. As we get closer to the top of the pass, I find myself wheezing again. Before our final push to the top, we stop for lunch. Tortillas and cheese stick for me, tortillas and salami for the meat-eaters (all others). We share a dessert of Reese’s Pieces. Plus some odd caffeinated goo.
Somewhat predictably, the food prompts nature’s call, so I grab the poop shovel and dig a hole behind a tree. It’s true that it’s awkward to shit in a hole; it helps to have strong thigh muscles.
I dig the cathole, about eight inches deep and six across, deep enough that no one else ought to pick it up. I squat in a position that reminds me of Bikram yoga’s third iteration of Awkward Pose — thighs pressed against each other for stability, butt as far back as it will go, hands forward as counterbalances. Shitting in the woods is the closest I have ever been to being a bear.
Some people don’t shit in the woods at all, it’s true. This seems to me a miserable stance to take, in part because the longer you hold your shit in, the more compact it becomes. Held long enough, this is a sure route to impacted feces, thereby ruining pooping for quite some time after the woods.
Anyhow that’s not the real reason to poop in the backcountry. The real reason is it feels good, and makes the rest of the hike easier. You always know who has recently taken a shit when you’re hiking because the person comes back and raves for about an hour about how much better they’re feeling.
I cover the cathole and put my toilet paper in a Ziplock bag to pack out.
The far side of the pass is still snowy. We try to keep to the established footprints and mostly succeed. The snow pack melts from the bottom, so taking an uncharted step might result in sinking further than planned.
I have cleared the snow and am about halfway down from the pass when I’m abruptly aware that a blister on my left heel has popped. I had not before known there was a blister there, but the pop certainly has my attention. We stop and I dress the blister.
When we arrive at Dicks Lake, we find that it’s seething with campsites. We go on, to a spot next to a creek — between Dicks Lake and Fontanillis Lake, far away enough away from both that we won’t be mosquito fodder. We eat Easy Mac with potato chips on top and the remaining Reese’s Pieces, and take a few nips of whiskey to brace ourselves against the cold.
We turn in early, but in the middle of the night, I discover I need to take a hearty piss. When I step out of the tent in my underwear, the stars hang indolently low over our campsite. I stay out in the cold night air longer than strictly necessary, trying to locate constellations I only half-remember. I only return to the tent when my shivers become violent.
The next morning, while we are eating oatmeal with peanut butter, a chipmunk visits us. It darts around, eying our food, but doesn’t get close.
We leave our packs near the trail and walk over to Fontanillis Lake, only to discover that the mosquitoes are swarming; a hatch must have happened recently.
I request a re-route — I do not want to walk around the Velma Lakes, lovely as they may be, because both my heels are covered in blisters. Our shorter route leads us through another snow pack. With encouragement from Patrick and Maia, I sit down on the snow and perform a glissade, which is Hiking for sliding on one’s butt down a snow-covered descent. It is brief and fun, and I reconsider my stance on snow — I like it, provided that the weather outdoors is at least 70 degrees. Shit! I could have slid down the mountains for hours yesterday and my feet wouldn’t be nearly as sore.
We arrive in some swampy-looking areas, and there is far more foot traffic here than anywhere else we’ve been. We meet up with a group of middle aged women, who immediately begin to mom us. One points out a place I’ve missed in my sunscreen application, which is already burnt, and without a second thought gives me her sunscreen. Another friend of hers says to make sure I get enough sunscreen on my chest; she has permanent sun damage there now. Once the moms are sure we’re all set, they hike off.
We split up; Maia by herself going to Eagle Falls to get the car, while Patrick, Alex and I take the Bay View trail. It is easier; it is also farther. But, blessedly, it is a dirt trail, and my feet and I are grateful for the relief. After a few hundred feet up — there is always more up — Lake Tahoe comes into sight.
Goddamn. Woodja look at that.
