Peaky Shenanigans
before, during, and after the John Muir Trail
I feel unequal to the task of sifting through the hundreds of photos I took on my recent, eight day run of the John Muir Trail, or of finding words commensurate with the struggle and grandeur of that experience. So, I’m settling instead for the ignoble assignment of writing about peaks from the bookends of that hike. Here goes.
Washington Column, Yosemite
July 3, 2024
Tracie, Leigh-Ann and Caden accompanied me to the Valley and dropped me off with enough time to set up at the backpackers camp and pre-game the Washington Column (5947 ft). You’d think the extreme heat and the fact that I was just about to backpack 220 miles at a pace of roughly 30 miles per day would be enough to persuade me to take it easy while I had the chance; but I couldn’t resist the urge to explore a little and “just see how far I get.” I left camp at 5:30 pm and foolishly brought nothing with me — no water or headlamp. I figured this would commit me to turning around before it got too late. But all it really did was put me in a needlessly tenuous position after the call of the summit (inevitably) overrode my preservation instinct and desire for comfort and safety.
I knew nothing of this dome, but it seemed accessible by way of a climbing route that CalTopo had conveniently marked. (This route, I later learned, is the notorious “North Dome Gully,” which has taken at least one life.) The huge boulders at the start of the route made for a fun hop, even if the sweltering heat forced me to remove my shirt and expose myself to endless swarms of tiny bloodsucking beasties (a sign of bad things to come on the Muir Trail). By 6:15 pm, I had reached the base slabs, which were a little intimidating to look at but easy enough to ascend. Despite efforts to follow the dotted route on CalTopo, I ended up too high in the gully. Thus, I missed the customary traverse and was forced to bushwhack my way to the summit for the next half mile. I arrived at the sandy top just after 7 pm and was pleased to look across Tenaya Canyon and see Half Dome bathed in the golden glow of afternoon.
I managed to find the standard traverse back to the gully. This was a more open and straightforward route, but it did lead across the “Death Slabs,” and one exposed pitch lacking handholds was enough to (almost) send me clawing upward for the safety of trees. But, I made it just fine, and the main difficulties ended shortly afterward.
I stopped on my descent of the gully slabs to lie prone and eagerly lap up some tea-colored water that had pooled in a granite pocket, then continued down without incident to Tenaya Creek. I stripped down for a much-needed cold plunge, then hiked in bare feet along the bike path back to the backpackers camp — thankful to be doing so while a sliver of daylight remained.
Muir, Whitney and a couple of aiguilles
July 11, 2024
Jon and I were approaching the end of our 8-day hike of the JMT. Whitney was a must, despite our mutual ambivalence toward its commodified summit. I wasn’t sure how much energy I might have for additional peaks along the massif, but Jon was lagging slightly when I reached the western toe of Mount Muir (14,012 ft), and curiosity got the better of me. Twelve years had passed since I first summited Muir, and I wanted to remind myself what it was like. Plus, it’s such a short detour from the trail; the cost for an ascent seemed almost negligible. So, I left the trail and made for the base of the route as quickly as possible, turning to Jon when he appeared on the trail below and shouting my plan down to him. This was met with a disapproving glance and an exasperated “You do you, Chris.”
The short scramble was immediately familiar to me, and for kicks, I found fresh lines to ascend. Instead of the right-side chimney, I took the sloping slab to the left (which had made me a tad nervous on my first ascent, but today seemed standard fare). Also, I crawled around to the east side for the top out, rather than finishing with the mantle from the west. I looked for my name in the register, but the 2012 entries were long gone.
I descended quickly along yet another route variation, and was a bit shocked to note that the entire round-trip effort took less than fifteen minutes. It is true that the route “looks” like a typical class 4 climb, but I found it even easier this time than before, and can confirm that it is no harder than class 3. (I felt perfectly comfortable on it in sloppy Xero shoes.) There are many ways up and down it, and the rock is very solid. It’s a good scramble, but hardly worth the hassle of venturing into the Whitney Zone (if only for this).
After Muir, I probed the north side of S’brutal Tower, only to conclude halfway up that it wasn’t worth dying over. Then I bagged Aiguille Junior (13,927 ft) and Aiguille du Paquoir (13,976 ft), for good measure, before reluctantly deciding that I’d run out of time for others. It is disappointing to leave Aiguille Extra, Third Needle, and Crooks Peak on the table when they’re such easy access from the trail, but something tells me I’ll get my chance at these someday. As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly. And surely I’m a fool when it comes to Whitney.
Red Mountain et al.
July 14, 2024
Two zero days after completing the JMT, and I was ready for some mountains. “Ready,” but not really recovered. My feet were still badly swollen and my knees were bruised and felt like they’d been bludgeoned by a steel bat. But I’d had enough sitting around, and enthusiasm for the peaks had swelled to a tipping point — with all those days spent merely backpacking, hiking within arm’s reach of remote, bucket-list items like Seven Gables and Acrodectes, which are so burdensome to access. I needed to sleep as much as I could, so I wasn’t looking for a big day. Two modest peaks at the northern end of Rock Creek (namely, Red Mountain and “Peak 3280”) seemed like just the ticket, especially given their proximity to a zone I’ve nearly cleared, and the fact that I had studied their eastern aspect many times from the road and judged it to be an interesting scramble.
Turns out, the scramble was interesting, but too short. After a somewhat difficult crossing of Rock Creek (9:44 am), I trudged my way through all manner of shrub, working southwest until the path steepened and the terrain morphed into sharp, loose class 2 on dark granite. Eventually, I crossed a broad rib and located a class 3 gully that was also loose, but featured brighter granite of the sort that tends to inspire confidence. After 400 feet, I climbed out of the gully and onto a short arête that required one or two class 4 moves and was certainly the highlight. Unfortunately, heavy rain hit the moment I reached this section, tempering my enjoyment of it. The “heat dome” that had caused dry and generally favorable weather throughout our run of the Muir Trail was finally breaking, and a series of retaliative storms were on their way.
I shivered uneasily as ear-piercing thunderclaps increased in frequency to the point of sounding nearly constant overhead. For a moment, I considered retreating, and might have done so were it not for two self-justifying considerations. First, I was hiking among trees, and hadn’t seen any lightening yet. Second, if I ignored conventional warnings for such situations and pressed on to the summits, I’d have something energizing to contribute to the “biggest risk you’ve taken recently” discussion that I hoped to have with students in my upcoming Philosophy of Risk course. So, look, I really had no choice. For the sake of the students, I had to keep going.
Fortunately, the thunder had mostly subsided by the time I reached the ridgetop (11:45 am), but the rain persisted throughout most of the hike, and wind was whipping with branch-snapping force as I hiked over the ridge and ventured west towards Peak 3280. This part was marshy and forested and might have even been pleasant in different weather conditions, but my shoes were soaked through, and I felt uncomfortable and cold. At this point, I just wanted to tag the peaks and get down.
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The summit rocks of Peak 3280 were interesting — a blocky puzzle of large granite pillars that contrasted sharply with the sandy forest surrounding them. I was a bit surprised to find an SPS register up there, but this is a popular area, and the views of Hilton Lakes and the peaks surrounding them are top tier. The sun appeared and I began to dry out a little as I made the sandy, class 1 traverse to Red Mountain (11,467 ft), which I’d soon learn is aptly named for its Zion-esque shade of talus. Apart from its color, nothing about this summit or the hike to it is particularly noteworthy. But it does offer expansive views of Lake Crowley to the north and a good read on the exquisitely marbled Nevahbe Point to the west.
At 1:20 pm, I began my descent to Rock Creek. I chose a prominent drainage on the east side of Red Mountain, hoping for relatively easy passage. The first part of this 3000-foot descent was indeed a breezy ski on soft sand and pebbled talus, but after several hundred feet it morphed into an intolerable bushwhack that became ever more oppressive as I neared the base. Despite the fact that the wind had subsided and the storm mostly cleared, this was my least favorite part of the hike — by a mile. (Actually, it was more like a mile and a half, but who’s counting?) The only recompense for choosing such a laborious and scratchy path was picking up Rock Creek Road at a point below a bridge, which provided easy passage to the east side of the creek where my car was parked. I returned at 3:42 pm, a tad miserable, but content with my choices. Today’s hike was just the right length and challenge for my current physical state.
Later, the promise of post-storm drama diverted me from a more relaxing afternoon spent soaking in a cold spring and onto two modest peaks near the town of Crowley. Crowley Benchmark (7440 ft) might have been unremarkable in fairer conditions. But on this occasion, sunbeams burst through the canopy like theatrical spotlights, transforming the small summit into a grand stage. Aspen Springs Butte (7362 ft) shared in this joy, but was memorable for quite different reasons.
I started off on Rainbow Tarns Road, which is posted as an OHV-legal road, only to discover a mailbox at its head and other indications of private property. So, I drove further west along Crowley Lake Road and started hiking from a pullout, telling myself I’d turn around if I saw any fences or “No Trespassing” signs. I didn’t see any of these, but a ranch dog picked up my scent and was barking furiously until thunder scared him silent. Then at the saddle south of the butte, I stumbled across what can only be described as a mass grave. There must have been a hundred fractured skeletons of some unknown animal type littered about the sand. Think of the Elephant Graveyard from The Lion King and you’ll get the picture.
At first, I thought the remains were of horses that the ranchers had “put to pasture.” But on inspection, the skulls and rib cages were too small to be horse, so I decided instead that they were sheep. Some of the skulls had tags on them, so whatever the case, these were farm animals at one point that mysteriously ended up dead in this hidden glade. I hurried along, not wishing to join them, sticking to the west side of the butte in hopes of avoiding detection by anyone to the east. I reached the summit in just over 10 minutes from the saddle, and retreated just as quickly along an avoidance arc that deposited me a good deal west of where I parked. Nerves settled as I reached the safety of Crowley Lake Road, a major public thoroughfare. But I was a bit rattled by the experience overall, proving that my blood is too thin for sneak-peaking. From now on, I’m sticking to peaks that bullets can’t reach.
Reversed Peak
July 15, 2024
Reversed Peak (9481 ft) had been on my radar since the SummitPost days, but I never made a push for it. The closest I came was Grant Benchmark a couple years back, though I can’t recall what made me decide to hike that peak instead. It’s just as well that I saved it: Tracie had just returned from completing the first 60 miles of the JMT and wanted to “stay in hiking shape,” but wasn’t looking for anything too spicy or involved. This fit the bill perfectly. A couple of hours on a nice trail that’s occasionally steep leads to a prominent summit with sweeping views in all directions. The half day venture left plenty of time on either end for coffee and tacos, and to share stories from the JMT. The last thing needed to make the day perfect was the code to the spa, but that we never located😩.
Wheeler, Broken Finger, Twelve Flags et al.
July 16, 2024
Originally, I had plans for some big dayhikes in the aftermath of the JMT (like reattempting the Bradley-Keith traverse that defeated me last summer). But as the days passed, I realized my body wasn’t recovering quickly enough, and I didn’t have endless time to convalesce until I felt capable of fulfilling a grand vision (like the one that transpired a couple weeks later). So, I settled on a shorter hike to some peaks at the south end of Wheeler Crest. I was quite unsure of my route beforehand, which added to preexisting concerns about the quality and difficulty of the rock on Broken Finger Peak, particularly, and contributed to my overall sense that this day would prove acceptably ambitious despite its origin in compromise.
Well, ambitious it was. Any day involving over 7500 feet of mostly trail-less gain is ample work for even a fresh 40-year old body, but it was really the difficulty of the route-finding and scrambling from the col northwest of Broken Finger Peak (13,080 ft) to Adamson Point (13,200 ft) that slowed me to a tremulous crawl and turned an otherwise ordinary jaunt into a fifteen hour epic. Yes, I’ve had longer and bigger days in the mountains, consisting of more scrambling. But it’s been a long time since I’ve pushed myself to complete such a hard and complicated scramble as the one I faced on Broken Finger. For the two and a half hours I spent on that busted ridgeline, suffering throughout from teary-eyed want for visual relief from the exposure, I managed to channel the Chris of ten years ago, who was more adroit and willing to take foolish risks with unforgiving rock. Good thing too, because even if my fears during that scramble outstripped my experience level and the actual danger of much of it, the risks were real and composure essential for avoiding the unwanted consequences.
On the surface, the lollipop route that I improvised in real time this day was inelegant and inefficient. The more aesthetic and seemingly efficient strategy would be to hike continuously along the ridge that connects Wheeler Peak to Broken Finger to Twelve Flags Peak, with an out-and-back detour to Adamson. But several difficulties prevented me from taking this line. For one, I knew from reports (and later, direct inspection) that an immediate traverse from Broken Finger to Twelve Flags (or vice-versa) would require low fifth-class soloing, which I was not prepared to do. Also, the connection between Wheeler and Broken Finger Peak looked rather spicy in places, and I was content to forego this in favor of the ostensibly safer Northeast Couloir. (Ironically, I ended up having to negotiate what might be the crux of this connection anyway, while traversing to Adamson along Broken Finger’s Southeast Ridge.) To avoid these difficult sections between Broken Finger and Twelve Flags/Wheeler, I twice had to descend 1300 feet into adjoining basins. The inefficiency of this maneuvering was more than offset by the fact that both basins contained water, which I desperately needed.
One decision required for any ridge loop is the direction of travel. I could have completed this same track in anticlockwise fashion, but through some chance reckoning, I settled on what was probably the better circuit — ascending The Bumpkin (12,560 ft) and Wheeler Peak (13,000 ft) first, and working clockwise from there. This set me up for two enjoyable class 3 scrambles up the west face of The Bumpkin and a south-facing chute immediately west of Twelve Flags Peak (13,470 ft), both of which would have been less fun to descend. Conversely, the descent from Peak 13270 was an easy glide, and down was certainly the right direction here. Admittedly, a traverse from Adamson Point to Broken Finger might have been preferable to the reverse, because I encountered several tough, class 4 cliffs along this stretch that would have been more comforting to ascend than descend. But perhaps it’s just as well that I could approach Broken Finger from its col to the northwest, rather than be forced to scramble down this section (as would be the case on an anticlock loop). That said, I did find (and clean) a rappel sling near the head of the Northeast Couloir, so some evidently like to descend this way.
One last detail seems worthy of mention. From what little I can gather online, most people who take the NE Couloir/NW Ridge route up Broken Finger follow Secor’s description and traverse across two ribs on the southwest face to a gully that gives access to a false summit. From low down in the basin west of the peak, I could see that this is a viable strategy, and probably feels like a familiar but challenging ledgey-chute affair. However, true to form, I brought no beta with me on this hike and so assumed, when I reached the col, that I was supposed to climb the Northwest Ridge directly. Even though this ridge scared me good in many places, and involved numerous steep pitches up or around gendarmes that felt stunningly exposed, I might opt for it again over the standard route were I (God forbid) to repeat the peak. The rock demanded caution, but it was probably more secure than the broken stuff further down the face. Moreover, although nerves prevented me from fully appreciating it at the time, the climb was mentally stimulating, physically invigorating, and spectacular from an aesthetic standpoint. I’d recommend it to anyone with a high risk tolerance and a penchant for such elevated things.
Click here for a map of gpx tracks associated with these reports.
