Day 4, Thursday: Evolution Lake to Lower Goddard Canyon

I awake to a beautiful morning. A weather report forecasts stormy weather. My energy craters, and I descend into a bleak mood. I am surrounded by a cloud of moths in a muggy campsite.

Morning

I awoke before dawn in my little eyrie above Evolution Lake. The early twilight was pretty, and I made a companion shot to the Milky Way shot of the previous evening. But further alpenglow or dramatic sunrise light failed to materialize, probably due to clouds on the Eastern horizon (which I couldn’t see, being over the crest from me). I ended up taking a detail telephoto shot of the lake with a dawn lit peak reflected in it as opposed to a grander wide scenic—which is a good practice anyway.

Finally I packed up my camera equipment and sleeping bag and carefully made the steep five-hundred foot descent back down to the charming campsite I’d hardly taken advantage of. I relaxed for a while with my morning cereal and mocha, then hit the trail back north the way I’d come, on my way to Evolution Valley (and beyond).

Before too long I crossed paths with the ranger who’d scolded me the night before. He was hiking up now on his time off, and we exchanged cheerful greetings. The trail steepened as it descended down to Evolution Valley, switching back and forth through a pine forest. My pack felt heavier on me this day, even though here I was on day four of my trip and by rights ought to have been fully in a groove. I definitely was not feeling a spring in my step. I spent a little time taking a break at a little cascade, chewing a couple of cherry flavored electrolyte gummies and a bit of a Cliff bar, and then continued on down into the valley.

Evolution Valley is a broad long open expanse. The mountains of the Sierra crest form a dramatic backdrop behind it to the east, flanked by the looming presence of a peak named “The Hermit.” The trail through the valley is well travelled, comprising a section of both the Pacific Crest Trail and the John Muir Trail. On this day Evolution Creek was lazily flowing through the lush green meadowed floor of the valley.

After some time I arrived at the McClure Meadow ranger cabin. Affixed to a sign post by the trail was a bit of stationary paper wrapped in a ziplock bag. A ranger had hand-written a weather forecast for the next few days: this day would be mostly sunny, the next day (Friday) a 30% chance of rain and thunderstorms, and the final two days of my hike projected to be 70% chance of rain and thunderstorms. Little cloud and lighting bolt info graphics, hand-drawn with a sharpie, helped round out the presentation. As a photographer I welcomed the promise of interesting weather, but I knew from experience that being in a storm in the mountains could also be terrifying. Good times ahead!

Weariness Descends

Past the cabin my backpack just felt like it was hanging heavier on me: my shoulders were getting more sore, requiring more frequent short breaks for relief. But I was getting less and less of a bounce from these breaks. Progress down the trail felt increasingly like a trudging march, even though the grade was gently downward.

I passed by a group on a horse packing trip. A couple of guys peeled off from that group on foot and sped down the trail before me. A short while later I passed by a spot where they had stopped briefly, but then a few minutes later they came bounding by me again. I longingly observed their evident joy being out on the trail, and their youthful physical prowess. My stamina seemed to be progressively collapsing with every step I took. Coupled with that was my concern over the miles my plan B to go up Piute Canyon and out over that pass was adding to my trip—I needed to put some of those miles in the bank!

I reached a spot where the trail crossed the strongly flowing Evolution Creek. The ford seemed sketchy to me, without a clear rock-hopping path, and with fairly deep rushing water. An amiable fellow joined me there on the bank, and upon unloading some of my feelings of distress on him, he gave me some gentle words of encouragement (which was helpful). I pointed out a spot to him a bit upstream where the creek widened and flowed in a shallower sheet over a broad shelf of granite. He agreed with my assessment, and before long he crossed and was on his way.

I took off my pack, sat down and removed my boots and socks, preparing to cross. But I was exhausted—I felt utterly depleted, spent. I leaned back against my pack there on the bank, unable to summon the will to move. Presently the group of horse packers I’d seen earlier showed up, and made the lower crossing without much fuss (being on horses). Presently they all crossed and were gone. I sat there for some minutes longer, but finally forced myself up, put my arms through my shoulder straps, hung my tied together boots over my neck, picked up my hiking poles, and gingerly made my way out on the apron and across the creek. I dried my feet off on the far bank, strapped on my pack, and continued wearily on.

A bit further on I passed by a fellow who, seeing my camera pouch, told me I’d surely want to stop a ways ahead and take a picture of a spot where the river began cascading down. I thanked him for his suggestion. But reaching what seemed the spot he’d suggested I found I lacked any energy to explore a composition. I felt dead inside, anhedonic, unable to feel any sense of joy in being out there. Was I just so fucking old?

The rocky trail began dropping more steeply, and I slowed down even more, conscious of the risk of spraining an ankle (or worse). A guy who appeared to be Thor came striding seriously up the trail past me. I think he had an axe strapped to his pack.

I rounded a corner and beheld a vigorous old juniper standing sentinel on a promontory. Lower Goddard Canyon stretched miles beyond and hundreds of feet below. I still had no real creative or mental energy to take a shot, but this image practically made itself, and what was I carrying this goddam brick for anyway?! I extricated my camera from my chest pouch and took the shot.

A little further down I came upon the blasted old shard of a juniper stump, beyond that a juniper in its prime, surrounded by a few young saplings. Oh yes, this scene spoke to me. I pulled my camera out again.

It was now late afternoon. I slowly picked my way down the innumerable switchbacks of a steep three hundred foot drop down to the South Fork of the San Joaquin. By now I felt like a mere shambling meat puppet, propelled forward as if guided by the jerky strings of my stubborn will.

Bleak Thoughts

Finally I reached the bottom. There was a group of people in a large campsite near the bridge at the intersection with the Goddard Canyon Trail, but I felt profoundly anti-social and pushed myself onward. A black cloud of despair had settled over me. That my physical reserves were so utterly diminished was beyond alarming. My plan to hike out over Piute Pass would require a significant climb up Piute Canyon, but extrapolating from my current state that seemed impossible.

What then would be plan C? Should I instead hike out down to Florence Lake? That would at least involve no further climbing, just grinding out of the miles on a well-trodden path. But what then? I would still be at a remote location on the wrong side of the Sierra from my car, and with no way of contacting Molly. That was a significant gap in my planning, something I would have to fix on any future trips. Catastrophic thinking cascaded in my mind.

Finally I spotted a reasonable flat spot off to my right in the trees, not far from the river. Stumbling in, I dropped my pack, and pushed my way through some willowy branches to a feeder stream where I gave myself a little splash bath and drank my fill.

The penny was slowly dropping that maybe what was going on here with my physical condition was that I was bonking: my energy reserves were completely depleted. I could probably trace this deterioration back to having skipped lunch on my very first day, the physical exertion of forcing myself over all those blocks of talus, even my elective five-hundred foot climb up to my perch above Evolution Lake. I simply hadn’t rested enough or been keeping up enough with my caloric burn.

It was uncomfortably warm and muggy down here in this valley, and turning on my headlamp in the gathering darkness beckoned moths that clouded and fluttered against me. I had begun the day at 10,900 feet at Evolution Lake, and dropped over 2,600 feet over the course of nine miles—wimpy by through-hiker standards no doubt, but significant for me.

I ate my most calorie rich meal (Backpacker Pantry’s Chicken Pad Thai, a real standout for sure!), popped some Vitamin I, and prayed the morning would find me in much better shape (and spirits).