During my early years stationed at Piute Meadows, groups of Forest Service people would come up to the cabin and stay for a night or two. These so-called “administrative trips” typically comprised a hierarchical blend of district staff and muckity-mucks from the Toiyabe Headquarters in Reno—not exactly outdoorsy types. Several times each season, up to fifteen people would show up and just take over. The thing was, these taxpayer-funded junkets almost always turned into minor debacles. There were the usual litany of mishaps: overturned loads on the ride in…mules escaping in the dark of night…injured or altitude-sick participants. It would rain or snow. Then there were the drunken whoop-it-ups. It was chaos, from start to finish. So, unless directed to help out with packing or cooking, I’d decamp prior to the group’s arrival and leave the bureaucrats to their flatlanders’ follies, return after they were gone, and clean up the messes. ◦◦◦◦◦ In August, 1989, I was warned that two such excursions had been scheduled back to back. My four days-off were coming up so, without telling a soul, I took a little “vacation”—a busman’s holiday into the far northern reaches of Yosemite National Park, which lay just the other side of the Sierra crest from Piute Meadows. Every so often I’d field questions from backpackers traveling into the park so, ostensibly, this little getaway would lend me a better sense of the lay-of-the-land on the other side o’ the hill. But, no denying it: this trip was going to be a literal joy-ride. ◦◦◦◦◦ Perhaps no single event in my twenty year rangering career better captures how times have changed than the fact that as late as the late ‘80s I could/would saddle up the horses and traipse off into a remote area completely outside my jurisdiction. Without taking a radio! No one knew where I was, or that I’d ever been gone. [Five years later, our radio system finally got upgraded and I was thereafter required to call in- and out-of-service daily.] Once back, I promptly confessed to my supervisor, Lorenzo. Card-carrying renegade that he was, Lorenzo had no beef with my having gone walkabout but told me bluntly what I already knew: had I injured myself or one of the horses I’d be looking for another job. ◦◦◦◦◦ This trip, much of it on the Pacific Crest Trail, crossed through some of the most remote backcountry in the Sierra. It “felt” different—felt untamed. The PCT through-hikers had long since passed by on their way to the Canadian border so I saw very few humans. But while I was in the park, each group of backpackers I ran into were asked to present their Wilderness permit and they all received standard ranger sermons. To my surprise, not one of these hearty pilgrims noticed that the guy on the horse was wearing a Forest Service—not a Park Service—uniform.
22 Aug (Tue) Up early to prep for my unauthorized Yosemite field-trip. Major cabin spiffery for the dog & pony shows so wasn’t able to get away ‘til noon. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for Dorothy Lake Pass and on to Tilden Lake. Right after I left the cabin a cold wind started blowin’. Clouds piled up. Wore my raincoat the whole way, just for extra warmth. Half a dozen [visitor] contacts but none after entering the park. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d forgotten what typical Yosemite backcountry trails are like, what with all the deep trenches full of loose rock and treacherous hoof-snagging exposed roots. Plus loads of slickrock [glaciated granite—dicey terrain for iron-shod animals]. Slow going. After leaving Jack Main Canyon the trail was even worse, switchbacking beside cascading Tilden Creek with Chittenden Peak’s south face above, lit up all golden. Didn’t reach camp ‘til after sundown. Just one party at this huge lake, up on a hillside. Tilden is spectacular—two miles long! Looks like a friggin’ fjord! (I read somewhere that Tilden is farther from a paved road than any named lake in the High Sierra.) And the backside of Tower Peak, just over yonder, summit towers in cloud. ◦◦◦◦◦ My Hoover Wilderness map showed a group of tarns just off the trail up past the east shore and I headed for them. Found a perfect camp under a stately lodgepole on a little rise above a long skinny pond. Good feed and a place to high-line the horses over bare soil. Call it home for a day. Turned the boys loose, got set up, and heated leftover beans. Very cold. Autumn prelude, looks like, but clouds starting to break up. Long day!
23 Aug (Wed) This camp has a small fire ring so I had me a little Indian fire last night and this morn, for warmth and cheer. Woke up to full overcast; peaks in cloud, icy breeze. Felt like it could start snowing at any moment. Got up straightaway, set up my tent, and covered all the gear with a tarp. Okay…ready for anything. ◦◦◦◦◦ Once I got camp snugged up, had a quick bowl of granola and headed on out. Walked back to Tilden’s outlet, crossed Tilden Creek, and climbed Chittenden Peak (9685) for a first look-see. This scrawny little “peak” is more like a dome; mostly solid rock with flat stairstep ledges, some of them backed by feldspar-knobbed faces that I bouldered up whilst buffeted by cruel blasts of frigid air. Breathtaking views from the summit of Jack Main Canyon and a lot of exceedingly rugged granite country. Great terrain for getting off trail and visiting the places-where-nobody-ever-goes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Scrambled down the north side of the peaklet into a tiny valley with its own pretty little pond. Poked around a bit, then headed back to camp. Storm seemed to be breaking up. Sun popped out from time to time but still windy. Hit Tilden’s shore half a mile from the outlet. The lake a mere hundred yards wide there—coulda cut off a mile getting back to camp by swimming across. Back to camp for lunch (lunch for horses, too) and a much-needed nap. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 3:30 I packed for a hike up Snow Peak. Strolled up the granite apron right behind camp and up to a break in the ridgeline. Sweeping expanses of granite and turfy gardens along the way but no flowing water. Over the ridgetop and down into an isolated spur-valley that drains into Stubblefield Canyon—a sizeable, open vale studded with minute ponds that caught my eye on the map. And it was fine: dreamy John Muir country dotted with dazzlingly white erratic boulders and glistening glacier-polished slabs. A very quiet place. No whiteman-sign whatsoever. Up to this magic valley’s head then steep talus slopes leading to the top of Snow (10950), a homely little peak with excellent views plus an impressive 2500’ drop into the classic U-shaped gorge of Stubblefield. Sat on top for half an hour or so, taking in the vistas ‘til the wind had my fingers going numb. Followed the west ridge down to Pt. 10380 for THE outstanding postcard view of Tilden—in shadow now but reflecting light from the surrounding ridges. Wow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Angled down the 1000’ slope to about the midpoint of the lakeshore and thence contoured back to camp. (A fittingly tranquil conclusion to my climb, ambling along the sedgey-grassy shoreline.) Got back to camp just after sundown and turned the horses loose. Made a big pot of rice and cut-up tomato laced with cheese and butter. Chowed down. ◦◦◦◦◦ It cleared off nicely. Ramon and Val seemed happy enough in their little meadow and I figured, what with all the surrounding granite, that they wouldn’t wander far. So I decided to just leave them loose, hobbled. Belled Ramon.
24 Aug (Thu) “Slept like a log,” as they say. (Why would anyone say that?) Woke to a frosty, crystal-clear morning. Total silence. Coming to, it took me a minute to realize something was wrong. No bell! Leapt out of my bag, grabbed a halter and started walking. Followed fresh prints up onto the rocky hillside then back to the trail where the tracks vanished. Spent well over an hour combing that hillside. Crossed their track once but soon lost it again. Back to camp. Circled around, listening hard for Ramon’s bell. Down the trail aways then back again but still no sound and no clue what to do so back to the rocks I went. Starting to get nervous. Crossed over the hill and—lo and behold!—fresh tracks on the trail, a half mile from camp: Ramon and Val were headed home. Found the knavish pair a mile from camp in a little meadow below Tilden’s outlet (where they’d have had a quick last snack before trotting all the way back to Piute). Took me 2½ hours to find them—nearly in a panic toward the last. I believe I learned this lesson once and for all: Tie your horses up at night and you’ll get to eat breakfast in the mornin’! ◦◦◦◦◦ Fed the fugitives pellets and grain, hoping they didn’t take it as a reward. Packed up, raked under the high-line, and left camp at noon. (By the way, this was an old Indian site—obsidian shards all over the place.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode back down to Jack Main Canyon the way we’d come. More bad trail but beautiful silver slabs and aqua-vignettes all along Falls Creek. Finally saw one creekside scene so alluring, so perfect, I just had to park the horses and go jump in and then sprawl nekkid on warm polished granite for awhile. ◦◦◦◦◦ Passed Wilmer Lake. Rode up and over Bailey Ridge, forded Tilden Canyon Creek, then straight back uphill to cross through a shallow gap in Macomb Ridge—a whole lotta down down down, up up up, repeat. From the top of Macomb Ridge and down into Stubblefield was one helluva ride—much bare granite and long stretches of funky old riprap [Roman-roadway-style trail of closely fitted stones; precarious for equines, especially going downhill]. It took an hour and a half to go less than two miles but we tip-toed down and made it safely to the bottom. Phew!! Fortunately, nobody was killed or injured. For a trail, that was—hands-down—the hairiest thing I’ve ridden. Val would crash through thick trail-side brush to avoid the heinous polished riprap. But what views along the way! Stunning. Crossed Rancheria Creek a bit below where Stubblefield and Thompson Canyons merge. And then, guess what? Straight up the other side! Someone told me that this section of the PCT is its most challenging stretch, traversing several high ridges and deep glacial canyons in quick succession—going against the grain, as it were. ◦◦◦◦◦ The plan was to stay at a sizeable unnamed lake a quarter mile off-trail on the crest of the ridge between Thompson and Kerrick Canyons. But with all the cliffy granite it was a no-go (I scouted on foot). Camped instead at a tiny lake/pond surrounded by dense deadfall, just off the trail. There was good feed on one part of the shore and a flat place for my kitchen. I slept nearby on a slab-topped bluff overlooking Kerrick Canyon. High-lined the horses over a dried up seasonal pond. Not a particularly aesthetic camp but good, stock-wise. It was too late in the day to drop all the way down into Kerrick and besides, I really wanted to check out that lake. Surprising that such a large body of water has no name, despite being an honest half-mile long, with alluring timbered islets and sinuous rocky peninsulas—just off the honkin’ PCT. A real testimony to remoteness. More than likely it never got stocked with fish. ◦◦◦◦◦ Put the horses to bed and climbed up on my rock with binoculars to check out the stars. Finally spotted the Andromeda galaxy. (Just recently learned how to locate it.) Deer wandering about on stairstep ledges just below me. More than one. I could hear their little hoofies click-clacking on stone; a most lovely sound. One big doe wandered within feet of me several times. Strange to be looking up at a big animal, in the dark, from ground level. Once, I shined my flashlight right in her eyes. She just stared back—even after training it on my face. Why, hello there!
25 Aug (Fri) Up at dawn. Turned Val and Ramon loose and had a quick nosh of scrambled eggs mixed with leftover dinner and a mug of tea. High-lined the two again and gave ‘em each a good dose of pellets. Left camp afoot. Scrambled up to yet another forgotten lake basin but, first, up a big granite knob overlooking Thompson Canyon. Photos and binocular viewing and map orientation. Then down to the lake. Splendid place; just gorgeous. Pretty as Peeler Lake, with many rock-islands and two convoluted peninsulas plus vertical bluffs dropping straight into deep dark water. Went out to the tip of one peninsula and laid my body down. Took a quick bath. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up the long, gently sloping drainage (you’d never know you were on a ridgetop) to another attractive lake with its far shore right on the edge overlooking Thompson Canyon. Thence into a cirque to the east where coyotes howled under midday sun. To the top of Price Peak (10716) for more killer views. The original 1945 A.J. Reyman register is still there, with many sign-ins by past Park Service rangers and trail-crew. [Reyman did the first recorded ascents, post WWII, of a several obscure peaks in the region.] Traversed over the top and south along the broad ridgeline, passing through serene sandy valleys, past two ponds, and eventually back down to Nameless Lake. Traversed the southeast shore this time. Huge mistake! That side of the lake is one big nasty tangle—loads of deadfall and thick brush, endless ups & downs & arounds. Got back to camp at 3:30, famblished. (I’d neglected to take any food with me.) Revived myself with cheese, crackers, and sardines and got packed up. Rode on, dropping into Kerrick Canyon. The lower section was terribly rugged. It parallels the creek, staying well above it, with views of comely cliffs across the way. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hours later, made it to the old Park Service trail crew camp in Kerrick Meadows and got set up. Made a big pot of spaghetti while horses grazed merrily. Bed by 10:00, thoroughly whipped. On the move for 17 hours today with hardly a break. Way too much fun! Tonight, had a buck and two does right in camp, not ten feet away at times. Not in the least shy, these Yosemite deer.
26 Aug (Sat) Up before sunrise to turn out ravenous, grumpy equines. (Clearly, they are not enjoying their holiday.) Sat by a little fire, catching up in this log. At one point I looked up to see my two hobbled horses on the other side of the creek, on the trail, heading for home. Collected them forthwith. Can’t blame ‘em…Val and Ramon know exactly where they are and how to get back to their meadow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left about 10:00 after scouting around, checking to see what condition the camp had been left in. [The Yosemite backcountry trail crew used this campsite during the summers of 1986 and ‘87. As Robinson Creek ranger I’d visited them several times since my own basecamp was only a mile away.] First-rate rehab job. Bilberry already coming up where the cook tent used to be. ◦◦◦◦◦ Packed up and rode back down the trail a couple miles. Parked the horses beneath Pt. 9895 and unloaded them. Took off afoot north up a long draw that leads to a saddle, beyond which is a sweet meadowy basin holding a little pond. This is where, a few years back, some group of researchers left behind all sorts of functional equipment and even camping gear—like they’d had to leave in a big hurry. I reported it and a year or so later heard that all the junk got hauled out. Did a sweep and picked up a fair bit of stray wind-blown trash-flotsam that had been missed. ◦◦◦◦◦ From there, climbed seldom-visited Acker Peak (11015), a humble bump with neither summit cairn nor register. (I suspect they were removed by somebody.) Had me one last bino-and-map recon of northern Yosemite. Great views down into Thompson and across to Peeler Lake. Calm and sunny, ahhh. ◦◦◦◦◦ Bopped down to the horses in just 40 minutes and got reloaded. Rode onward at 4:30, reaching the old snow survey cabin in Buckeye Canyon a couple hours later. Turned my ill-tempered friends loose. Made another batch of spaghetti and was wolfing it down when I noticed that the sound of Ramon’s bell had grown fainter. They’d circled around and got on the trail. Sneaky! I raced off into the night (flashlight took this opportunity to go on the fritz) and nabbed ‘em half a mile up the trail, hobble-hopping barnward at a steady clip. Ramon and Val were just gonna leave the ol’ ranger behind, ho ho! They do not like these traveling trips. Both had gotten pellets and grain twice daily plus a couple of hours grazing time but it wasn’t enough. They just wanna go home—I get it. I’m ready to go home, too.
27 Aug (Sun) Heading all the way out today—my 27th straight day in the backcountry; a record for this ranger. It’ll feel strange to drive. ◦◦◦◦◦ Leftover spag scrambled with eggs for breakfast. (Baaad idea….) Kept horses close by and tied ‘em up at the first sign of wandering. Final big dose of grain. ◦◦◦◦◦ We were barely a hundred yards from the snow survey cabin when a goshawk flew across the trail, just 50 feet ahead, with a carcass in its talons. Surprised, it dropped the thing and flew off. It was a half-eaten blue grouse, neatly plucked as goshawks and their accipiter kin do. I was briefly tempted to take it with me and cook it up later. ◦◦◦◦◦ Not heading back to the cabin; no reason to—quicker to ride over the old Buckeye north fork trail to Beartrap Lake instead. Over the pass. Stopped to pick up a bunch of old trash—broken glass, rusty cans—at one of the sheep-herder camps. (Oh yeah—I picked up a sack at the snow cabin. Somebody—one of our rangers?—left a burlap sack of rusty cans so I filled it up with tarpaper shreds and other goodies found in the bushes and packed it out.) Down the endless Long Canyon switchbacks. Led Ramon and booted loose rocks off the trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Made it to the pack station at 4:30, pretty much thrashed. No one there. And no one at the ranger station so I just picked up my mail and read it over a much-anticipated burger at the Cedar Inn. Thus endeth my Grand Tour.
For the trip: → 81 miles (~26 afoot) over 6 days
→ 5 passes traversed
→ 4 mountains climbed
→ 29 lbs trash (7 lbs collected in YNP)
©2018 Tim Forsell 26 Aug 2018, 23 Jan 2026
