Rabbit/Villager Peak Part Deux

The first time I attempted Rabbit/Villager Peak, I didn't write a blog about it.  I had just a snippet posted, "Nancy, Ingrid and I also did a backpack up Villager Peak in the desert.  It ranks on the top of my list as least favorite.  No real discernible trail, unending uphill, 9 liter water carry, and hotter than the hinges of Hades.  That was one stupid hike."  So if this snippet is any indication of how well I enjoyed that hike, then why, I ask, did I go out there for seconds?  I suppose it's the pull of adventure, or the little voice in the back of my mind that points out failure.  I must conquer Rabbit and Villager Peaks.  Not everything should be conquered though especially when the joy leaves.  And the joy done gone on this one.

Carolen, Ingrid and I went out to the trailhead the night before starting the climb.  (Notice that Nancy is not with us? That's because she's smart).  We thought it would be a good idea to walk across the desert floor in the dark and get as close to the start of the climb as possible (2 miles).  Theoretically, this was a good idea.  We needed to keep to the left and skirt around a land formation (Lute) to position us at the climb.  So we walked for a couple of miles, trying to keep to the left as much as possible but nothing was looking familiar.  Finally, we decided to stop in a box canyon and assess the situation at first light.  Even though we were off track (notice I didn't say lost), it was kinda cool walking in the desert at night.  The stars were twinkling and the cacti cast strange shadows through our headlamps. 

The next morning, I climbed out of the canyon to get a better view and saw that we were too far east.  So we cross country trekked back to where we needed to be and started climbing. 

This is a steep, crazy hike.  For some perspective, we gain nearly 5,000′ of elevation, most of it in the first 5 miles.  It's really a mentally tough hike.  Here's a blurb from SummitPost.org:

"Rabbit Peak lies along the southeast end of the remote Santa Rosa Range of Riverside county in Southern California. The summit features views along the Santa Rosa Range to the northwest, to the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park to the south, and the Coachella Valley and Salton Sea to the east. There is no higher peak further south in California, so the views in that direction can span to the Mexican border (and into Arizona as well) on a clear day.

Seemingly desolate and inhospitable, the Santa Rosa Mountains are laced with deep washes and shallow drainages. Summer temperatures are brutally hot, periodically interrupted by thunderstorms that send flash floods cascading down the sandy washes.

The peak lies in a predominantly desert environment, though the summit area is crowned with several varieties of pines. Cactus, Yucca, and other desert flora cover most of the hillsides and surrounding desert floors. Rabbit Peak lies within the Santa Rosa Wilderness which supports the largest herd of rare peninsular bighorn sheep in the United States.

All of the routes to the summit are difficult, though there are no technical challenges. It is highly coveted among peak paggers, appearing on both the HPS and DPS peak lists, commonly believed to be the most difficult (time-wise) on both lists. It is one of seven Emblem peaks on the Desert Peak Section's list, signifying its dominance of its surroundings (another way of saying it has a swell view)."



Upward we climb.  There is nothing up here but rocks, cholla, ocatillo, barrel cactus, pear cactus, yucca, any kind of cactus you want.  We don't get very far up before we see a Bighorn Sheep.  First one I've ever seen in all my desert walkings!  It made the whole trip worthwhile.  He was just grazing along with not a care in the world.

I tripped over a dead yucca and face planted.  Ingrid said I threw my trekking poles out in front of me as I was going down (in slow motion, of course).  I didn't bend my knees because I was afraid the weight of the pack with all the water would injure me.  So I fell into a push-up pose and caught myself right before my face smashed into the ground.  Phew, that could have been bad.  I fell down 3 times on this stupid hike and so did everyone else.

We climbed all day and didn't take many breaks.  Ingrid amazed me with her ability to fall asleep on rocks.  We had positive attitudes and were totally sure we would make Rabbit this time.  We made it to Villager Peak about 4pm and decided to call it a day.  Our plan was to get  up super early the next day, hit Rabbit, then hightail it back down to the truck.

We spent a pleasant evening watching the sunset over the desert.  I had honey bourbon and dark chocolate as a treat, then crawled into my tent to read.  This is sad to say but I think I knocked out around 7:30pm.  LOL. 

We were up before dawn to start walking.  We left most of our gear and just took the essentials with us to lighten our load.  From this point, there is absolutely no trail.  We were going cross country and climbing down the side of mountains and then climbing back up.  A roller coaster of boulder scrambling, sketchy footing, and fall-away cliffs.  Very slow going.  We had given ourselves a cut-off time of noon to turn around to make it back down before dark.  But the slow pace really gave us a reality check.  By 10am we had been hiking for over 3 hours and still had a couple more miles to make it to Rabbit.  So close but so far away!  We made the decision to abort and turn around so we could make it back to the truck before dark.  I was relieved but pissed!  Frickin' Rabbit Peak.   

I had some negative self talk going on when we decided to turn around.  Second attempt, didn't make the peak, you suck, you failed, blah blah blah.  Someone once told me (I won't say any names but you know who you are) that I'm a middle aged woman who sits behind a desk all week and I shouldn't be out there doing stuff like that.  So of course, that little nugget always sits with me and taunts me now. What if that's true? What if I am a poser full of bullshit?  But then I come back to the realization that Rabbit Peak is really hard core and we talked to military guys out there who were on their third attempt.  And then I start justifying - we didn't make the peak because of this or that or the other thing.  But I don't like making excuses.  So it simply is.  What I'm missing here is the joy of the journey.  Once I was done beating myself up about it, I came full circle, and my thoughts then turned toward hamburgers. :-()

So let's get out of here!  We flew over hill and dale..... except it was really steep shale hill and there were no dales.  Some areas going down, we were like What!  Did we really climb up this and look at that steep drop-off!  This is crazy crazy crazy!  I'm here to say that going down is harder than going up.  My knees, hips and toes were throbbing!  About 2pm, I started getting nauseous so began stuffing my face with bars.  Guess I didn't eat enough lunch.  Hamburgers, french fries.....

At last we hit the desert floor.  OMG, I could kiss this desert floor.  Gotta keep to the right and go around this frickin' Lute and we finally see the truck, shining in the distance.  We made it back down at 5pm just as the sun was setting.  I let off a YEEEEEHAWWWW and kissed the hood of my truck.

Then we ate hamburgers!

PS: If I ever talk about attempt #3, you have permission to kick my ass.

Photos on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=1735313446753213&id=100008237237414

Villager Peak:
Elevation: 5,756′
Miles: ~13.78

Rabbit Peak:
Elevation: 6,640′
Miles: ~8.9

The Girl Who Goes Alone

This.


Here’s the thing about being a girl
and wanting to play outside.
All the grownups grind it into you from the get go:
girls outside aren’t safe.
The guy in the car? If he rolls down the window and leans his head out, run,
because the best you can hope for is a catcall, and at worst,
you’ll wind up with your face on the side of a milk carton.
Even when you’re a grown-up girl, your father—because he loves you—
will send you a four-page article about how to protect yourself
while standing at the ATM, while travelling unescorted, while jogging solo,
an article informing you how to distinguish phony police
and avoid purse snatchers, pickpockets, rapists and thugs.
Tell someone you’re going into the woods alone
and they’ll fill your ears with every story they’ve ever heard
about trailside cougar attacks, cave dwelling misogynists,
lightning strikes, forest fires, flash floods,
and psychopaths with a sixth sense for a woman alone in a tent.
To be a girl alone in the wilderness is to know
that if something goes wrong—
you picked the trailhead where the ax murderer lurks
or the valley of girl-eating gophers—
if you don’t come home unscathed, the mourning
will be mixed with I-told-you-sos
from everyone whose idea of camping involves an RV or a Motel 6.
The message is clear: Girls must be chaperoned.
So when, at the end of the day, you zip up the tent
and lie back in your sleeping bag,
fleece jacket bundled
into a lumpy pillow under your head, the second
you close your eyes every least night noise is instantly magnified.
You lie there and consider the pungent heft of menstrual blood,
how even your sweat is muskier, louder, when you’re bleeding.
Not hard to imagine its animal allure—every bear for miles around
sniffing you on the night wind.
You lie there listening, running a mental inventory of any
potentially scented item—
did every one make it into the food bag hung from a tree?
Toothpaste, trail mix, chapstick, sunscreen—fuck.
Sunscreen still in your pack, nestled right beside you
where Outdoor Man used to sleep. So you’re up, out of the tent,
headlamp casting its too-bright spotlight, darkening the dark outside its reach
as you lower the bag, shove the sunscreen in on top of the trash
with its food wrappers and used tampons. Hoist and tie.
Far enough from the ground to elude the bears?
Far enough out from the branch to thwart raccoons?
Tree far enough from the tent to keep from signaling the proximity
of ground level, girl-shaped snacks?
You go alone—in part—to prove that though Outdoor Man has left you,
his body is the only geography he can deprive you of.
He can give his muscled calves and thighs, his shoulders, chest and hands
to another woman, but not the Sauk River old growth, snow fields of Rainier,
sea stacks of Shi Shi.
He can keep from you the sweet, blood-thrilling hum of his body, but not
the sweaty, blood-thumping-back-aching pleasure of a hard-earned
panoramic view, high altitude starlight or the singular blue of a crevasse.
The thing about being a girl who goes alone, who goes
again and again is that it freaks
the potential next boyfriend. He doesn’t want to be out machoed
and he doesn’t want to admit it and he hopes you can’t tell.
The thing about being the girl who still goes alone is that it proves
you don’t need him and no matter how you show him you want him
it’s not the same
and you both know it.
Zipped back into the tent you remind yourself you’ve never really been in danger.
When have you ever been in danger? Well there was that boy, but years ago,
a teenager like you, driving around bored and pissed at the world,
his BB gun and his father’s two rifles
and on the seat beside him. Lucky you.
The gun he leveled on the window ledge
lodged nothing more than a BB in your thigh.
The thing about being a girl alone in the woods is you know too much
about the grain of truth in the warnings.
Even if you seem impervious, weird good luck leaving you so far unscathed,
you know the other girls’ stories—your sister
date raped after a party in college, a friend
raped by a stranger at knife-point, the two women
shot on the Pinnacle Lake trail. The singer
killed by coyotes in Nova Scotia.
The thing
about being a girl
who goes alone
is that you feel like you shouldn’t go
if you’re afraid. If you go it should mean you’re not afraid,
that you’re never afraid. Your friends will think that you go unafraid.
This girl
who goes alone
is always afraid, always negotiating to keep the voices in her head
at a manageable pitch of hysteria.
I go knowing that there will be a moment—maybe long moments, maybe
hours of them, maybe the whole trip—when I curse myself for going alone.
When I lie in the tent and all I am is fear.
I walk in the wilderness alone so I can hear myself.
So I can feel real to myself.
I walk into the wilderness alone
because the animal in me needs to fill her nose with the scent of stone and lichen,
ocean salt and pine forest warming in early sun. I need to feel my body—
taxed and stretched and aching.
I go because I know I’m lucky to have a car, gas money, days off,
the back and legs and appetite
to take me there.
I go because I still can.
The girl who goes alone
claims for herself
the madrona, juniper, daybreak,
she claims hemlock, prairie falcon, nightfall,
nurse log, sea star, glacial moraine,
huckleberry, trillium, salal,
snowmelt, avalanche lily, waterfall,
birdsong, limestone, granite, moonlight, schist,
cirque, saddle, summit, ocean,
she claims the curve of the earth.
The girl who goes alone says with her body
the world is worth the risk.

—Elizabeth Austen
This is the title poem from Elizabeth’s The Girl Who Goes Alone.

Things I Miss about the Trail

It's been since July since I've hiked or backpacked.  Too much stuff going on with Simone's wedding and then buying a house to do any weekend hikes.  As a result, I've noticed an increase in agitation and irritation with moods of melancholy and introspection.  My house is chaos.  I'm not getting enough quality alone time, wilderness time, and just plain old me time.  I have no hiking plans, no permits applied for, nothing on the forseeable horizon.  Hopefully, once escrow closes I can change that.

I was laying in bed last night thinking about the trail, any trail, and all the things I miss about it.  I was surprised to realize I missed even the painful and mundane things. 

I miss sparkling alpine lakes, sun glittering off the surface like winking stars.
I miss sharp, chilly morning air scented with pines.
I miss throbbing feet at day's end.
I miss the gentle curve of the trail as it winds through canyons and verdant meadows.
I miss Mountain House beef stew.
I miss sitting in the dirt, my legs stuck out across the trail, gazing at distant mountains.
I miss the camraderie of my hiking pals.
I miss laying down after a hard day and feeling my spine release into the ground.
I miss the cold edge of granite.
I miss the feel of my hipbelt, slipping around my hips like an embrace.
I miss the anticipation; the sweet feeling of challenges to come.
I miss that first breathtaking sting, as swollen feet are lowered into a frigid creek.
I miss the night sky beaming at me with shooting stars.
I miss sunrises over pristine lakes and mountain peaks.
I miss the freedom of crazy hair and no make-up.
I miss the introspective daydreaming that occurs while filtering water.
I miss the wonderland of marmots, pikas, and butterflies.

So many things, I could go on.


“I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer -- and what trees and seasons smelled like -- how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.”
-John Steinbeck in East of Eden

Mono Pass to Tuolumne Last Day

I was peaceful and reflective when I woke up.  Actually, I didn't really sleep.  I had a rock digging into my back all night.  But I was peaceful and reflective all the same.  The last day is always emotionally interesting.  There's some sadness about coming off the trail yet excitement to see loved ones, eat real food of course, and get clean.  It can be a little difficult to assimilate back into civilization as well.

Our obvious goal was to reach Tuolumne so we would be descending a few thousand feet into the valley.  It was heating up to be a scorcher.

We had to cross the river again but we chose to wade across in a shallow area.  The only rocks available for hopping happened to line up right next to a waterfall.  Um, no thanks. 

We started switchbacking down.  I just felt the calmness of the forest settling around me and couldn't help but think of John Muir's words, “I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”  So true.  I let the serenity melt into me.







As we continued down, we ran into more and more people.  Day hikers, JMT thru-hikers, section hikers.  They came in every size, shape, color, and age imaginable.  You could tell who had no experience and who had alot.  But kudos to all of them for attempting whatever dreams they aspired to.  Best of luck to all of them.











Last day selfie- whoa look at the swollen eyes and hair do!  Still smiling though.



My umbrella worked great in the heat.  So glad I had it.







Almost there!  We needed to get to Tuolumne Grill by 5pm to get our hamburger!





I was just coming out of the woods from taking a pee when this group of kids (in their 20's) came walking by.  One chick glanced at me and did a double-take.  She said,"Whoa, how many days you been out here?"  I said "8".  Then a dude said "Your pack is huge.  You could, like, go to the moon and back with that thing. Har Har Har Har!"  Then another dude started rapid-firing questions at me:  How long you been out here, how many miles, what trail you doing, bam, bam, bam, bam!  Too much, too soon!  I felt like going into Neo mode, dodging bullets like in the Matrix.

Neo dodging bullets:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kc4cBiSXoCs  






The only deer was saw the entire time!



We had a long long walk through the flatlands and meadows.  Some ominous clouds started to gather and we could hear thunder in the distance.  We weren't too concerned about it though since we were on lower ground.

We should have been concerned though because we got the fury of the skies unleashed upon us.  We made it to the campground/lodge junction just as it started to sprinkle.  Which way to go, which way to go?  We debated it for a few minutes and a fisherman told us to go through the campground.  We were trying to figure out which way would be closer to where the car was parked.  To the campground we trekked and it started pouring rain, lightening and thunder.




The lightening was cracking too close for comfort!  At one point, Nancy flung her trekking poles away from her and onto the ground.  Metal, you know!  The rain was coming down in sheets and we didn't know which way to go so we ducked into the campground bathroom.  This was my first experience taking shelter in a public bathroom.  I'm here to tell you, it's no fun.  So gross. 

Ingrid came up with this plan to walk out to the campground entrance host and get directions.  I'm not sure what the plan was supposed to be after that though.  So Nancy and I went after her, still in the pouring rain.  We all met up at the campground entrance and realized how very close we were to the car.  HOWEVER, we would miss the hamburger at the grill because it was after 5pm.  I wasn't really that sad though because we were so close to the car.




And we did end up getting a hamburger after all- at the Whoa Nellie Deli that is conveniently located at a Mobil gas station right outside Tuolumne.  Don't knock it till you try it!  It was super amazing. 



Once our bellies were full, we made our way down to the Best Western in Bishop and crashed hard.  We slept like the dead.  The next morning at breakfast, who did we see??  Tutu Family!!!  So funny how things work out.

So what's next, you ask?  I don't know but I'm ready to go again!

Positive Thought
Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer. Camp out among the grasses and gentians of glacial meadows, in craggy garden nooks full of nature's darlings. Climb the mountains and get their good tidings, Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. As age comes on, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but nature's sources never fail. ~John Muir

Mono Pass to Tuolumne Day 7

I slept really well and woke up feeling great.  Am I getting into the groove finally?  Now that we only have two days left?  Makes me a little sad.  But I will be happy for a shower and a hamburger.

We start walking, covering ground that we already walked the night before.  All is well and Thousand Island Lake is just ahead.  I'm excited to see it in the sunshine.







This is the log crossing we did a few times yesterday in the rain and hail.



Mmmmm....Perty!









We skirted Thousand Island Lakes, gazing at the serenity and beauty.  Then we started the climb out up Island Pass.  What a cute little pass this is, I thought.  All warm and snuggly, I just wanted to pinch the cheek of this pass.  It rolled along gently and didn't cause us any stress.















We mosied up the pass and then kicked up the speed going down the other side.  We had to make it over Donahue Pass before any untoward weather decided to make an appearance.  We killed it going downhill! 









Donahue Pass sits at 11,050 feet so we needed to climb about 1200 feet.  The section between Island Pass and Donahue Pass was the prettiest section so far.  I thoroughly enjoyed it.  One little meadow after another with creeks and streams flowing throughout, alpine wildflowers blooming gregariously along the trail, marmots and pikas frolicking.  It was an alpine wonderland. 








Marmot!







We stopped to have a foot soak - felt SO good!  Unfortunately, as we were sitting there, we saw some dark clouds in the distance that seemed to be moving our way pretty fast.  We wrapped up our foot soak and continued walking for a bit. 





The storm was coming upon us fast.  We debated whether to continue or hunker down.  Donahue Pass is notoriously bad for storms and none of us felt like dying that day so we decided to sit tight.  Ingrid went up into a stand of trees while Nancy and I pitched our tents in a meadow.  And there we waited for the storm. 





I sat in my tent, peering out, watching the thunder and lightening show.  The lightening would crack and a few times I almost jumped out of my skin.  Wow, that was scary!  It poured rain for a couple hours.  I just hung out, put some pants on, ate a bunch of snacks, and napped a bit.  I had to pull out my quilt because I was getting cold.  The temperature had dropped 15 degrees when the storm rolled through.



Once the storm passed, we packed up to continue over the pass.  Ingrid came flying down towards us from her stand of trees saying "Wait, wait, something has happened!"  I was like Huh, What, What???  She said "I've taken a bad fall!"  I'm looking at her trying to figure out how bad this fall was; did you hit your head or break a bone? She fell on a slippery rock and landed badly on her knee, elbow and hands.  Thank goodness no head or bone injuries.  We plied her with ibuprofen and then continued walking!  Man, that Ingrid is a tough cookie.  She climbed Donahue Pass and down the other side, into the night, with not one complaint. 





The two hour break did me good.  I had a mental spring in my step.  I'm sure I looked like I was still plodding along but I felt good and had a little extra pep.



Made it to the top of the Pass!  There was no sign stating location or elevation though and I was very disappointed with that.  Come on- it's Donahue Pass!





Then we began the descent down.  We were shooting for Upper Lyell Canyon. I think at this point, I prefered going uphill to downhill.  You don't breathe as heavy going down but, man, it shreds the quads and knees.











Down, down, down we walked.  Holy crap, so far down.  We took a wrong turn at a river and had to backtrack to the trail- it wasn't far though.  Funny thing was, a thru-hiker followed us onto the wrong trail!  We just didn't think we'd have to cross the river.  It was the worst water crossing so far.  The rocks were spaced so far apart.  I should have just walked through the water like Nancy ended up doing.  But I propelled myself over those rocks on tired and shaky legs.  Ended up creating too much momentum and flung myself onto the far bank.  We made it! 

Then we continued down the last .86 of a mile to Upper Lyell.  The trail switchbacked down into the canyon on loose scree with multiple creeks rushing right over the trail.  If you're not careful, it would be easy to fall right off the side. 

We rolled into Upper Lyell at about 9pm.  My pep and spring were definitely gone!  We threw up tents, ate a hasty dinner, and went to bed. 



It was a full moon too.  A Strawberry Moon.



Positive Thought
I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.  ~Anne Lamott