Williamson and Tyndall 2013

Symmes Creek Trailhead

Symmes Creek Trailhead, May 31st, 2013, 5:47 PM

A chill ran down my back as the shadow of the Eastern Sierra crept across the desert floor.

A week full of work coupled with a five-hour drive left me enmired in an all-too-familiar sense of weariness. But my sense of fatigue would have to wait, it was time to hike. I had set the goal of climbing California’s Fourteeners and this hike would be my next step on that journey.

I took a deep breath trying to shake my malaise and feelings of dread. I would need to get to Anvil Camp, many miles away and many thousands of feet above me before I could rest for the night.

Cinching the straps encircling my large pack, I stashed a few items in the remaining pockets, in a flash of unabashed indulgence I included a foot-long sandwich and a large bottle of ale.

I hesitantly eyed my full pack then the sinking sun. “Why on earth do I keep doing this sort of thing?” I muttered aloud. But there was no reply... of course, there was no reply... I was the only person in the remote desert parking lot.

But there was a simple answer.

Like other lovers of various mountain-craft, I traded the plain displeasure of these abnormal starts and big climbs in order to reach difficult summits.

Doubtless, it is a backward sort of pursuit where the proofs of success are not always evident, and the reward for suffering is ineffable at best, at worst nonexistent.

This masochistic passion had led me to the feet of two of California's highest peaks: Mount Williamson and Mount Tyndall. Both mountains are remote and the EASIEST routes to their peaks require twelve miles of steep hiking to Shepherds Pass at 12,000 feet. From there the true fun would begin.

Hardy outdoors-persons have been known to summit these two mountains and return the same day but I did not possess that level of stamina.

Thus I found myself, the lucky man that I am, late on a spring afternoon gearing up to begin a two and a half-day climb of these two distant summits. I also planned to join two fellow climbers... well, two partners who already started hiking thanks to my work delay

Satisfied that I had remembered everything, and convinced further stalling was pointless, I shouldered my pack with a grimace.

Turning west, I set a plodding pace up the trail. I crunched through granite sand past stands of rabbitbrush and seas of desert sage.

***

The view eastward

It did not take too long to shake the dour mood that set in at the trailhead.

Time and miles began to pass and the views grew ever finer. Each moment brought me a few steps higher while the sunset ripened a few shades richer.

The Inyo Mountains in the east burnished in myriad colors thanks to the dramatic light.

Below the Inyos, highway 395 stretched north and south along the Owens Valley floor, a distant grey river shimmering in the heat.

All around, the foothills stirred by a downslope breeze, a breath through that land of ever-lengthening shadows.

The Symmes Creek trail crisscrosses its namesake waterway along a steepening canyon. The path winds through desert shrubbery and occasional riparian glades. The trail eventually abandons the babbling creek for a series of steep switchbacks up a ridge dotted with piñon pines.

Upon the switchbacks, I slowed as my energy wavered.

To buoy my spirits, I employed a performance-enhancing secret weapon: U2’s Where The Streets Have No Name.

I popped in headphones and co-opted the sonic energy to press my speed. I used the driving bass and staccato drum beats to meter my pace while the Edge’s reverberating riffs and Bono's airy anthem complemented the evolving scenery.

***

The switchbacks ended abruptly at Symmes Creek saddle, where the trail crossed the ridgetop into the adjoining canyon. At this point, astride the ridge around 9,000 feet, a wide landscape unfurled.

Far below lay the depths of the Shepherd Creek, a rugged chasm in shadow running from the crest far above to the Owens Valley floor in the east where the twinkling lights of desert towns flared to life. But such scenic delights were nearly forgotten as my gaze drew upward.

Mount Williamson towered high above all.

The mountain was immense, the north face composed of darker granites than nearby peaks and was bound by many cliffs. The great height and crag-riddled faces loomed both august and cruel.

The true summit sat back, guarded behind Williamson’s lesser east and west horns. Beneath the summits, the southern horizon was dominated by the mountain's impossibly long Northeast Ridge. The jagged ridge climbed 10,000 feet from the valley over several miles. The ridge extended from Williamson like a great serpent writhing in tortuous bends all the way to the desert floor.

This vista would have been impressive in any case, but I arrived at an auspicious time. The traditional glories of sunset had already passed: the ember-red alpenglow lifted from the mountaintops and the tangerine bands of atmosphere left the sky. The entire landscape then suffused in an otherworldly pastel twilight, contrasting the brooding mountain with the ephemeral dusk, blushing Williamson’s stony brow in gentle pinks and its arid feet in pale blues.

I stood transfixed by the scene. I retrieved my camera for a beat but returned it unused for fear of desecrating such a moment.

Though I had come for my broader quest for California's Fourteeners, I had special hopes to reach Williamson. Due to its prominent profile, I had desired to climb Williamson as long as I remembered caring about such things. Seeing the mountain now only deepened that desire. But the twilight encounter would not last.

The dusk light faded as fast as it had come and night fell.

The concerns of the present returned. My weariness returned and developed a small but growing feeling of apprehension: I had been hiking for hours but had no sign of my partners yet.

I re-cinched my straps and resumed hiking.

***

Shortly after dark, I was able to pick out two lights in the distance. I sighed in relief and picked up the pace.

Visions of settling down for the night play in my head, while my sandwich and beer called out to my stomach from my pack.

I caught up to the lights to find my partners Jeff and Josh.

We greeted happily. I was encouraged to hear they were both feeling well, while they were impressed that I managed to catch up with them even after my work delay. We agreed that we should start looking for a suitable spot.

After balking at a few areas, we found good campsites near Mahogany Flat.

Camp at Mahogany Flat*

We pitched our tents and paused for dinner.

I received bewildered and envious stares when I produced my big bottle of ale and hoagie. Jeff admonished me for not thinking of my pack-weight but also conceded that he wished he had done the same.

In consolation, two small flasks of whiskey appeared to succor any feelings of regret.

We retired for the night and drifted off to sleep under a clear sky peppered with uncountable stars. Still, it was a wonder that I slept at all considering the anxiety gnawing at the back of my mind. I would just have to see how I would fare in the coming days.

***

View above Mahogany Flat

Mahogany Flat, June 1st, 2013, 6:15 AM

The next morning we arose once the sunlight warmed enough to stave off the cool wind.

With hard-won miles behind it was easier to dispel the occasional doubt, I exited my tent looking forward to the new day.

The day's agenda originally required us to reach Shepherds Pass AND summit Mount Tyndall.

Unfortunately, we stopped short the night before. If we wanted to keep to the original plan we would really have to hustle.

Morning at Camp

The fact that our respective plans diverged on day three only further complicated things. I needed to work the following Monday, so I would need to hike out after reaching Williamson on day three. My companions would exit the morning after.

Ambitious? Perhaps, but a recent ascent of White Mountain Peak and an attempt on Mount Russell should help me get the job done.

Looking back on Mahogany Flat

Keen to make up ground, we broke camp quickly and continued.

Josh hiking through the Pothole

The new day brought new challenges. Though speedy the day prior, today I drifted to the rear while Jeff sauntered to the front.

The Wolf Pack: Josh (L) and Jeff (R)

The day's scenery in the upper Shepherds Creek, though fine, lacked the pizzaz of the views the night before. Still, the highlands around did improve as we neared the palisades and buttresses of the Sierra Crest.

The sparse vegetation in the area did not help. Shepherds Creek appeared moon-like: filled with sandpits, talus, sometimes punctuated by stout manzanita, piñon, and chaparral.

In lieu of scenery, we relied on chatting to pass the time, staying clustered together through Anvil Camp through the Pothole.

Snarky graffiti at Anvil Camp

We took a brief break before our final push to the pass. Jeff rose first to finish the last 500-foot push. Josh followed shortly thereafter while I followed ten minutes later.

Shepherds Pass headwall

Short of crossing a slippery ice patch (on a spirited 40° slope), the ascent up Shepherds Pass headwall was uneventful.

I was also happy to see that Jeff had already located a campsite right at the pass near a snow-rimmed tarn.

Topping the pass headwall, Polychrome Pk. (L)

I picked out a spot and began making camp. I set up my tent, unloaded my pack, and —having forgone a bear can for this trip— I searched for a tree to counter-balance my food, but there were no trees nearby.

Eh, I thought, At least there isn't any real bear activity around here.

Knowing rodents could be an issue, I compromised, hanging my food from the tallest boulder near camp.

Once finished, I paused to take in the surroundings. While I had heard many reports decrying the rigors of reaching Shepherds Pass, I had seen scant praise concerning the area's beauty.

My expectations had been low.

Though I find most high alpine zones charmless at noon, I was quite taken with the view on the day.

Our camp was above the treeline near the pass high-point. North stretched the talus-riddled flanks of Mount Keith. To our west, a treeless U-shaped valley descended towards the heart of the Sierra. In the southeast, a broad slope contoured up Polychrome Peak where an expansive col abutted Mount Tyndall’s pyramidal North Face. Compared to Williamson’s ruddy crags, Tyndall’s appeared pale grey and smooth harboring a few patches of snow.

Though our day began cloudless, long cirrostratus clouds now feathered the cerulean heavens. The gauzy texture in the sky lent an idyllic glow to the mountains, bringing out subtle shades in the granite moonscape.

Mount Tyndall's N. Face

The subtle but sublime appeal of this landscape was a welcome surprise.

Mt Keith & Polychrome Pk from high on the rib

We hoped to climb Tyndall that afternoon but it was already after 2:30 PM.

The three of us debated the pros and cons before Jeff and Josh decided to save themselves for Williamson the next day. Since I had a shorter schedule I would have to try for Tyndall that afternoon.

We picked a bail-out time while Jeff passed me a radio and Josh offered me use of his neat glacier glasses since I forgot my glasses at home.

Author: feat. neat glacier glasses

Josh suggested setting parameters for using the radio. He would adopt the call-sign “Dirty Bird.” I gamely chose the sign “Sausage Fairy,” and Jeff (the renowned philosopher) dipped further into the gutter. I will refer to him as “The *****” out of discretion for his scholastic reputation.

Plans made, I began the trailless climb to the Polychrome-Tyndall Col.

The ***** and Dirty-Bird holding down the Wolf Den*

Plodding up the sandy col I nervously stared at Tyndall, concerned for whatever difficulties awaited. I would use the North Rib since it would be the fastest way to the summit, going at a class 3 rating. Class 3 was new territory for me. Though I knew myself capable of safely ascending such terrain, I feared getting myself into terrain I could not descend.

Weeks of excitement and doubt buzzed furiously in my head. After all, this is where the rubber met the road.

But a surprising thing happened: each step towards the peak brought some ease. It felt sort of wonderful to put those doubts to rest with only climbing ahead.

***

Within the hour I reached the base of the North Rib, a shallow but apparent spine of talus dividing Tyndall’s slabby north face.

North Rib route (blue) & summit (red dot)

The incline looked far more aggressive than my mind could process. I swallowed a nervous lump in my throat as I picked my way up the rib.

The rib began as a wide berm of medium-sized talus threaded by gravel runnels. These gravel channels offer a largely class 2 use route. Class 3 sections materialized higher up. The climbing was much easier than I had worried it would be.

I gravitated toward the grippy slabs on the ascensionist’s left. It was easy to find a solid path with few shifting boulders, though care was needed.

Surprisingly, I found the firmer scrambling far preferable to slogging through the gravel channels. The granite was rough and strong and my boots gripped readily.

High on the face, I was so taken with that place that I paused and shouted for joy.

Life was good, I was doing what I love in my favorite place on Earth.

Mt Keith & Polychrome Pk from high on the rib

At one point a thermal glider whistled by, passing above. The slender white aircraft sailed to and fro using thermal updrafts to soar higher above Tyndall’s summit ridge.

The exit notch

After two hours on the rib, a wind picked up signaling the ridgetop was near. I responded by pushing my pace. A few robust mantles and steps over snow-filled crevices later and I was there.

I pulled up onto the summit ridge huffing and puffing in the thin air.

Atop Tyndall's NW Ridge

I caught my breath and started up the ridge. The joys of scrambling faded and I was left with the annoyance of boulder-hopping along the last 100 feet of Tyndall’s summit ridge.

The best views yet appeared as I topped out on Tyndall’s gusty summit at 6:05 PM.

Once hidden by the Tyndall massif, the range to the north and west spread out below my feet. The Great Western and Kings-Kern Divides spanned the horizon in a mighty sweep.

Even more spectacular was the view east where Tyndall’s small summit block leaned over its east face creating a yawning void with an unbroken drop of 2,000 feet to the rocky tarns of the Williamson Bowl below. Beyond the bowl, Williamson Creek fell another vertical mile to the desert floor.

As expansive as this eastward view was, it was embellished further by the presence of California’s second-highest peak.

A mile to the east stood Mt. Williamson. Even from 14,019 feet, Tyndall's neighbor still towered hundreds of feet higher. The juxtaposition of Williamson’s gothic crags and roan hue against the hazy desert reaches beyond was absolutely breathtaking.

Williamson’s West Face from the N. Rib

Adding to the ambiance, a great mass of rainless cloud had formed over the Kaweah Ridge in the west: the churning clouds adorning the ragged summits like a living crown.

A jet stream had ensnared the clouds, curling them out in cotton tendrils above the headwaters of the Kern and over Tyndall’s summit. Overhead the wind whipped them, tearing the clouds in ragged tatters past Mount Williamson where they evaporated in the desiccated desert air.

Everything about Mount Tyndall’s summit was staggering. My body swirled with a mixture of awe, vertigo, and adrenaline.

Cloud over the Kaweah Range

Mounts Russell, Whitney, and Barnard

After snapping a bevy of photographs I radioed my success to camp and signed the summit register.

Summit views northward

Noting the late hour, I tapped the summit high-point and turned to leave.

I stopped. The mountains had never seemed more beautiful to me. I did not want to go.

I took in the sights one last time. Here was John Muir's grand display incarnate: the Range of Light gilded with the rich light of a summer afternoon.

I reluctantly departed the summit, angling towards the chute to the North Rib.

Back at the exit notch, I had an unpleasant surprise that experienced mountaineers know well: going down is sometimes harder than going up.

I fearfully ogled the steep North Rib below. The incline of the route scrambled my brain (Y.D.S. pun intended). Every feature on the rib was wildly foreshortened which left my mind reeling with vertigo.

Looking down the ascent route

After dropping on to the route my nerves calmed with the familiar feel of granite underfoot.

Carefully, I made my way down in the dying sunlight.

I eventually reached a finger of snow. Elated, I found the snow soft enough to glissade to the bottom of the face.

Sunset & Tyndall

Off the face, the slope back to the tarn took minutes of easy plunge-stepping.

I rolled up to Jeff and Josh under a sunset sky where I found them ensconced in their tent. After a round of congrats, they broke some very, very hard news to me.

Marmots, the irredeemable bastards they are, got into my food bag. My campmates had chased them off but not after part of my food supplies were ruined.

I freed a litany of colorful language as I inspected the carnage.

Those unbearable beasts had eaten my dinner AND my breakfast. But the gravest stroke was to come... the marmots, the loathsome churls, ruined my remaining electrolyte mix.

Considering my decreased energy options, I rationed the rest for Williamson the following day.

Crestfallen, I decided to finish my second-day snacks and sip a bit of scotch before bedding down for the night.

In bed, I stewed for a bit about the coming day. To this point, every step was a test of whether I was ready for Williamson. Williamson's summit was farther, higher, and required crossing more treacherous terrain than Tyndall. Seeing how well I had taken to Tyndall's steeps had been a pleasant surprise.

Perhaps I would find Williamson the same. Perhaps I would accomplish my longstanding goal with ease.

I closed my eyelids and dozed off, blissfully unaware of just how wrong I was.