Getting Out: It was the last day of a recent five-day backpack
trip in very northern Yosemite. I was walking up the gentle
gradient of Spiller Canyon toward Horse Creek Pass, which would
drop me down to Twin Lakes and a much anticipated shower and
restaurant meal. In a distinct moment, I thought to myself that
this may be the finest morning I had ever spent in the Sierra high
country. An hour later I was in a real fix and truly afraid.
It was the last day of a recent five-day backpack trip in very northern Yosemite. I was walking up the gentle gradient of Spiller Canyon toward Horse Creek Pass, which would drop me down to Twin Lakes and a much anticipated shower and restaurant meal. In a distinct moment, I thought to myself that this may be the finest morning I had ever spent in the Sierra high country. An hour later I was in a real fix and truly afraid.
The northern boundary of Yosemite National Park is a ridge of spectacular high peaks that is a grand sight from the highway through Bridgeport Valley. I had seen a bit of the northern Yosemite backcountry before. Since then, the broad glacier-scoured valleys there have lingered in my memory and insisted on a return visit for a wider tour of the region. I devised a 50-mile counter-clockwise loop that began up Buckeye Creek and four days later turned home up Spiller Canyon.
I spent my last night a short way into Spiller Canyon. From there, it would be a pleasant and manageable task to walk up the canyon and down Horse Creek Pass to Twin Lakes. Or so I thought.
A storm had hit the mountains just before my trip. Much of my walk over the first four days was through snow, adding some discomfort, but also a sense of excitement and adventure. In some places the trail was almost indistinguishable beneath the snow. I saw no other people, not even a boot print, but bear prints were everywhere. I was surprised that they so routinely traveled the trails.
Spiller Canyon was wide and open and largely free of snow. Though there was no trail, the way was clear and the climb was gentle up this spacious U-shaped valley. With each step the forest thinned until I was in a sweeping open expanse beneath beautiful Whorl Mountain and a host of other 12,000-foot peaks. That morning, I was fresh and strong, the sun warmed a spectacular scene in a gentle wilderness; all ingredients combined to make a truly memorable morning.
I could see Horse Creek Pass up ahead. The guidebook I consulted described it as Class 2 (“difficult cross-country travel”), which I have done routinely without incident. However, two factors I did not consider conspired to make this descent arduous and dangerous: I would be going down a pass I had not seen before, and snow.
When ascending a pass, a hiker gets a full view of the terrain ahead. He can evaluate routes with all the data displayed before him. Horse Creek Pass drops down a steep north slope and is wholly comprised of talus – loose rock the size of footballs up to the size of motor homes. An experienced hiker knows how to safely negotiate such terrain, but covered by snow, each step is very dangerous.
As I looked over the lip of the pass, I quickly realized my dilemma. The drop was so steep and my view so obscured that I could not see which way was best. I started down angling for a snow-free route, but the snow cover was almost complete in some areas. In all, I had to drop 3,000 feet. The first 200 feet took me an hour.
Finally… finally, I made it down. It was a long and horrible day. I had miscalculated and placed myself in danger. Several weeks ago, I wrote that solo travel in the backcountry that is within one’s capability is safe. I still believe that, but I was emphatically reminded that measuring one’s capability includes a full understanding of the terrain and the conditions.
