By Michael Lanza
I stare at the backpack on the ground in front of me. At 85 liters, with every milliliter of it stuffed with about 60 pounds of gear and food, it looks like something that should be lowered by a crane into a container ship rather than attached to a person’s back. If it had legs, teeth, and an appetite for meat, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
In fact, standing at the Sawtooth Pass Trailhead at 7,820 feet in Sequoia National Park, looking up at our imminent ascent to 9,511-foot Timber Gap, I’m thinking the chances that I’ll have an easy time of it are very, very slim. Probably like most parents, before I became a dad I had absolutely no idea how much heavy lifting was involved.
With no small amount of dread, I heft my pack onto one bent knee, slip an arm through a shoulder strap and turn myself until the pack rests heavily on my back. Then I straighten up, feeling like I’ve already surrendered points at the outset of a wrestling match against a formidable opponent. This backpack and I are fated to spend a lot of intimate time together over the next six days.
And of course, this is all my doing.
I wanted to take my kids on their longest backpacking trip to date. I knew they were ready for it, and I liked the idea of exposing them to the shift in mindset that occurs after you’ve been on the trail for more than a few days. But our son, Nate, 12, and our daughter, Alex, 10, still do not carry their full share of gear and food. So I figured our limit was six days. But even with the lightest tents and other gear, fitting some 50 pounds of food inside two adult backpacks required some aggressive shoehorning. My wife, Penny, is carrying the heaviest load she has shouldered in years, and Nate eagerly accepted more than he’s ever carried, including our necessary third bear canister. Still, much of that 50 pounds of food ended up in my pack.
I’ve also been eager to backpack with my family in Sequoia, in the southern High Sierra, home to many of the highest mountains and one of the biggest chunks of contiguous wilderness in the Lower 48—a pristine and incredibly photogenic land of razor peaks and alpine lakes so clear you could stand on the shore and read a book laying open on the lake bottom. Hearing about our plans for a nearly 40-mile loop from the park’s Mineral King area, Penny’s brother, Tom, and his 18-year-old son, Daniel, decided to join us.
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While I’ve thru-hiked the John Muir Trail through this part of the Sierra and explored other corners of it—including a rugged, partly off-trail, 32-mile hike in the John Muir Wilderness—this would be my first deep foray into the backcountry of Sequoia, our second national park (designated 18 years after Yellowstone and a week before Yosemite, although the latter had been protected in 1864 as a public trust of California).
With my burly pack compressing my middle-aged spine, we start hiking at mid-morning in classic High Sierra weather: beneath a cloudless, blue sky, with the temperature in the low 60s and a breeze that’s very possibly saving me from heat exhaustion as we plod up through dozens of switchbacks on a sunbaked mountainside. Still, even in these pleasant conditions, within minutes, sweat pours from my head like a fountain.
Redwood Meadow Grove and Bearpaw Meadow
“I just startled a black bear about a quarter-mile back down the trail,” a backpacker tells us.
It’s late afternoon on our first day, and we’ve pitched tents in a spacious campsite in the forest by Cliff Creek, north of Timber Gap. The backpacker, just passing through, saw the bear on the trail we’ll hike tomorrow morning. It reminds me of what the ranger at the Mineral King ranger station told us when we picked up our permit this morning: This past winter saw the lowest snowfall in recorded history in Sequoia National Park, one fallout of which was less natural food sources for bears this summer—making them particularly aggressive in their pursuit of human food. It’s also a reminder of how climate change is affecting our parks. “Be extra careful,” the ranger had said.
In the afternoon sun, we boys take a bracing dip in pools in fast-flowing and frigid Cliff Creek. After dinner, all six of us play a long match of our new, favorite card game, Wizard. Although everyone’s tired, much yelling and laughing ensues—my family takes games very seriously. As we hit the trail the next morning, Nate and Penny passionately debate hands from last night’s Wizard game.
On our second day, we enter one of the highlights of backpacking in this park: a backcountry grove of giant sequoia trees at Redwood Meadow Grove. We had visited the Giant Forest in the park the day before starting out on this backpacking trip, and it’s majestic—but almost as busy as a shopping mall. Now, as the only people out here, we feel like the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels. Trees stand too tall for us to see their crowns, with trunks so big around that all six of us could not link arms around some of them, and branches as thick as the base of a Douglas fir. In the heart of Redwood Meadow Grove, we stop for lunch at the unoccupied ranger station, lounging in an eclectic variety of old, outdoor chairs left outside the log building.
That evening, another mild and clear one, we pitch our tents without rainflies in the forest of the backpackers camp just below Bearpaw Meadow. Then we walk the short distance to the rocky ledges of the meadow, high above the Middle Fork Kaweah River, to watch the sunset turn the peaks of the Great Western Divide to gold.
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Hamilton Lakes, Precipice Lake
On a trail contouring across the face of a cliff, hundreds of feet above the deep Middle Fork Kaweah River, Alex points at a smooth, waterslide-like groove in the granite across the canyon, where sheer granite walls and spires stab at a cerulean sky. She says to me, “A glacier used to be right there?” I tell her that’s right.
It’s our third morning, and we’re facing our biggest climb of the trip: more than 3,000 feet, spread over 6.4 miles, to 10,700-foot Kaweah Gap. It’s warm but there’s a nice breeze. Most significantly for me, my pack has gotten much lighter—a major relief. My family consumes an impressive volume of food every day, and since I’m carrying much of it, my pack sheds several pounds daily.
By midday, under a hot sun, we reach the largest of the Hamilton Lakes, at 8,235 feet. Everyone needs a break. I start filtering several liters of water while Penny and Tom dig out lunch food and the kids head for the water; before long, we adults join them for a swim. The lake is almost completely enclosed by towering, impassable cliffs and pinnacles, except on its north side, where the High Sierra Trail zigzags up through steep ledges en route to Kaweah Gap—still 2,500 feet above us. [Note: Hamilton Lakes made my list of nicest backcountry campsites I’ve walked past.]
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A bit after 5 p.m., I walk up to the rocky shore of small, oval-shaped Precipice Lake, still 30 minutes below Kaweah Gap. At 10,400 feet, with the nearest tree at least a couple of trail miles below us, the lake’s glassy, green and blue waters sit in a granite bowl, reflecting a white and golden cliff with black water streaks on the opposite shore. A ribbon-like waterfall, originating in a remnant glacier below the north face of 12,040-foot Eagle Scout Peak, pours at least 100 feet down the cliff. I unconsciously mutter, “Wow!” Standing beside me, Tom, who’s backpacked in some spectacular parts of the High Sierra, says, “Yea. Incredible spot.” [Note: Precipice Lake made my list of 25 all-time favorite backcountry campsites.]
Nate had been saying for at least an hour coming up the trail that he would take a swim in Precipice Lake, “although it’s probably going to be pretty frigid.” As we all congregate at the shoreline, he keeps his vow, plunging into the icy waters; then Daniel and I join him. Before long, we reach a unanimous consensus to spend the night here instead of continuing over Kaweah Gap and camping in the Nine Lakes Basin on the other side.
A steady wind rakes the campsite, but it’s beautiful up here. We have a view back down this high valley to the Hamilton Lakes and the row of granite monoliths rising across the valley. High above Precipice Lake, scores of slender spires line up atop a long ridge of Eagle Scout Peak.
While Tom and Daniel and Penny and Alex find flat spots on ledges above the lake for their tents, Nate and I decide to sleep under the stars. We lay our pads and bags out on a flat slab big enough for both of us. Long after dark, the two of us lie in our bags looking up at a sky shot full of stars above the dark silhouettes of peaks.