From PCT mile 922.0 to 937.2 Total: 15.1 miles 8/5
It was the 29th day of my PCT Sierra Section journey, and it was going to be longer than usual, hiking from Garnet Lake on the JMT to rejoin the PCT at Thousand Island Lake, then climbing over lake-filled Island Pass on the way to the main summit of Donohue Pass, which set me up for the even larger descent into lovely Lyell Canyon in Yosemite National Park.
My campsite neighbors last night probably didn’t believe me when I said that I’d be waking up super-early, and I didn’t really want to prove it to them the hard way by waking them up, too. I simply wake up that early every day, typically without an alarm, and proceed with the business of eating and packing my gear. This time, however, I was extra-quiet, because the two older gentlemen who were yakking loudly into the sunset last night, actually managed to keep their voices down after I got up and asked them to. I don’t usually do this (asking folks to shut up), but I had a big day planned and I really wanted to start hiking early. OK, I didn’t actually tell them “Shut up” in those exact words. Instead, I mentioned that I could hear every word they said, that ultralight tent nylon did a poor job of sound insulation, and then I asked them politely whether they would like me to wake them tomorrow morning at 4am. As a service, provided free of charge. This had the desired effect. Interestingly, the couple with the two kids were already being surprisingly quiet, so no issues there. Those two guys obviously weren’t proper PCT hikers, who understand the concept of Hiker Midnight. But they’re learning.
Thus, I was gone like a ghost in the night, with none of my neighbors inconvenienced in any way.
I had about three quarters of a mile of climbing to get out of the Garnet Lake basin, with about 400 feet of elevation gain. Pretty easy, even using the beam of my headlamp for light. What took me the longest was taking all the awesome photos of Garnet Lake in the foreground with the pre-dawn alpenglow lighting up the eastern faces of Mount Ritter and Banner Peak. I’m not going to lie when I say that I love this view. Truly one of the more majestic and inspiring spots in the entire Sierra Nevada. This may be one of the reasons why this is known as the Ansel Adams Wilderness, not that my own humble photography is even remotely on par with his masterpieces. Vicki and I hiked here back in 2021, and those photos were taken during mid-day, if you are interested in seeing more of this area.
A half mile beyond the high point was Ruby Lake, which also was being lit by alpenglow. It was perfectly calm and had great reflections for photography. The only thing missing were some sunrise clouds, but maybe that was good, as clouds in the morning usually portend rain in the afternoon. Or possibly even thunder while I was planning to be on top of a high pass. No thanks!
I looked to see if any trout were rising, like they often do at dawn, but there was nothing happening. My prototype PCT Sierra Trout Fishing Guide (created from sources on the internet, and therefore of questionable veracity) indicated that this lake might be fishless, but might have Rainbow Trout. After this morning, I updated the list to say that I saw nothing whatsoever. I didn’t even get out my fly rod.
There was only a tiny bump separating Ruby Lake from Emerald Lake. The sun had risen by this time, and was lighting the east sides of the granite peaks to the north. Very pretty. Trout-wise, I had a bit more confidence that Emerald Lake was populated by Rainbows, so I went down the shore to try my hand at catching one. I dutifully cast my barbless fly out onto the lake, but I had no confidence. Once again, there was no sign of living fish in this lake. Oh well. I annotated this fact in the list and hiked on.
There was barely even a bump between Emerald Lake and Thousand Island Lake. I headed down the slope toward the crossing of the outflow creek, which became the headwaters of the Middle Fork San Joaquin River, that eventually flowed past the Devil’s Postpile. This was a big lake, and the snowmelt from both Banner Peak and Mount Davis drained into it. The crossing was pretty mellow now that it was August, and I had my choice of methods. One was a rock hop, and the other a partly broken log bridge. I chose the bridge, because bridges are cool.
After that, I left the main trail and headed directly for the fisherman’s path along the shoreline. This lake was well known for its fishing, and had both Brookies and Rainbows in its waters. I got out my ultralight carbon-fiber Tenkara Rod and proceeded to cast at a likely spot, where the water was deep enough, without pesky reeds to snag my hook, and where a rock jutted out into the lake. You could tell by the bent blades of grass that hundreds of fishermen had stood on this very spot. It didn’t take long, and I got a strong hit from a vigorous Rainbow Trout. I brought it in for a photo, then released it unharmed afterward. No photo, no fish, as they say.
I packed up the fly rod and put on my pack. Then I went over to the junction where the PCT re-joined the JMT. Now I was back on the PCT where I belonged. Sorry PCT, no hard feelings, but for the last 14 miles the JMT was better than you. I’ll make it up to you later, after Tuolumne Meadows, when my Summer Fling with the JMT is at an end.
The trail began to climb on its way out of the Thousand Island Lake basin. The views got better as it got higher, and soon I could actually see a lot of the tiny islands. “Thousand Islands” is a bit of an exaggeration, I’m afraid.
While I was up there, I decided to try my phone for signal, as I thought I had line of sight toward Mammoth Peak in the southeast. And I did! I called Vicki right away, and we yakked for quite some time. I told her that I would call her again tomorrow from Tuolumne Meadows, where I knew I had signal. Then I sent out a selfie with the lake to my family and friends. Making people jealous is an important part of any Sierra Trek.
After that morning break, it was time to ascend to the top of Island Pass. This pass doesn’t get mentioned much as it’s relatively low and broad, but I like it because it’s covered in shallow lakes. Photos from up there come out great, especially when Banner and Ritter are in the background. It was so nice I even took a snack break up there.
The trail dropped several hundred feet on its way down to the Rush Creek Valley, where Davis Creek and the waters from the Marie Lakes joined into Rush Creek, which had its headwaters up at Donohue Pass to the north. Rush Creek continued east, downhill through other lakes until it arrived in the June Lakes Basin. There was a trail that followed the creek, but I’ve never been down it. Maybe someday. All that “rushing” water was pretty impressive. Down there at 9600 feet, I was at roughly the same elevation as Garnet Lake, where I started. And now the only way to go was up.
I had about 1400 feet to climb in order to reach Donohue Pass, and a bit less than 3 miles to do it. About a ten percent grade on average, which is typical on the PCT. The reality on the ground is different. Some spots are flat and others are steep. Sometimes I would thank the trail builders and other times I’d curse them, and they’d deserve it, too. Then again, when you follow a creek you have to take whatever the creek dishes out. Luckily for me, one of the flatter spots was in a mellow, grassy area. I even had a chance to catch a small Brook Trout in the creek. I did it while I was letting gravity filter my water for me. Work and play at the same time.
There was a lot of water along this stretch of trail, and the pines were getting thinner with the increased elevation. Vicki and I camped along here back in 2010, nearly fifteen years ago. Not surprisingly, everything seemed largely unchanged. The length of a human life isn’t much compared to the life of mountains, after all.
Once I hiked above 10,500 feet, the pines were almost gone. They lingered along the watercourses that snaked through the wide basin below Donohue Pass, but even then they were stunted thanks to long Winters buried under snow. Eventually they ceased entirely as the trail neared the pass at 11,056 feet. This pass wasn’t as high as the 12k passes like Mather, Pinchot, and Glen, but it was also further north, and had subtly different weather. The trail, meanwhile, was almost entirely made out of stone slabs and stone steps that had been hacked out of the glaciated basin. And the sun was hot, even up here. I paused regularly as I climbed, and took photos whenever I stopped. You don’t want to know just how many pictures I took that aren’t shown here.
When I arrived at Donohue Pass I saw a young couple sitting on the blocky stones on the south side, rather than the top. They were on their phones! That meant cell signal, and when I checked, I had some too. I called Vicki yet again to tell her where I was. She remembered the long climb here, and the descent to the north even more.
Then I hung up and continued onward to the summit. There were the official signs welcoming NOBOs to Yosemite National Park, plus the converse sign welcoming SOBOs into the Ansel Adams Wilderness. The park even listed some official rules, so hikers would have no excuse when they did what hikers often do anyway. These were new, and it was the first time I saw the park ask horse riders to scatter the turds from their stock. They only suggested it, sadly. And I can tell you that I’ve never seen a horse rider do anything except leave stinky turds and urine wherever the horses felt like leaving it. Meanwhile, they contemplated asking humans to pack out their own waste. It would never work, of course, but they think about it anyway. Horses are immune from these rules. At least the humans don’t leave it directly on the trail!
Rules or no rules, I was still happy to be in Yosemite. This park is awesome in so many ways. Getting wilderness permits in the park was always difficult due to restrictive quotas in the face of relentless demand. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve backpacked in the park. Of course, it was also an eight hour drive from San Diego, so the more southern Sierra Nevada has been my go-to hiking region for many years now.
But now I was back. And this time I was going to hike all the way down Lyell Canyon to Tuolumne Meadows, then continue on for days until I reached the northern border of the park. I was pretty excited, as I’ve never gone that far before. New trail and new sights, that would be the hallmark of this final few weeks on the PCT.
On the stony path downhill into Lyell Canyon, I had to descend about 2000 feet over the next three miles, which was quite a bit steeper than usual. I remembered all the stony steps on the way down, and I wasn’t really looking forward to them. But I was looking forward to the views of Lyell Canyon along the way.
Soon, the trail curved around to the left, and Mounts Lyell and McClure came into view. Mount Lyell is the highest point in Yosemite National Park, at 13,114 feet. The Lyell Glacier is now not really a glacier at all, but merely an ice field, as it no longer moves downhill. The snowmelt from this side of the bowl beneath these two mountains is what creates the Lyell Fork of the Tuolumne River, and I would be hiking along that river for close to twenty more miles.
Luckily, the river was still crossable on foot up at this elevation, before it received additional contributions from side creeks pouring into Lyell Canyon. One such crossing is just below Donohue Pass. This year, in August 2024, it was perfectly rock-hoppable, and that’s what I did. I recall one hiker I know who crossed it, waist deep in icy water, in July of 2011, a big snow year. No thanks! Snow conditions like that are why I avoided the Sierra last year, until closer to September 2023, and even then there was too much snow.
The trail continued around a ridge of stone and then I could see the next level down beneath me. The river meandered through a soggy meadow. I could see where a trail crossed it on the far end. A quick check of the Far Out app showed this to be the PCT. So down I hiked on granite steps to the level floor, and headed for the crossing. It looked to be a rock hop, but I got out my hiking stick for balance. On the far side I took a short break to filter another two liters of water. I sat and stared back upstream at the snowfields above and the waterfall bursting out of the talus beneath the previous river crossing. Very nice.
After that, I was officially below treeline. Pines were standing tall all around me as I hiked down the trail. There were steep switchbacks and flat mini-meadows, and the miles went by. I crossed the wooden footbridge for the third and final crossing of the day. Tomorrow there would be another three crossings, all on sturdy bridges, as the river would be quite large by then.
Then came the final steep drop into the main meadow-zone of Lyell Canyon. I could see it down there, with huge grassy fields, and the river meandering back and forth languidly. It was a lovely sight. I wished that I was already there, too. But there was no avoiding the stony trail. When Vicki and I came through in 2010, the trail crews were using gas-powered rock drills to rebuild the trail entirely. It had suffered from erosion and overuse over the previous hundred years and it was time for an upgrade. And I have to say that they made it much more hiker-friendly, with smaller steps instead of giant knee-destroying leaps. By the time I got to the bottom my feet and legs were quite tired, but all in all I approved of the job.
The final part of the day’s hike was through the meadows. The trail descended very gradually, and was flat as far as my legs were concerned. By this time shadows were lengthening, and I hiked in the shade. The views across the canyon were superb. I passed by the spot where Vicki and I camped so long ago, and it brought back fond memories. I wanted to stop right there again, but I also knew that I had to keep going if I was going to maintain my fifteen mile per day regimen. I had to, or I might run out of food!
Even though the river was right next to the trail on more than one occasion, I didn’t even bother to stop to do any trout fishing. This shows how tired I was. My only goal by this time of day was to get to camp. So on I plodded, taking photos of the meadows when they appeared especially lovely, and even when they didn’t. There was more than one big meadow, and soon I had passed two of the largest. The trail remained higher, up near the trees, staying out of the grassy regions. This was done on purpose to protect the fragile meadow ecosystem. In the old days the horses just stomped across the meadow, and the humans followed in their tracks.
By this time, the day seemed like it would never end. My legs and feet were toast. I kept checking the Far Out app to see how far I had to go. First it was 2 miles, then 1, then 0.6, then 0.4, then 0.3, in a terrible mathematical progression that indicated that I would never arrive even after an infinite number of checks.
And then Ireland Creek appeared in front of me! Yes! I read in the app that there were places to camp right across the creek, even though my original plan was to hike an additional 0.1 miles to the main spot near the trail junction. I decided that this last bit was the part of the infinite series that I would truncate.
I found a fine spot among many others. No hikers were present here, which made me happy. But even if there were, the sound of the creek would drown them out. I put down the backpack and got out the tent. It was time to make camp. I got it mostly squared away, then went back to the creek with my water filtration gear and grabbed two more liters. That would be plenty, when added to what I had left. Tomorrow’s water was tomorrow’s problem. Then I sat down on my air mattress and pulled off my shoes. I was done for the day.
I cooked dinner and ate it. I took my evening notes and updated my CalTopo Map to reflect reality. Then I texted Vicki via satellite that all was well. After that, all I had to do was get dressed and go to sleep. Which is exactly what I did.
For a topographic map of the hike see my CalTopo Page
For LOTS more photos of the trek see my Flickr Page
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