Passing Down My Sierra Legacy

Approaching 70, Kathleen Canrinus takes one more backpacking trip with her daughter and her daughter's partner.

Thousand Island Lake. Photo by Michele D'Amico supersky77/Getty Images

My daughter and her partner have asked me to take them on another backpacking trip. I am honored and flattered. My husband says I’m crazy to consider doing such a thing.   

“You’re 70!” he says.

“69, to be exact,” I reply.

I was 64 the first time Laura and Mia asked me to guide them into the back country. “Are you nuts?” he said back then. “You’re almost 70!”

“Not even close,” I said.

I show him photos of our destination, Thousand Island Lake with looming Mount Banner and Mount Ritter in the background. Unmoved by the beauty of the high mountains, he rolls his eyes.  “I’ll train, of course,” I continue. “And maybe the shorter route up Rush Creek will be easier than the longer one I took years ago.”

I point out the trail on the topo map.  “Look, it’s only seven miles instead of fourteen.”

To prepare for backpacking trips to Sierra since I was 60, I’ve lifted weights and taken long hikes in nearby hills. But even five years ago, on the first trip with the girls, I huffed and puffed up steep, rutted trails, lagging far behind my then 20-something mountain goat companions.

His expression remains fixed. Neither of us speaks for a moment.

“Well, I guess it won’t kill you,” he says.

Truth be told, I have my doubts, but I keep them to myself.

To prepare for backpacking trips to Sierra since I was 60, I’ve lifted weights and taken long hikes in nearby hills. But even five years ago, on the first trip with the girls, I huffed and puffed up steep, rutted trails, lagging far behind my then 20-something mountain goat companions.

“Let’s do this again,” the girls had said at the end of that adventure.

“Don’t wait too long,” I warned them.

Flash forward five years.

The day Laura, Mia, and I leave, to put my husband’s mind to rest, I lay out the pleasures of a High Sierra adventure one last time. Although convincing him that this is something worth doing—even at my age—is wishful thinking, I can’t help myself. “Being out there is about slowing down,” I say. “It’s about stretching out on a rock to watch shifting shapes in clouds. It’s about listening to the lapping of an alpine lake, making eye contact with a weasel.”

He tilts his head and squints at me as if I’m deranged. I keep on anyway. “It’s about the satisfaction of paring down necessities to survival level and carrying them on your back and knowing what you’ll be doing every day between sunrise and sunset. It’s about the thrill of arrival after a hard day of hiking.”

“I like the beach,” he says. “My idea of a vacation in the mountains is the Ahwahnee Hotel.”

The drive is long and uneventful until a few miles before Tuolumne Meadows. The first sighting of familiar massive granite formations sends me into a swoon. My stomach does a flip. The car swerves. “Exfoliating granite! Look left!” I call out. The site of it sends shivers of excitement through me.

“Chill, Mom,” Laura says. “Eyes on the road, please.”

The day Laura, Mia, and I leave, to put my husband’s mind to rest, I lay out the pleasures of a High Sierra adventure one last time. Although convincing him that this is something worth doing—even at my age—is wishful thinking, I can’t help myself.

We stop at Olmstead Point and pick out Half Dome in the distance, plus a few named peaks before crossing the big meadow, ascending to Tioga Pass, and then dropping down to the east side of the Sierra. At the Mono Lake Visitor Center, we collect our wilderness permit and three bear canisters. My young companions are anxious to set out immediately. I remind them I need to acclimate to the thin air above 7000 feet and take at least one long conditioning hike. After all, I am almost 70.

We find a campsite a few miles from an “easy” trail to a waterfall. In the morning, we gobble our oatmeal, drive to the trailhead, and set out. As expected, and in spite of my training regimen, Laura and Mia quickly vanish out of sight. During the first mile, oxygen deprivation, the sharp angle of ascent, and a rocky stretch followed by a granite staircase remind me there’s no such thing as an “easy” trail in the Sierra, at least not for me.  Noticeably less steady on my feet, less quick, and less strong than I’d hoped, I stop to fashion a hiking stick out of a sturdy branch. I had forgotten my hiking poles at camp.

The author with her daughter, and her daughter’s partner.

As the waterfall comes into view, rain starts to fall. I step onto a slope of loose stones to get a better look at the cascade. A gust of wind blows my hat off. I grab for it. The rock I’m standing on tilts. My ankle twists. I struggle to stay upright, then topple backwards, slamming into a boulder. With many backcountry adventures behind me, I count on mishaps. Few are serious, but risks abound.

“Are you OK?” Laura and Mia call down from a switchback high above me. “We’re coming.” They descend quickly, but by the time they reach me, I’m on my feet.  No harm done. Nothing broken anyway. But will I be able to carry a pack, or will the trip be over before it begins?

The following morning, we sort through a hundred pounds of supplies. We divvy the food into the bear canisters and stuff them into our packs along with our gear: sleeping bags, pads, a stove, pots, toiletries, warm clothing, rain ponchos, snake bite kit, compass, binoculars, sewing kit, whistles, a first aid kit—something for every eventuality. To my relief, I am able to slip into my pack and take a few pain-free steps.

My young companions are anxious to set out immediately. I remind them I need to acclimate to the thin air above 7000 feet and take at least one long conditioning hike. After all, I am almost 70.

As we heft our packs onto our backs at the trailhead parking lot, I repeat random bits of trail advice to my companions. Drink lots of water. Hike at your own pace. Don’t get cold, especially in the late afternoon.

“Just what are we doing this for?” Laura wonders aloud, shifting uncomfortably under the weight on her back.

“Yeah, why?” Mia echoes, cinching her hip belt tight. 

I ignore their last-minute jitters, preoccupied as I am with thoughts about heart attacks and strokes, breaking a bone, or simply becoming too exhausted to continue.

Should we actually arrive at our destination, I wonder if they will they find the view of the lake and nearby peaks worth fourteen steep uphill miles followed by seven steeper miles down? Now in my seventieth summer, will I?

The first-day’s climb to Agnew Lake and on to Gem Lake is grueling—kickass, as the girls put it. I hike a few yards, pause to catch my breath, hike a few more yards, breathe…hike onward, to a tree, a pointed rock, that purple wildflower. I sit down frequently on flat rocks beside the trail. A favorite haiku becomes my mantra: Oh Snail. Climb Mount Fuji. But slowly, slowly.

My trail buddies climb steadily. After catching up to them twice when they wait for me, I urge them to go on ahead, just not past any trail junctions. Fit as they are, hauling thirty-pound packs up 1700 feet on miles of hot exposed trails takes a toll on them. The sun is dropping toward the ridges west of Gem Lake when I come upon them collapsed by the side of the trail. I flop down too, and we pull out the topo map and trail guide.

“Fuck,” I say, pointing at the distance markers. “Two-point-eight more miles!!!“

They burst out laughing. We each have no more than a hundred steps total left in us.  We will not make it to the “good” campsites the trial guide tells us are at the end of this long lake. 

A gust of wind blows my hat off. I grab for it. The rock I’m standing on tilts. My ankle twists. I struggle to stay upright, then topple backwards, slamming into a boulder. With many backcountry adventures behind me, I count on mishaps. Few are serious, but risks abound.

Luckily, Laura spots a large level area with a fire pit nearby. Even luckier, we don’t notice the sign that reads “Day Use Only” until after we pitch the tents, set out the pot and stove, and Mia’s clambering up from the lake with a gallon and a half of filtered water.  We aren’t budging. As penance for breaking the rules, we’ll pack out litter from this overused picnic site.

With backpacks and boots off, recovery is surprisingly quick. We feel light enough to float. With the hiking day behind us, our spirits rise. Miso soup is almost ready. Although anything we put into our mouths will taste like the best thing we’ve ever eaten, I’ve planned a special dinner. We guzzle quarts of water with our sausages and mashed potatoes. Dessert is a dehydrated crème brulee in honor of my daughter’s 31st birthday. “Awesome,” Mia sighs.

The next morning, we tramp through lush damp meadows that breathe out moldy smells spiced with wildflower, and then through forests of lodge pole, cedar, and hemlock. We follow backcountry protocol and stand to the side of the trail to let mule trains pass. “Having a nice hike?” a wrangler asks, tipping his hat. At ten miles in and ten thousand feet up, I can barely manage a nod and a wave.

With Laura and Mia, conversation is mostly limited to decisions about our route, possible camping or resting spots, and chore assignments. I save my energy for just making it up the trail. My role is silent facilitator of their experience among the wonders of the high country.

Step by step throughout the afternoon, we ascend above the tree line to within sight of the jagged grey giants near Thousand Island Lake, still one night away. At this altitude, color has leached out of the landscape except for an intense blue backdrop of sky. Toward four o’clock, we reach the John Muir Trail and head south, keeping our eyes peeled for a good spot to camp. At a turnoff to a small lake, we discuss the pros of a site by water but opt not to walk the extra two miles. Instead, we set up our tents near the trail.

We eat our evening meal at dusk—miso soup, alpine spaghetti, and crumbled chocolate chip cookies. After washing the dishes, we store food, trash, and everything with scent in our bear-proof canisters, set them well away from our tents, and turn in. “Good night,” the girls call.

The first-day’s climb to Agnew Lake and on to Gem Lake is grueling—kickass, as the girls put it. I hike a few yards, pause to catch my breath, hike a few more yards, breathe…hike onward, to a tree, a pointed rock, that purple wildflower. I sit down frequently on flat rocks beside the trail.

“Sleep well,” I say. Once I’m tucked in my sleeping bag, I place my hands over my heart and check for a strong, slow, regular beat. Tentatively drawing my knees up to my chin, I hug them to me until I feel a stretch in my lower back. So far, so good. When the stars appear, I open the tent flap and watch for meteors. At altitude, sleep eludes me. So as the constellations move across the sky, I shift from side to side on my air mattress, restless, impatient for morning light and for the next hiking day to begin.

By midmorning the next day, we reach a viewpoint above Thousand Island Lake and pause for water and an energy bar. Laura and Mia shoot many photos of the miles-long, rock-dotted, alpine lake while I chat with hikers doing the entire 150-mile JMT.  

The lake’s setting makes it a popular destination for backpackers and therefore bears. So we decide to reject our trail guide’s recommendation to spend the night and move on toward the less popular Clark Lakes a few miles away. “From there, we’ll be only five miles from our car,” I say.

“See you there,” the girls say.

At a trail junction, I stop to talk to a white-haired hiker. He tells me he’s been coming to the mountains for forty years and plans to come on horseback when he can’t walk anymore. His younger companion offers that he has never backpacked, and that hiking to Thousand Island Lake is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

It may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done too. Given this, my love of the high Sierra is difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t hear the mountains calling—my beach-loving husband, for example. To get here requires planning, work, and effort. Breathing is difficult at high altitudes, and everything takes longer. The ground is uncomfortable, and there are no level surfaces. But for those of us who return many times, the gifts override the hardships. I keep to myself a theory that life in the high country stirs cumulative memories passed to us through our DNA from our hunter-gatherer ancestors. Nor do I reveal that I consider the bristle cone pines and the mountains kin. That they have survived many winters inspires and comforts me.

Compared to their lifetimes, mine is short, the past disappearing at warp speed.

Like the old man on the trail, I know that my backpacking days will come to an end. There will be a last time for them as for everything. This awareness sharpens my senses. I savor the climbs that leave me breathless, the weight on my back, and even the blister on my big toe. In my imagination, I film rocky slopes along the trail, memorize the greens, blues, black, and silver of lake and stream waters, their shivery chill, the arrangements of logs and boulders at our campsites, the smear of the Milky Way across the inky night sky. Mentally, I record the burble of the stream where I soak my feet and the sound of the wind in the trees at night.

One step and then another. Up, up. Breathe in, breathe out. Stop. Rest. “Climb Mount Fuji…” At my snail’s pace, I ascend to an unnamed pass before the steep descent to the Clark Lakes.

At a trail junction, I stop to talk to a white-haired hiker. He tells me he’s been coming to the mountains for forty years and plans to come on horseback when he can’t walk anymore. His younger companion offers that he has never backpacked, and that hiking to Thousand Island Lake is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

By the time I catch up with my companions at our destination, an urge to push on past the lakes is upon me. I tell the girls not to unpack, that I am going for a swim, and after, we’ll talk about what to do. But as soon as we figure out the trail ahead drops three thousand feet in five miles—even mules can’t use it—we agree the only sane decision is to tackle the narrow switchbacks when we’re fresh.

That night, anxiety about the next day’s hike interferes with my stargazing. Although I love the mountains, I don’t really like heights. Steep I can do; steep and narrow I can do, but steep and narrow with a drop-off paralyzes me. I take deep breaths, exhale slowly, and reassure myself that the odds I’ll make it down and out are in my favor.  

At the end of a night as still as any in memory, I awake to the sound of one duck quacking. I slip out of the tent to watch the coming of the light, listen for fish jumping, and scan a volcanic cliff for the face my daughter pointed out the previous evening.  To her, it resembled a frowning Cyclops. This morning, his expression is benign and even optimistic.

Breaking camp takes two hours. Then slowly, slowly, I zigzag down the mountain, my boots at the level of the girls’ heads until they pull ahead. Two teenage boys approaching from below stop and greet me. “Been referred to you by your daughter,” one says, pointing down the steep hillside. 

“For matches,” the other adds. 

Because I once had to ration matches on a trip, I’m carrying an entire box with me. I insist the boys take more than they’ll use during their one remaining night in the backcountry.

“Have you ever started a fire with a bow?” one boy asks.

When I tell them that I have indeed used a bow to start a fire, they are not surprised and ask for details. The mountains are a great leveler. Out there, no one makes assumptions based on age. The boys show me the short, crooked branch they tried to make into a fire bow. “We got smoke,” they share with some pride.

We wish each other well, and they walk on. In the distance, I spot the lake near the trailhead parking lot. I’m going to make it back. But I’m also leaving the mountains for maybe the last time.  With a mix of relief, regret, and elation, I lengthen my poles, plant them ahead of me, and proceed downhill.

It may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done too. Given this, my love of the high Sierra is difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t hear the mountains calling—my beach-loving husband, for example. To get here requires planning, work, and effort. Breathing is difficult at high altitudes, and everything takes longer. The ground is uncomfortable, and there are no level surfaces.

Laura and Mia are accustomed to arriving at our meet-up spots up to an hour before me. “You rock,” Laura shouts as I approach the car. Mia tells me they’d arrived only ten minutes earlier.

“My dogs are barking,” I say.

They look at me puzzled, so I translate. “This means my feet hurt.”

Shoving my pack into the back of the car, I tell them they are the queens of the mountains. “You never complained no matter how difficult the trail, how long the day, or how tired or uncomfortable you were.”

“If we are the queens,” Mia says, “then you are the empress.” 

Laura bows. I shrug off the compliment and attempt to tell them how much their request to take them backpacking meant to me, how honored I am, how flattered. I consider apologizing for the hardships of a trail I thought would be easier, and telling them how relieved I am to be safely back. Instead, I slide into the driver’s seat and point the car in the direction of our favorite east side deli. It feels odd not to be walking.

The girls are silent on the drive. Are they retracing the kickass ascent to Agnew Lake or recalling an image of glittering Thousand Island Lake? Taking them to the High Sierra is part of my legacy, a direct deposit to their memory banks. But I don’t control what they’ll take away from the experience. Will they be drawn to the mountains again and again, or settle for the memories of our two trips together and never take another?

For the moment, we’ll toast our safe return with pink lemonade, and I’ll content myself with daydreams of my next summer in the Sierra.