GUNDELBERG EXPLORES THE SIERRA NEVADA

LeConte Divide?

My first serious backpacking occurred in the Sierra Nevada (California), in the years around 1960.  I loved the fact that, once above tree-line and armed with a good topographic map (and the ability to read it) you could ignore formal trails and plot your way from here to there in the almost certain knowledge that the route would work.  There is nothing like glaciated crystalline rock (granitics, high-grade metamorphics) to set you free!

Gundelberg (Bob Keller), on the other hand, had cut his backpacking teeth on relatively short mountains that were distressingly vertical.  These mountains – the North Cascades – were smothered in healthy, dense, impenetrable vegetation to timberline, above which they were frighteningly steep, rugged and covered in ice.

To put the contrast simply: getting around in the Sierra Nevada required a map and a good pair of boots, whereas in the North Cascades it required that, plus a trail system and climbing equipment.

Keller once told me that he enjoyed nothing so much as hiking Sierra “mountaineers” into the ground.  As he couldn’t do that to me, he conceived a desire to see just what the Sierra had to offer.  And so, we planned a trip.

Another Gundelbergian fact you might not know is that he loathed automobiles.  (He was once severely admonished by the law for punching a moving car.)  From Bellingham to the Sierra is at least 1000 miles, and that was simply too far for Bob.  And so we took the bus to Reno, and then hitch-hiked on down!  It took a long time but, hell, it was summer and we were college professors.

I am shaky on the geography of that trip so I will be vague.  We “went in” from the east, crossed the range by – I believe – LeConte Divide, then hiked northward along some trail system, crossed back over (Bishop Pass?) and descended to civilization.  The mountain part of the trip took about a week

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Sierra scenery - maybe Evolution Basin

I sometimes speculate that the only thing that prevented Keller from being a Himalayan expedition climber was physiology; he had a terrible time adapting to high elevations.  At about 10,000 ft. he invariably got sick.  LeConte Divide is, perhaps, 12,000 ft.  The upshot was that we spent a day camped near the top of the range; me fishing the nearby streams, Bob prostrate in his tent, moaning and burping up little globs of vomit.  I would check on him now and then, bringing him water and more food to vomit.  He was still so weak the next day that I was forced to ferry both packs over the col, while Bob crept across, not smiling.

The thing was, 10,000 ft. stopped Bob in his tracks – but only for a day or so.  Once he recovered he was fine, and could scramble about as if he were at sea level.  We hiked together in Wyoming many times later, and we learned to include a down day in our plans.

After that the trip went smoothly, and Bob enjoyed it – until the trip home.

Obviously, we had to hitch back to Reno, to catch the bus.  It took several days, and multiple rides.  Our dirt-smeared persons, ratty packs, stubble birds, and ice axes repelled normal drivers.  The only people that would give us a lift were fellow back packers – or drunks.  We encountered one of the latter and, in something like desperation, hopped in. 

It was two women, mother and daughter, in a pick-up truck.  We were in the back, with our gear.  The two ladies apparently lived out in the boonies, somewhere SE of Reno.  Apparently they had picked us up out of kindness; we received no invitations to stay overnight.  Hardly surprising, in view of how we must have smelled.  Anyway, we noticed that we were passing an awful lot of traffic.  Also, we seemed to weave back and forth more than seemed necessary.  The reason became apparent when the younger lady slid open a small door to the cab, stuck through a whiskey bottle, and asked us if we wanted a drink!  Thereafter she kept the door open and wanted to talk.  Every so often she would offer the bottle to her mother, take a swig herself, and then pass it to me.  I felt obligated to drink a bit; that had the twin benefits of emptying the bottle quickly, thus perhaps saving our lives, and also rendering me less afraid of death.

Bob, meanwhile, pretended to be asleep.

Well, as should be obvious, we survived.  We made it to Reno that night, bought showers at a trailer park, and caught the next bus north.

The upshot?  Neither of us ever again proposed  the Sierra Nevada for an adventure, and Bob never again suggested we hitch-hike, anywhere.