Winter Solo

Blast after blast, lightning flashed, and thunder exploded over me. Curled fetal into the punk wood of a downed tree, I tasted a tangy smell. My hair shivered with static. Sleet and wind whipped the quaking trees. I rocked and moaned. 

"You go up there alone. You'll die," the ranger said.

But I wanted to rough it, go light, move fast, and find myself in the wilderness. After all, it was a dry March day in Yosemite National Park.

Winter solo. This was a trip of firsts-a two-week trek into the Sierras. Deep into the big snowy, no programmed survival course for me! I'd shot my mouth off about the joys of backcountry isolation for weeks. Now it was too late to run home.

Why was I wet, cold, aching, scared, and waiting to be zap-fried by lightning? Because I wanted to be a mountain man. A wilderness-worn hard guy in an old 60/40. I imagined the Vibram soles of my new climbing boots run down by a thousand miles of mountain passes and peaks. I saw myself on the high route, a sun-bleached beard covering my shirt pockets. My eyes zen-blue cool above a knowing smile. The type of guy with a low Co-op number and endless stories to tell.

I had no backcountry experience. I shipped camping gear for Sierra Designs in South Berkeley. It was just a job. I knew nothing about backpacking or mountaineering. So I decided to teach myself how to use all the equipment I sent out daily. I'd done a few day trips and some trout fishing. I depended on Colin Fletcher's The Complete Walker for the rest to show me the way.  

It was time to pay my dues. I had the best equipment and armchair experience money could buy. I was ready to teach myself how to snow camp. Unfortunately, I was a newbie about to learn the hard way.

After the lightning passed, I trudged into the sleet and snow. My new boots leaked, hammered my toes, and rubbed silver dollar blisters into my heels. Wind-crusted snow collapsed with each step.  I longed for the new Vermont Tubbs snow shoes I left behind to save weight. Wallowing thigh-deep, I exhausted myself to make a few miles a day.

Eventually, I settled into the routine of solo backpacking. Making camp became a ritual: find a spot by a downed tree, spread a ground cloth, rig the tarp and blow up the air mattress. Soon, the throaty blue glowing hiss of the primus 8R flames up a pot of boiling water. Dinner time! Later, I relax with a hot coco warming my cupped hands, wrapped in my down jacket and 60/40 windbreaker. Bone weary and happy, pulling the down bag over my hips, I let my mind go blank and sink into it all.

Back in Berkeley, I resolved my boondocks diet would have a monastic simplicity. I'd catch trout for my protein, wrap them in tinfoil filled with butter and pepper, and set fish in a campfire! But, instead, after a week of frozen lakes and no fishing, I lived on instant oatmeal, M&M peanuts, brown rice, and a nut-rich mix of crunchy granola. I fantasized about prime rib and dark chocolate, green salads, and pitchers of beer.

Setting up camp after another tough day, I pulled out a wet food bag catching the metallic odor of white gas. I couldn't believe it. The stove leaked into the granola, ruining it all. The granola became kindling.

The endless trudging, loneliness, and lack of calories took a toll. The thin brown and green contour lines on the topo map lost meaning. Instead, I depended on blazed trees to mark the trail to my destination, a lake at the base of Buena Vista Peak. I was flailing through the snow a few hundred yards at a time, searching for the next sap­ obscured mark.

Reaching treeline, I dropped my Kelty DB5 pack against a tall pine with a  wide snow-free well that worked as a camp spot. I took a long drink and thought about the lake where I'd fish and finally eat well. Ahead, I saw snow-packed windswept ridges leading up to what I hoped was Buena Vista Peak. So I decided on a quick scout trip up the nearest ridge. Climbing up over crusty snow, I kept my head down, going into the wind. Light snow stung my eyes. Finally, I crested the ridge. Time to get my bearings. Turning in every direction, I see snow, occasional bare rock, distant mountains, and blue sky. No lakes.

After a long rest, I turned, looking for my back trail. Nothing. My footprints were gone under drifting snow. Suddenly it all looked the same; no blazes, cairns, or tracks. The sun was setting. Snow-covered boulders threw scattered shadows. I didn't see the big pine as I looked down the ridge. I turned and turned, trying to get my bearings.

I was alone and lost.

Panic seeped in. Everything I needed to survive was in my pack. Fear clawed me. Which way to go?

Breathe deep-conquer the fear. I sat on a rock and looked up at the slow sunset colors of the sky. I'd read of lost hikers walking in disoriented circles until they drop. Now I knew why it could happen. When you are lost, all directions are the same.

I was way across the line. Everything was dangerous now. Terror lurked nearby. Alone. Death or survival?

I needed a plan. To avoid walking in circles, I imagined the rock I sat on was the center of an ever-growing series of squares. To step out of the maze, I counted my strides, extending the last leg of the square 100 feet before turning right 90 degrees. Scan the ground. Find my tracks. Repeat.

I walked my squared circle for hours, searching for my bootprints. Moonglow helped. Be careful, don't trip, and don't turn an ankle. I kept looking for the pattern that would save me.

Hypothermia! The first signs are violent, uncontrollable shivering. How do you build a snow cave barehanded? Does rubbing frostbite with snow work? How does thinking twist and fade? The feet freeze first, hands numb. I don't feel my ears. My fingers hardly tingle when I slap my hands. 

The fear faded; no panic now. Just wrestling with a morbid imagination. Thinking of London's "To Build a Fire, " I didn't have a match or flint. But, hey, this isn't the Yukon. But the Sierras could kill you too. I swore at my arrogant stupidity, shouting, " You wanted this fool! This is the test you sought."

Hours now, keep moving, go all night, find the trail in the morning light. Luckily the moon splashed the snow with blue shadows. Are those my tracks? There it is! Down on my knees, I traced the wind-faded pattern with trembling fingers. Stepped into a waffle pattern in the snow, then another. My tracks! Adrenalin cleared my head. Hope puts things in a new perspective. I was going to be OK. I'd never been in any real danger. I stuffed my fears back into their hole. I felt safer.

I paced the tracks for miles before I allowed myself to worry. Are these my tracks? Am I going toward my pack or away? What if I'm walking in circles?

I found my pack at dawn. Tilted against the tree where I'd left it. Home. Striping off my wet clothes, I crawled into my sleeping bag and collapsed into an instant, dreamless sleep.

That afternoon I shouldered my pack and pushed over the ridge. I eventually found Buena Vista  Lake. It was frozen. No fish for me.

I camped by the lake for a long time. I forgot what I looked like. I didn't recognize my voice when it echoed across the frozen lake. Time is slippery. How many days and nights here? Breaking holes in the ice to watch the water refreeze. I  listened to the wind. Then I looked up and realized I would climb my first mountain.

The next morning at sunup, I broke camp, packed my gear, shouldered my pack, and started up Buena Vista Peak. I'd never climbed before. Kicking back up the ridge with a full pack was challenging. But, for the first time in days, I could see across miles of wild space. Reaching the top woke me up. I took out my map and compass, finally able to orient myself. I found the names of the peaks and planned a route to Ostrander Lake, where there was a winter ski hut. 

I navigated cross country to a ridge above0 Ostrander Lake. The water was open! A small section of water was open just below me. A  howling boot glissade brought me to the open spot. Finally, I could use my fishing gear. I cast a tiny Daredevil spoon over the open pool onto a snow ledge. I teased the lure, so it dropped into the shadows. Sinking like a leaf on the breeze, the lure fell from view. With a hit and wrist flick, the rod shivered and bent. The magic first cast! I reeled the fish and flipped healthy brook trout up on the snow beside me. I cast again and caught another. Hunting for food when you are starving was another new experience. 

I gutted and washed the trout, added butter, wrapped them in tin foil, and waited impatiently. After a diet of brown rice and gas-soaked granola, the anticipation was intense. Opening the sizzling foil, I gently tugged the spines out, briefly warming my hands over the miraculous perfect fillets. Ah, that first bite became a lifetime memory.

I slept well that night in the Ostrander ski hut. The next day I fished the sliver of open water and caught breakfast and lunch. Late afternoon I started back, following a well-blazed trail. 

I got to my beat-up F-10 Land Cruiser at dusk. The engine started on the first try, and I eased out as night fell. Driving warm and in motion, I connected again to the concrete threads that stitch the roadmaps together. It was slow going back. Pushing the F-10 above 40 MPH caused the front end to wobble and shake. So it was a long slow drive through the night. I didn't see anyone on the road. I was still alone. It felt like the world had emptied out while I was lost.

As the sun rose, a few miles from home, I glanced out the driver's side window. I saw my first human in two weeks.

He was a tall black man dressed in a leopard-skin toga. The leather straps of his gladiator sandals wrapped up his calves. He held a full-grown cheetah on a leash. 

I was back in Berkeley again.