I am lost, I am no guide.
But I’m by your side.
I am right by your side…
There is something about leaving the Bay Area in the evening, driving into the Sierra, and knowing that by morning you’ll be somewhere completely different. I have turned this into a habit, as by leaving in the evening, I avoid all the Yosemite traffic. I left the Bay Area in the evening and made my way up Highway 120, eventually arriving in Lee Vining around 11 p.m. I pulled into my usual overnight spot at the Whoa Nellie Deli, cracked open a cold Pliny the Elder, and climbed into the back of my Bronco.
I woke up around 6 a.m., watched the sun rise over Mono Lake, climbed out of the Bronco, and started getting my gear together. Before heading into Yosemite, I stopped at Whoa Nellie Deli for what has become something of a pre-backpacking tradition: a pesto and lox bagel, a large Americano, and a roast beef sandwich to carry with me for lunch.
I made it to the Tuolumne Meadows Ranger Station for my 8 a.m. meeting. When I pulled my permit, the ranger looked at my address and recognized the street. Then came the coincidence: his grandmother lives two doors down from me. Of all the places and all the people I could have encountered in the Sierra that morning, I somehow ended up talking to a ranger whose grandmother is practically my neighbor. Small world.
By 8:45, I was parked, geared up, and ready to go. I had brought along another Pliny for later, so I did what any responsible backpacker would do: I hid it in the bushes near the trailhead. Priorities, DUH! Then I shouldered my pack and started walking.
The first part of the hike was familiar territory. The John Muir Trail was in excellent condition and very well maintained. I passed numerous day hikers heading toward Cathedral Lakes, and I ended up having a lot of small, pleasant conversations along the way. That’s one of the things I enjoy about hiking. You can pass someone on a trail you’ve never met before, exchange a few words about where you’re going or where you’ve been, and then continue on your separate ways. There’s something simple and genuine about those interactions.
Eventually, I made it to Upper Cathedral Lake. I walked over to the south shore, took off my pack, and sat down for lunch. The roast beef sandwich came out, and so did the view. Cathedral Peaks rose above the lake, and for a while I just sat there taking it all in. I had been moving steadily all morning, and this was the perfect place to stop. After about an hour, I put my pack back on. It was time to leave the crowds behind.
I climbed quickly toward Cathedral Pass. The pass was my landmark. This was where I would leave the John Muir Trail and head cross-country to the southeast. And that’s when the character of the hike changed.
I dropped down through a muddy bog and into the forest. I eventually picked up a primitive use trail, and for the most part it led me toward Echo Lake. Echo Lake was beautiful, framed by Echo Peaks to the northeast and Tressider Peaks to the southwest. But Echo Lake was also the last real sign of a trail. From there, I was on my own. No trail. No obvious route. Just a map, my navigation skills, and a general idea of where I needed to go.
And the terrain was not exactly cooperative. At times I found myself surrounded by impassable boulders. Other times I was trying to find a way through trees that seemed determined to make sure I couldn’t fit between them. Then came the talus—large fields of granite, some solid and stable, some decidedly not. I hopped from boulder to boulder, constantly evaluating each step before committing my weight.
The sun was warm. I was getting tired. And eventually, I drank the last of my water. I looked up. I was close to quitting and turning around, but I wasn’t going to admit defeat just yet. About 250 feet above me was the ridge I needed to reach. I knew that if I could gain that ridge, I was probably home free. So I climbed. The south terminus of the Matthes Crest rose above me, and the route took me up polished granite. It looked intimidating from below, but once I started climbing, I made surprisingly quick work of it. Then, suddenly, the terrain leveled out.
I walked through scattered dwarf pine trees. A few more steps, and then I saw it. Matthes Lake and above it rose the Matthes Crest and Cockscomb to the north. It was perfect. I had wanted to explore this area for a long time. It had been sitting high on my Sierra Nevada bucket list, one of those places I’d thought about visiting but hadn’t yet managed to reach. And now I was standing there.
There are moments in the wilderness when a place exceeds the picture you had created in your head. This was one of those moments. I pulled out my phone and sent my girlfriend a message on Messenger that simply read, “I MADE IT. It’s beautiful beyond words.”
Of course, arriving at Matthes Lake was only half the problem. Now I needed somewhere to sleep. I walked around the entire lake looking for a designated campsite. Nothing. Not one. I couldn’t make out a single established campsite. And that told me something: this place doesn’t get visited very often. I eventually found a flat spot in a meadow along the south shore and decided it would do. I set up my tent, dropped my pack, and finally allowed myself to slow down. Then I walked down to the water. After the heat, the talus, the bushwhacking, and the climb, getting cleaned up in that cold Sierra water felt incredible. And, more importantly, I could finally drink. I filtered a lot of water.
Dinner was my usual first night dinner: pepperoni quesadillas. Dessert was cheddar cheese popcorn. And then it hit me. Since leaving the trail around 1 p.m., I hadn’t seen another person. Not one. And that would remain true for another 24 hours.
I was completely alone in the Yosemite backcountry in the middle of August. How rare is that?
Yosemite is one of the most visited places in the country. I was talking to a ranger a few trips ago and he told me that Yosemite sees over 60,000 backcountry visitors a year. Millions of people come here every year. But somewhere beyond the well-traveled paths, beyond Cathedral Lakes, beyond the JMT and beyond the places most visitors ever see, there are still corners of Yosemite where you can sit beside a lake and hear absolutely nothing. I am addicted to finding these spots.
Eventually, I crawled into my tent. After the long day, I slept surprisingly well. I had made it to a place I’d wanted to visit for a long time, and for the next several hours, the lake and the mountains were mine alone.
And after a long day of navigating through terrain that seemed determined to keep me out, that feeling was worth every step.
Day one was over, and I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I woke up the next morning, unzipped my tent, and was once again amazed by the massive granite wall of Matthes Crest towering above me. There is something pretty special about waking up in the wilderness and having a view like that waiting for you before you’ve even gotten out of your sleeping bag.
I slowly got up and started the day with a new breakfast: Angry Pika Caramel Apple Granola and Verve coffee. The granola was actually pretty solid. I’d give it a 3.5 out of 5, which says a lot because I generally don’t like eating on the trail. For whatever reason, my stomach seems to shut down when I’m backpacking, and eating becomes a chore, even when the food is supposed to be delicious. So, for me to give a trail breakfast a 3.5 is a pretty strong endorsement.
I was awake before the sun crested Matthes Crest to the east. Once the sun appeared, however, it got hot quickly. Thankfully, the area was completely bug-free, so I took off my shirt and slowly started breaking down camp. There was no reason to rush.
I had spent the night in one of the most beautiful places I’d ever camped, and I wanted to enjoy those last few minutes. Eventually, I was dressed, packed, and back on the trail.
I decided to try an alternate route back toward Echo Lake. My persistence paid off. By staying lower than I had the day before, I was able to avoid many of the obstacles that had slowed me down on the way in. I even found a small use trail that lasted for a couple hundred yards and deposited me almost directly at the south end of Echo Lake. As I approached the lake, I noticed a Big Agnes Copper Spur tent tucked into the rocks. I didn’t see anyone around, so I made my way down to the water, drank, filtered some more, and relaxed for a while. A duck and two babies were swimming along the shoreline, and somewhere high above me I could hear a couple of climbers working their way up the west wall of Matthes Crest. It was peaceful.
After about an hour, I packed up and went looking for the use trail I’d found the previous day. Once I found it, I made great time. Eventually, I gained a ridge and suddenly saw a pack train coming northbound on the JMT—about ten horses making their way along the trail.
I knew I was close. A few more steps and I was back on the JMT. My cross country adventure was over with and a success. Besides some scrapes to my legs and an errant tree branch swiping away my cheap reader eyeglasses, I was unscathed.
I retraced my route over Cathedral Pass and headed down past Upper Cathedral Lake. I’d never seen Lower Cathedral Lake, and I had decided that this would be my second night. I’d spoken with a couple of backpackers who told me it wasn’t crowded and that there was plenty of space. I wasn’t particularly excited about Lower Cathedral Lake. I know it’s gorgeous, but to me, I envisioned a lot of tourists and day hikers. The kind of people I try to avoid at all costs. It wasn’t exactly high on my list of places I was dying to see. But I’d never been there, and eventually it would have to get checked off the bucket list. So why not now?
I made my way down to the lake and found an amazing, legal campsite set back in the trees with a view of the lake in the distance. It was exactly the kind of campsite I like privately, tucked away, and with just enough of a view to remind you where you are.
I walked down to the lake, cleaned up, filtered some water, and ate lunch: salami, cheese, and a tortilla. Then I went back to camp, sat on a rock, and relaxed. At one point, I even dozed off. It was warm, so I changed into a short-sleeved camp shirt and just soaked in the moment. All was well.
Throughout the afternoon, I watched a lot of backpackers walk past my campsite. Several would stop and look at the site next to mine, clearly considering it. But, to their credit, they seemed to notice that I was tucked away and wanted some privacy, so they kept moving. I appreciated that.
For dinner, I decided to try something I normally wouldn’t take backpacking. I generally don’t eat dehydrated or freeze-dried dinners, but I had pulled this one out of my food box at home because it gets great reviews: Pinnacle Foods Italian Sausage and Zesty Tomato Pasta. I added some Yellowbird Blue Agave Sriracha sauce and was genuinely amazed at how good it was. I probably added too much water, but even so, it was damn good. Maybe top two or three freeze dried dinners I’ve ever eaten. . For dessert, I pulled out a Twix and some almonds.
Then I climbed into bed.
I’d been really enjoying an Audible book, Total F**ing Godhead*, the biography of Chris Cornell, so I put my headphones on and continued listening. Around 10 p.m., I took my headphones off and immediately noticed that I could hear people nearby. Close. Too close. I looked outside and realized the campsite immediately next to me—the one that had been empty all afternoon—was now occupied. To their credit, they were quiet and weren’t doing anything wrong. But I wasn’t happy. I was starting to feel like I’d accidentally camped at Little Yosemite Valley.
I eventually fell asleep, but around 11:30 p.m., I was jolted awake by a loud roar. At first, I wasn’t quite sure what it was. I was still half asleep, trying to figure out what had pulled me out of my sleep. Then I realized it: someone was snoring. Ugh. It was awful. The snoring continued until around 12:45, when I finally managed to drift back to sleep.
About 30 minutes later, I woke up again. This time it was a baby screaming. Earlier that evening, I’d seen a group of four wander into camp. One of the women had a baby strapped to her backpack. That baby was now letting everyone in the vicinity know exactly how unhappy it was. The screaming seemed to go on forever. Eventually, I managed to fall back asleep.
Then 6 a.m. arrived.
I woke up to the sound of my close-quartered neighbor unzipping his tent. That was it. I got out, gave them a look of disgust, and quickly packed up. I was on the trail by 7 a.m. The stillness of the lake was perfect.
And somehow, it got worse.
Within five minutes of leaving camp, I passed two separate tents that had been pitched within inches of the lakeshore. Then, shortly after that, I came upon someone who looked absolutely startled to see me. He was taking a shit. I stopped and yelled, “Whoa, bro, what are you doing?” He quickly apologized and said he didn’t realize the trail was right there. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be disgusted. Mostly disgusted. At that point, I was done. I couldn’t wait to leave.
I started back up the use trail toward the JMT and began the final four miles back to my car. And something strange happened. The JMT was completely empty. This is the same trail I’d walked a couple of days earlier with numerous day hikers and backpackers. The JMT is practically a highway of hikers through this part of Yosemite. But now, nothing. Four miles of complete silence.
I didn’t see another person until I was about a mile from my car. Then I ran into a backcountry ranger I’d spoken with two days earlier—the same ranger who had given me some advice about the scramble to Matthes Lake. I stopped on the trail and talked with her and her partner for a good 15 minutes. They were out doing trail work. I thanked them for what they were doing. I know firsthand how hard and thankless trail work can be. I worked as a park ranger for four years when I was in college, and maintaining trails is not easy work. It’s physically demanding, often dirty, and most people who use the trails never give a second thought to the people who keep them open. They deserve a lot of credit.
A short time later, I reached my car. I found the Pliny I’d stashed in the bushes two days earlier, and at 9:30 a.m., I cracked it open. It was an amazing cold beer. I changed out of my gross backpacking clothes, threw on some clean ones, and headed back toward civilization.
By noon, I was parked at 1850 in Mariposa, ordering a burger, fries, and a Diet Pepsi.
