Back Into the High Sierra: Healing, Hailstorms, and Hard Lessons on the PCT
Kearsarge to Mammoth, June 3-9th
After our flip to Northern California in search of warmer toes and safer terrain, we found ourselves back in Bishop, staring up at the high Sierra with fresh apprehension. Our last encounter with this range had been brutal—frostbite, isolation, and fear. Heading back in was not easy.
We were scared. But we had reunited with our trail family of 10, and together, we were ready.
3 AM Wake-Ups and a Healing Return
We knew what we were walking into—alpine starts, steep climbs, and long days. But this time, from the very first climb, it felt different. The snowpack was drastically reduced, and what snow remained was firmer and more consolidated. There was also dirt— glorious dirt. And we were now equipped with new skills: real experience navigating snowy terrain, handling gear, and trusting our bodies.
Day 1:
On day one, we tackled two passes—Kearsarge and Glen. The climbs were steep and challenging, but manageable. It wasn’t a gimme: our packs were heavy, altitude made it hard to eat, sleep, and breathe, and there were still icy traverses. But it was a notable shift from what we had last experienced out here. We swam in lakes that were no longer frozen solid and felt joy coursing through our sun-warmed bodies. For the first time in weeks I could take in the splendor. The Sierra was giving us a second chance, and we were ready to receive it.
Our strategy was simple: wake before dawn, climb a pass each morning, descend, then hike back up to set up camp just below the next one. In addition to steep and icy climbs, the days included plenty of water crossings, through rushing glacier melt rivers. Every day was brutal. It felt like doing the hardest thing we’d ever done, going to bed, then waking up to do it all over again. We were exhausted. And we were in aw of the whole experience.
Pinchot — a Quiet Beast
Day 2:
Another 3 AM alarm, cold toes, and sleepy footsteps crunching beneath the stars. Pinchot Pass was a long grind— a steep climb that had us working for every step. The views at the top made it all worth it, though: pink light spilling across the snowy peaks, the whole Sierra waking up with us.
We ended the day at the foot of our most anticipated challenge—Mather Pass, a sheer icy wall of switchbacks that’s often compared to “The Wall” in Game of Thrones. We’d heard horror stories: self arrests, broken bones, evacuations. But when we reached the base and could actually see it, we felt a huge shift. There was a clear boot pack and my fear softened with the sight of a visible path. Snow, yes, but also exposed dirt. Doable.
Day 3: Mather Pass
The next morning, we climbed. It was more mental than anything—severe exposure, disorienting views—but I trusted my footing, something I couldn’t say just a few weeks earlier. My confidence made me more stable. It made me safer.
The descent, however, was icier and more nerve wracking. A group of hikers ahead of us froze mid-descent, clinging to their ice axes and inching down face-first. Microspikes don’t offer much on icy slopes. I adjusted my weight forward—counterintuitive but effective—and ran down the slope. Others followed.
Halfway down, several hikers slipped on icy granite. Our friend JLo landed badly on his arm and heard a pop. There weren’t any exit points nearby, and he was determined to push forward. We rigged a sling out of a sit pad and shirt, and everyone helped with small tasks. Later, an X-ray in Mammoth would confirm it was fractured. JLo became our hero of the week—stubborn, brave, and relentlessly optimistic.
The Valley Between: Relief and Euphoria
The stretch between Mather Pass and Muir Pass was my favorite part of the Sierra. After Mather, my whole body exhaled in relief. I swam in three lakes that day. On a sun-warmed boulder, I paused to take it all in. I climbed up and looked around, then screamed into the mountain tops. I was alive, utterly present, and then, suddenly—tears. I sobbed uncontrollably, a full-body release. I couldn’t believe where I was or who I had become. I felt so small, in the best possible way, and so wildly free. It was one of the most expansive and life affirming experiences I’ve ever had.
Muir Pass, Mosquitos, and Mistakes
Day 4:
Then came Muir Pass, and everything started to shift again.
Physically, I was wrecked. Days of effort were catching up with all of us. My hips and feet screamed. I was barely sleeping because of the high altitude and I wasn’t eating enough. When we sat still, mosquitoes attacked relentlessly. We were all exhausted, but kept digging deep and pushing forward.
The day ended in a thunderstorm, and I waited at camp, soaked and itchy, until Doc arrived. We dove into our tent to escape the storm and bugs. Wet and bone tired, we went to bed early.
Group Splintering & Compounding Mistakes
This was the point where our group started to fracture. The combo of exhaustion, rain, and poor communication made for a recipe for separation. Some of us had ducked into camp early. Some left early the next day in the dark and passed us unknowingly. We didn’t even know JLo, Tank, Bombadil and Appleseed were ahead—we thought they were behind, and kept waiting. Meanwhile, they were already pushing toward Mammoth.
Others, like The Jeffer and his two sons, opted for a detour to Vermilion Valley Resort. We had started out as 10 strong and were down to just three—Doc, OG, and me.
Selden Pass – Easier, But Not Easy
Day 5:
Selden Pass was our most “chill” day—but even chill comes with caveats out here. Another early start. Another taxing climb. It was lower in elevation and less snow-covered, and that made it feel almost luxurious. Doc, OG and I moved slowly, had great conversations and soaked in a bit of presence we hadn’t had in a while. It felt like a much-needed breather. The kind that only happens because you know what came before—and what’s still to come.
Silver Pass – And Then the Hail Came
Day 6:
Silver looked simple on paper. But by late afternoon, a spontaneous hailstorm smashed our reality. Doc, OG and I got separated. I was hiking alone as marble-sized hail pummeled me for 30 straight minutes. The trail turned to slush. My hands were numb. By the time Doc and I found each other, I was huddled under a tree, frozen. We hurriedly built our tent, fumbling, exhausted. OG, it turned out, had unknowingly passed us during the storm and camped just ahead.
The Final Blow: A Wrong Turn, Mosquitos and 29 Miles
Day 7:
The next morning we waited for OG, thinking he was behind us, when he was actually just a half mile ahead. Eventually, we left camp, distressed by the further group fracture.
What should’ve been a smooth 12-mile exit to Mammoth and the comforts of town turned into a disaster. After an already late start, we missed a turn, descending a beautifully graded trail… only to realize at the bottom we were way off track. We’d accidentally committed to the Fish Creek alternate, which we hadn’t researched. We were now miles away from our intended route and deep in a tangled, mosquito-infested mess of blowdowns.
We were victims of the sunk cost fallacy—choosing to push forward rather than retrace the thousands of feet we’d just descended.
Our 12-mile day became 29. We bushwhacked for 12–15 miles through overgrowth and deadfall, swatting bugs and losing morale by the minute. When we finally reached Red’s Meadow, we were devastated to learn the road into Mammoth was closed due to construction. No shuttles. No town.
We camped one more night, hungry and defeated. No dinner. No “real bed”. Just exhaustion and silence.
The Morning Rescue
Day 8:
The next morning we road‑walked ten miles to reach a point where our trail friends—already in Mammoth—could come get us.
We had hoped to take a complete “zero” day, but instead we found ourselves hustling through town—laundry, resupply, showers, post office, gear shop—all in one rushed afternoon. After just one night in a real bed, we headed back on trail the next morning to stay on schedule. The next section loomed, full of challenges yet to come. But that’s a story for the next blog.
Closing Thoughts
Seven passes. Seven alpine starts. Eight days of raw effort, awe and transformation.
This week wasn’t just a physical gauntlet—it was a test of communication and endurance. Even the “easy” days asked for everything. We entered nervous and raw. We left stripped down and transformed. Group dynamics cracked under exhaustion and lack of clear planning. A wrong turn and a commitment to a poorly maintained alternate trail turned a 12‑mile exit into a punishing 29‑mile bushwhack.
But also: healing, humility, rebirth. From fear to flow between Mather and Muir—with that miracle day of sublime clarity. Through the crushing reality of JLo’s broken arm, through separation and confusion, through error and entanglement.
The Sierra doesn’t let you pass through unchanged. And I wouldn’t want her to.
Now what?
I’m keen to hear from you:
Have you ever pushed through exhaustion only to regret a decision later on?
What would you do to stay sane when thunderstorms and mosquitoes derail your plans?
What’s a time that changed how you understand your own limits or strengths?
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