Just sittin' here 3 feet, no, 5 feet from the shore of Little Claire (thats the lake's name). I'm munching on a peanut butter Clif Bar after eating the entire 2 serving bag of dehydrated beef pasta. I think the pasta alone gave me 95% of my daily sodium, or so says the nutrition facts.

This morning started with a growl, literally. I woke up to a growling that was repeating over and over. It sounded like it was 100 or so meters away. I grabbed my knife (like that would help, hah), threw on my clothes and carefully went outside. I could tell where it was coming from, so I slowly and circuitously made my way towards it, but the sound eventually ceased. I never saw what it was. Most likely a bear, maybe a strange sounding marmot or very big sounding bird. Do deer make noises? All was well, but it just scared the crap outta me. I made breakfast and packed up. Surprisingly, this felt like it took well over and hour with tons of miscellaneous tasks. I think with more experience I'll learn to do things in a better order, become more efficient. I started the hike very strong, but the trail fought back hard. First 2 miles from Franklin lakes to Franklin Pass were from 10,300 ft to 11,600 ft. The trail head, where I started about 30 hours ago, is at 7,800 feet. Ever tried hiking above 10,000 feet, up hill, with a 45 lb pack on your back because you're an amateur backpacker who doesn't know how to pack properly? I managed to feel good through the climb.

Then I saw snow, 4-5 feet deep. Snow on a lake, actually floating on the lake! Then the descent started. First an unmarked fork in the trail. Had to stop, bust out the map and compass only to realize I'm no better than the average Joe at using a map and compass. Seems simple, but its a little harder than one might think. Thats why they have classes in the subject, I suppose. Luckily I made an educated guess that turned out to be correct. After some more hiking, my toe got a hot feeling spot. Had to stop and tape it up. Tape worked wonders though. Thanks random REI employee for your great suggestion!

Ok, sun is setting as I write this. I am going to stare at the jumping trout (literally every 15-30 seconds a trout jumps far enough our of the water for me to see at least its head, if not its whole body) for a few minutes, then I'll return to writing in my tent.

I just awoke from a semi-unplanned evening nap. In the late afternoon, I ate dinner, got everything outside my tent prepared (moved the bear proof container about 100 ft away from the tent, etc). Then I lied down on top of my sleeping pad, having just stuffed myself with food, fully clothed, my sleeping bag jumbled up next to my feet. Then all of the sudden, it was dark. I must have fallen asleep for a while. I have no idea how long. Oh well. I wanted to have a night where I could stay up a little later than normal and stare at the stars. I guess that night will be tonight, if the skies stay clear.

This morning, which seems like ages ago, I awoke bright and early...oatmeal...breakcamp and hit the trail. Immediately it was a steep descent of about 800 feet on switchbacks. Near the bottom, as I have come to learn is usually the case, there was a creek. I didn't want to get my feet soaking wet like the first day, so I assumed I'd find a few large rocks or a log and get across. After looking for about 15 minutes upstream, I spent another 15 minutes looking downstream. Nothing panned out, no rock paths or logs to help me cross. I was dumbfounded. I am so used to a world of man dominating nature, how could this creek stop me? At this point 2 guys come along, ask me if I have any ideas. I saw "no, other than just walking through it". The solution then occurs to me. I switch from my boots and socks to my sandals, saving my feet from becoming waterlogged and blistered. I set down my pack, changed, tied my shoes on my pack, found a stick to help stabilize me, and cross. I opted for a part of the stream that was about 12' wide and 8" deep with a sandy bottom, as opposed to a rocky bottom that is 6' wide and 16" deep. My two makeshift comrades opted for the rocky deeper waters. I realized as soon as one foot was in, this water is moving fast. I also immediately realized its cold, which I expected having seen the melting snow all around the past 2 days. Feeling the fast moving water trying to yank the sandals of my feet, I assume a stance facing at a 45 degree angle to the flow of the water, sort of sidestepping my way across. About 2/3 of the way across, I concluded I'd better not dilly dally, lest my feet go from refreshingly cool to painfully cold. After a brief chat with the two other river forders, I'm on my way. I can tell I'm making quick time on this gradual descent, my trail usually a stones throw from Soda Creek, with mountains on either side. Eventually the trail turns left, and starts heading up one of the mountain sides. I wonder how heading up a mountain is going to lead me to the bottom of Lost Canyon, which contains lost canyon creek...Canyons and Creek generally don't exist on mountain tops. After having left Soda Creek, and ascended a few hundred feet, I begin to hear a new creek getting louder and louder. This was no surprise. The topo map shows it. But its always exciting when real life matches the abstraction of reality that is commonly known as a map (especially when there are no roads involved). I see the creek, just some white through the trees a hundred or so feet away. I'm used to creeks having an almost imperceptible angle of decline. With the exception of maybe some small water falls, or a log making a 18" drop, I usually look at the direction of water flow, and then infer the direction that is "down hill". But not here. I know (anyone would) which was is down, and its steep. What does a creek look like if its so steep, I wonder? Maybe like Splash Mountain at Disney Land. I approach the creek, getting closer. Awesome, thats what it looks like. It really does look like Spash Mountain, just as steep, only much much longer...as far as the eye could see (through a forest, at least). Loud and powerful, truly an awesome sight.

Anyways, I eventually came to the top (though I was still in a canyon, but this canyon fed into the other canyon I just climbed out of). Had to cross another river. Saw an older couple who told me where I could hop across rocks without getting wet. It really is a scary endeavor, hopping across rocks knowing that if my foot slips it will go to the rocky uneven bottom below the water, all the while a 45 lb pack throws your inertia in all the wrong ways. I'm sure many 'a ankle have been twisted barreling down to the bottom of shallow creeks.

Eventually I had to do the sandal crossing thing 2 more times. Water was even colder, probably because I was getting closer to where the snow was actually melting. Fast flowing cold water up to your knees bites into you. It bites like a thousand tiny vice grips trying to rip your bones from your flesh. Moving right along...

I got tired, entered a beautiful green valley and crossed tributary after tributary, watched the creek slowly shrink as there is less and less water feeding into it. Where I am camped right now, the creek is only 3' to 4' wide and maybe 8" or a foot deep. Its also not flowing so fast. I've wondered since I was a child "Just how exactly does a river start". I know it generally came from melting snow. I mean, I knew it intellectually. But what did it really look like? When snow melts, its like a drop every few seconds. I know you have square miles of snow, and that makes millions of drop every few seconds. And millions of drops per second is (probably) the same flow rate as a creek. But I just wondered, if I followed a creek up steam all the way, how exactly will it get smaller. When will I all the sudden realize its not a creek, but just some damp soil, flowing almost imperceptibly?

Worrying that I'd walked past the "good camping spots", I still managed to find a nice place to set camp, after a brief rain that made me realize I should keep an eye on the clouds. I then decided it would be cool to try to melt some snow for water, rather than using the creek. A few hundred meter escapade up the mountain side, and I was at a large deep patch of snow. The top of the mountain was all granite. I couldn't exactly see the top of the mountain, all I could see was this almost vertical face. This face had cracks running down it, making distinct partitions in the rock. Yet, the overall face had this quality of "togetherness", paying homage to the fact that the entire granite mountain was forged as one, millions of years ago. At the base of that face was my sought after snow patch, and then a few hundred meters of nothing but chunks of granite rock. Big ones, little ones, all different shapes. It looked as though some giant creature dug his hand into the mountain, shattering the brittle granite as his fist moved. Like a toddler carelessly feeling the edge of a meticulously made sand castle wall. What force could be so awesome that it could take out a mountain of granite, I thought. And to make it look so easy! Just leaving some broken rocks at the base, it makes it seems like a inadvertent act. As I climbed across boulders to my snow, I saw evidence which triggered what I already knew. A saw a crack in a smaller boulder, about an inch wide. Year after year, water gets in the crack and freezes, slowly but surely breaking even the most steadfast structures. That sure seems to be the case, anyways. Maybe a geologist will tell me thats hogwash, an earthquake or something else must have done it.

I got to my snow, which had a dirty surface, scrapped down an inch or so revealing pure, white, crystally frozen water. I knew I had plenty of propane, so wasting it melting snow as an option I had. And boy was it wasting it. I filled my pot, turned on the flame, and waited. And waited, and waited...Woohoo it melted. Now only filling ½ of the original snow's volume, I wanted the water to boil just to be safe. As I waited, I looked at my surroundings. I could actually see parts of this giant slab of snow melting. A ridge on the edge of the slab. Every few inches a stalactite of ice guided the melted snow drops. Drip drip drip. And at one end, a small flow of water. Thats where it starts, I thought. I've found the most upstream point one can possibly reach.

Now, I know I'm part of the 0.001% of the population who actually cares about these things. But it felt good. Seeing all the life which thrived off of this water, the soft green meadows, flowers, tall pines, deer and marmots; a powerful flowing current trying to steal my sandals and freeze my feet. It all starts here...

Anyways, it started raining while I was waiting for my water to boil, despite the fact that the sun was out. I grabbed my stuff and headed down to my tent. Then the rain really came down hard. A little scared but not too worried. I'm only a day's hike away from my car, hopefully. If I really had to, I could abandon my gear and be out within a few hours. Sitting in my tent during the downpour, I had to get out and fix the tarp and stake down more points on my tent. Luckily it wasn't cold out, which makes being wet much much more comfortable. But then the rain went away 20 minutes later, and the sky remained blue and sunny. I suppose it was good for me. Wised me up after having so much beautiful weather. I forgot it could rain. Also, it let me feel hardcore without having to actually endure too much hardship.

Ok, off to bed now. Oh yeah, there are tons and tons of mosquitoes. And they are incredibly irritating. The 100% DEET I got keeps them at bay though. So long as the DEET doesn't fill me up with toxins.

The sun is still up (normally I've been writing once the sun goes down), but I'm most likely in the tent for the night. I wanna get as early a start as I can muster tomorrow. And I'll need all the rest I can get. Its going to be moderately difficult, and I'd like to be able to start my drive home tomorrow in the early afternoon so I'm not driving all night.

This morning I woke up to the bright sun, in a warm tent, despite the chill of the night that had me cinch down my sleeping bag so only my face was exposed. I think I subconsciously allowed myself to sleep in a little, knowing I'd probably not be packing up today. I sat up, unzipped my hot sleeping bag, threw on some clothes and stepped outside. I immediately noticed it took more effort than expected to stand up and walk a few steps. My legs, especially my calves, were just as sore as could be. Then I knew there would be no packing up and hiking anywhere today. I also realized I was starving; I walked the short distance to the stream, filled my pot, and remembered (or rather, experienced) once again how unbelievably cold the water was. Boiling an entire liter of water, I had a bit of tea, and about 0.9 liters of oatmeal, finishing my supply of it. I also threw in a bunch of dried apple pieces, which quickly expanded to full size and made a delicious addition to my oatmeal. I sat down with my book, "Chaos" by James Gleick, and read and ate for a long while. I cleaned up, meandered around wondering what to do next. Amazingly, I felt like I could go for a snack despite being full beyond my wits just a few moment earlier. I grabbed a Clif Bar and some nuts and went for a stroll around the stream. Crystal clear water reflecting blue sky and sun. Then I see a cute little fish. Probably a trout. About 6" long. Then another. Walking a little more, I see another. They seem to stop in the little areas where the stream isn't flowing so hard, on the downstream side of a big rock or piece of soil (probably to save themselves the energy of having to swim constantly). The fish swam away if I stood right above them though. Maybe bears or something eat them. I dunno, but they are not oblivious to my presence.

After that I got out my MP3 player, lied out on a large rock and listened to music for what seemed an eternity. It was probably more like an hour. Lord of the Rings soundtrack and Tool were my music of choice. I then moved to some soft soil under a shade providing pine, and listened for another eternity (again, this eternity was probably more like an hour). I then realized it was probably not even noon yet, and I have 8 hours of daylight left. I momentarily contemplated the idea of packing up and leaving. But as soon as this contemplation reached the part of my brain thats on charge of my legs, the contemplation was dropped and instead I further absorbed my exquisite surroundings. Now I know why my "South Sierra" backpacking guide book includes a layover day even for the "strenuous pace" recommendation. There's not as much fun in the breakcamp-hike-makecamp routine for five days straight.

After some more reading, I boiled 2 more pots of water. All I should need for the rest of the trip. At this point I realized how unfathomably long a summer day is when there's nothing to do. I mean, I like relaxing, reading, staring at the snowy mountain precipices with blue skies in the background and green trees in the foreground. I like closing my eyes and listening to music (try it sometime, you notice all kinda of musical elements that otherwise might go unnoticed if your doing other stuff while your listening). But this...I never imagined a day could be so long. Then I took a nap in my tent. Still light out. Then I read more and ate more, got stuff prepared for the night, and tried to get some stuff ready for leaving tomorrow. On a side note, it turns out that I have just the right amount of food for my 5 day, four night excursion. I'll probably have a few nuts and 2 tortillas leftover. Which I guess means I don't have a perfect amount of food, unless you consider a little safety barrier to be perfect.

I woke up to my cell phone alarm at 6AM, wanting to make a bright and early start. The tent was cold (probably in the 50's, but thats cold for me), and looking through the fly in my tent revealed a light grey color. I wanted warm and blue. Back to sleep it was.

I woke at 7:15 (my phone was on, so I knew the exact time). Blue skies and hot tent. Think they'll ever have AC for backpacking tents? Now thats an engineering challenge. Anyway, I made up my mind to get out relatively quickly. With no oatmeal left (on purpose), I decided I'd just eat my Clif bars once I was all packed up and hiking. I had about 2 liters of water, and not too much food left. Also, I needn't be worried about getting food smell on stuff because I knew I wouldn't be sleeping in bear country that night. This let me pack a nice efficient backpack. The mosquitos were all over me while I was trying to pack, so I had to DEET (DEET is the probably carcinogenic and otherwise harmful chemical that repels bugs) up. Also, sunscreen was a necessity, as it was every other day. Hopefully the DEET on my hands didn't rub off on my cashews that I ate a half an hour later. It probably did. Oh well.

I knew I had a big climb ahead, I could see the giant tower of rock I was headed for. What I didn't realize was that there was more climbing beyond what I could see. Over that tower or rock was a lake, then another tower of rock. Approaching the first climb, I didn't feel as good as usual. The muscle soreness felt okay, probably because of the day off. But my stomach didn't feel spectacular and I felt tired overall. Maybe its because I didn't eat breakfast until I was on the move. But once I started the climb, I was fine. Just follow the rather obvious trail up the switch backs, one foot after another. Huffing and puffing with an occasional break to stand and (attempt to) catch my breath. I finally got to the top and saw Columbine Lake. Now, I thought those previous streams were cold. This...THIS was cold water. Ice floating on the darn thing. No trees or fluffy green grass. Just a cold stark bowl of water framed the surrounding by spires of rock. Probably carved by glaciers or something, I dunno.

The trail then lead around the lake, and I saw, for the first time, something that actually scared me. Before, when I crossed rivers, I thought if stuff went totally awry, I could potentially break an ankle and end up cold and wet for a night. But I wasn't risking my life. This trail I saw ahead of me, going around the lake, was scary. It was probably on a 30 degree slope of what appeared to be rock and gravel...covered in snow. Only about 50 feet covered in snow, but still. I know this isn't nearly as hard core as those guys that climb glaciers with those spikey metal shoes that they jab into a vertical wall of ice. But I'm from Souther California. I see snow, I flip out. I wasn't expecting snow. I didn't have a walking stick (and couldn't get one because of the lack of vegitation). The snow mind you, went straight down into the water. There wasn't a little few inch gap between the water and the snow, it went straight in. If I fell, I 'd slide right into that lake which was probably 32 degrees. If was warmer, the snow wouldn't be in thermal contact with the lake, there'd be a small gap. And the other side of the lake wouldn't have ice floating on it. Maybe I'd be able to swim the 25 feet to the rocky edge and climb out. I don't know, but it was the only time on my trip I thought my life might actually be in danger. I knew the chances of me actually dying were very slim, but it was the first time I realized they were non-zero. I knew there has never been a recorded black bear fatality. And no marmot can kill me. And if a deer killed me, well, then...whatever.

Its amazing when you are scared, you don't feel pain. The pain that should have ensued upon jabbing my bare hand into the snow (to steady myself) simply wasn't there. At first I felt the sensation "cold". Then I felt "numb." Never did I feel that "I really want to take my hand out of this snow" sensation that commonly accompanies jamming ones hand into snow . Nor did I feel the pain I felt when I had to keep my hand in ice water for 60 seconds during an experiment at the VA hostipal (which I was paid a non-trivial sum for). My mind had other things on it, I guess.

Anyway, I just followed the footsteps (which had already been laid out by my predecessors) hoping they wouldn't collapse (the sun was melting snow all around) because it was weaker now than when the hikers who left the footprints went across it. All went well, and I got to the other side to discover a few other hikers who had just done the same thing, only they had those ultra light metal walking stick thingies.

This is when part 2 of the climb begins. Up until now, every trail I was on was rather well worn, and obvious where it goes. If I couldn't tell, I'd just walk a few feet and see it in plain view, a brown dirt path in the green forest bottom. But now there was no organic matter to be worn away, nothing to tell the "trail" from the "not trail". Gravel and rock. Sometimes giant rock, 40 feet across. Sometimes just lots of big boulders. People did stack rocks in a orderly fashion to guide hikers, which definitely helped. But as I was climbing up the steepest thing I had climbed yet, it would have been nice to know my effort were not in vain.

I have done many day hikes scrambling over rocks, hopping and climbing, but not with a pack on. Its a whole different story with a pack on. Anyways, I did go the wrong way once. I followed some foot prints on the gravel which slowly sort of disappeared. It took me like 10 minutes to realize this, but in 10 minutes I had only gone maybe 100 meters because climbing up steep slippery gravel is rather inefficient. I eventually made my way up the correct route.

This whole time I was exerting myself pretty hard. I'd stop and try to catch my breath. My heart pounding, muscles starving for oxygen. I'd breath faster and faster, but the thin wispy air just couldn't satiate my body's needs. I just pushed on, knowing the end was near. I knew many people have done much harder things than this, and I knew this wasn't even that hard. Its a marked trail that probably 5 to 10 people cross each day. Its not like I was climbing Everest or even Mt. Whitney. But it was at 11,600 feet, and thats higher than I've ever been.

Once I reached the top, the whole mood of the trip changed. It was time to go home. It was all down hill (I was 3800 feet above my car!). That means, I needed to go about 7/10 of a mile straight down. Downhill is good as long as it isn't to steep. And most of it wasn't. Once I got past the initial steep descent, I saw an old retired couple, a dad and his young daughter. I wasn't backpacking anymore. I was on a day hike, and for some reason, I had something really heavy on my back. But I just wanted to get to my car. Eventually I got there, and checked for marmot damage. Apparently marmots like to eat wires and hoses. My car looked fine. I unloaded my food container so I could return it to the rangers. My car started (sweeeeet!). I didn't feel like dealing with a jump start. I then drove home. I probably should have learned something about myself on the trip. Something deep and self reflective. Instead, I think I learned about geology. I just kept thinking about the mountains, canyons, snow, creeks, rocks and trees. How it all goes together. Kinda nice to see it "in action".