Walking Trip In The High Sierra
June 25, 1966-July 10, 1966

Even old Dad didn't write in his diary last night - nor wash, nor brush teeth. That terrible gorge is not fit for sedentary types or kids. We have sworn off "knapsack routes" to anywhere. The trail fit for stock is fit for the Barnes’, but let’s have no more uncharted wilderness!

Got up at 4:00 yesterday as planned. Ate and were on our way at 6:00. Had scouted the first attack on the gorge the day before, so made it into the entrance handily. We walked for 10-20 min. across a steep talus slope and thought it rather a ball. (Me worrying a little about what lay around the next bend) Then brush - head high. Rich lost hat, Dad temper. Ever upward, resting often. Brush, talus and long treks uphill to circumvent impassable rook cliffs at the edge of the rushing creek. Then, usually some kind of grief before we worked our way back down. Like trips across rock faces ( not high but scary and tiring.) Brush full of 7-minute itch. Kids made the best of it. None really lost their cool, but wondered when things would look up (like when would the damn brush peter out.)

We had a long lunch and nap under some big cedars at about the quarter way point. My map suggested that the next quarter might be rough - like rougher than the first. It sure was. Nearly continuous rock climbing (not moving across talus slopes but the kind we should have had a rope for, and a teacher for.) The only casualties were a rock-banged finger (Rich), worn-out pants seats (R & M), and completely frayed nerves (all). Still, no one lost their cool, even though exhausted. By late afternoon the incidence of new dirty tricks over each rise and around each corner was getting unremarkable. Then we began to come onto snow. At one point a good-sized stream enters the gorge from the North. A snow cap covered the gorge from sheer rock wall to sheer rock wall, arching over main creek and newcomer. Couldn't go around, afraid going over would cause a cave-in like one visible just beyond. We crept UNDER the snow - between it and the canyon wall just on the edge of the stream. Rich whooped and chattered, my knees shook.

Crossing the steep snow slopes was lots harder than crossing talus. I’d go first, making good footsteps. Then M. holding my hand. Last Richard, determinedly alone. A sidewise glance? Most unwise.) showed the still ugly looking creek roaring over boulders 200-300 feet below. We crossed the last of the miserable things and arrived at a tiny still lake about 7:30 (7:30! 13½ hours on the climb.)

Across the gorge was a huge wall of talus from avalanching cliffs above. The creek trickles under the rocks, under the lake level. The whole scene completely desolate; dark rock pile, lowering cliffs, snow patches and caverns. A tiny tuft of vegetation here and there if one looked close. One lone little bird cheerily swooping over the lake water. [Photo here]