July 21-25, 2025

1.

Our first summer in the Sierra felt miraculous: an impossibly long three weeks walking a—for us, then—impossibly long 250 miles.

Our second summer felt much the same, like we had somehow cheated and gotten to live a once-in-a-lifetime experience twice.

Last summer was the tenth anniversary of that first year, and our seventh or eighth time in those mountains. It still feels like a miracle—still hasn’t gone mundane—but it’s familiar now. And we’re older.

2.

At least, our bodies are older. And our ambitions are different. That first summer it was about making miles. Now it’s about seeing wind on an alpine lake just before an afternoon storm, or the glint of late morning sun on white granite.

So we plan an easy trip, up past Pine Creek Pass to the French Lakes, then a few days of doing whatever we please. I’ve grown to love trips like this.

3.

We get down to the eastern Sierra a few days early, stay at our favorite hotel in Lee Vining, watch the sunset filter through the mountains.

The whole place—this whole section of Highway 395—feels enchanted in a way I can’t begin to explain. Like the beginning of a dream, when you’re still awake but the world’s rules no longer apply.

July 21

4.

It’s barely seven, the first day of our trip, and two things are becoming obvious. First, I’m already altitude sick. At, like, 8000’. Second, it’s going to be hot.

The first few miles up Pine Creek Pass are a relentless set of switchbacks up a sunbaked slab of granite. The way is an old mining road, and I imagine mules lumbering up as I do much the same, feeling like I’m pulling several tons.

Halfway up we stop in a small patch of shade and are quickly joined by some organized group, the head of which is professionally and exhaustingly cheery. “You got this!” Wanna bet?

5.

A few miles later we’re at one of the Pine Creek Lakes, and I’m cooked. “Can we…” I plead with Krista to stop early without finishing my sentence. I don’t have to. “Of course we can.”

We set up on a broad isthmus that juts through the lake, and set out in a rousing match of “Super Rock Ball,” a game Krista made up that’s halfway between botchy ball and a professional wrestling match. She wins every time.

6.

Day turns to night, the heat slowly fades, and my altitude sickness gives way enough that I nearly finish my freeze dried whatever.

Lying in the tent, I thank Krista. “For what?” I’m not sure exactly, but I feel like I need to thank someone for all of this.

July 22

7.

Over the pass.

It’s not far, but, between the heat and my lingering altitude sickness, it feels like I’m walking the wrong way up an escalator.

Short sandy steps slowly sum to miles, and by lunch we’re sitting between Pine Creek Pass’s improbable tarns. Then down to French Creek and back up to the half dozen lakes that dot the plateaus between Pilot Knob and Four Gables.

8.

An afternoon storm’s on the southern horizon, so we scramble to a sheltered spot just north of Moon Lake, throw up the tent, and hide for a couple hours as thunder and hail shower the early summer flowers.

We emerge in the evening to a wet world of dewy grass and steaming granite. Freeze dried something again for dinner, then a long buggy sunset as the sky clears and turns crystalline black.

July 23

9.

I wake feeling uncharacteristically ambitious. The plateaus above camp are full of lakes—Alsace, Paris, Puppet, Star, and Steelhead—and I set out to try and see them all.

The way trail we followed to camp disappears just east of Moon Lake, but the terrain is open and easy, full of small stable rock and gentle grass ramps.

Puppet and Paris Lakes form links in a longer chain beneath Pilot Knob. Tens of tarns gather wherever there’s a slight indent in the terrain. Flowers—mainly lupine and paintbrush—are everywhere.

10.

After winding west to Alsace, I double back and climb the easy ridge that leads to Star and Steelhead. The flowers fade, replaced by snow and snow-white rock.

I soon have my fill of talus—what was it I said about bodies being older?—and bumble down the path of least resistance to Little Lake’s shallow shores. Fields of lupine stretch northwest, swaying sloe as far as I can see.

11.

Back at camp, it transpires that we’ve lost the potholder part of our stove, so we can light a fire but not rest our cookpot on top of it.

I’m useless in these situations, but Krista almost immediately MacGyvers together a makeshift holder out of granite and hope. It works flawlessly through supper and sunset tea.

Trout jump for mosquitoes as the sky goes dark.

July 24

12.

Krista manages another makeshift potholder for our stove, and we eat a buggy breakfast on the boulders beside Moon Lake.

Our plan for the day is to meander back over Pine Creek Pass via that path of most resistance—curling south of the Sierra’s main crest to French Lake then down.

We wander through the fields of lupine along Little Lake, then Krista leads the way through talus and tiny trees to the south side of French Lake. Cliffs line the southwest side, so we venture east, along sandy beaches and rocky isthmi.

13.

The way down to Pine Creek Pass is unexpectedly hot, and it gets hotter still as we descend the steep slope to Honeymoon Lake.

Storms are threatening again—this time from the east—so we set up in the most sheltered spot we can find, on a granite shelf near the lake’s outlet.

The storm comes soon after, with nearby lightning and marble-sized hail. I’m terrible in situations like this. Krista smiles the whole time.

14.

The storm passes—they always do—and leaves behind a bright blue evening, which fades to purple and red as we makeshift a final Stove Situation. Someone’s laughing somewhere across the lake. Marmots scurry and whistle in the valley below.

I thank Krista again, again for I-don’t-know-what.

July 25

15.

Our last day.

We wake early and skip breakfast to try to beat the afternoon heat.

The morning’s like our first day played in reverse: down Pine Creek to our first night’s camp, down the old mining road back to our car.

16.

We’re back at the car by midmorning. A short bath in Pine Creek, then down the parched pavement to Bishop, where we decide to spend the night, soaking up air conditioning and barbeque.

We fall asleep with the TV on. I wake an hour later just long enough to switch things off, and to whisper a final “thank you” to no one in particular.