By Bobbie Surber
I started the John Muir Trail alone in August 2014 because I was afraid of solo wilderness travel and decided the only way to get through it was to go. Two hundred and eleven miles from Yosemite Valley to the summit of Mount Whitney, alone, in twenty-one days. I had walked several Camino de Santiago trails. I knew what my legs could do. What I didn’t know was whether I could trust myself out there with no one to defer to and no one to blame if it went wrong. About ten days in, somewhere in the Evolution Range, the trail stopped being hypothetical about it.
Evolution Valley has a reputation. Every hiker on the JMT knows the name before they get there, the way you know certain words in a foreign language before you have ever been to the country. Sacred. Iconic.
The valley floor opens at 9,500 feet. The green catches you off guard, Evolution Creek winding through golden meadow grass, the peaks rising above it all. Darwin, Mendel, and Huxley are named for the scientists who mapped the theory of evolution. The whole region carries their names. A pack mule grazed in the middle distance like it had nowhere to be. I wanted to stay for days.
What I remember is rocks tumbling along the shore and a sky boiling so close above me it felt like something you could reach up and touch.
On a trail this long, you keep running into the same people. Joan was a nurse, and we had fallen into step together enough times over the preceding days to know each other a little. Her hiking companion was difficult in the way that some men are difficult on the trail, controlling the pace, the decisions, the route. What I had pieced together over those chance miles was that before they left he had taken Joan’s wallet, her ID, and locked everything in his car. She had no money. No identification. No way out that wasn’t entirely on his terms.
The storm came the way they always do in the Sierra in August. Fast. Without apology. We turned back from the pass. The man looked around and declared a campsite near Wanda Lake.
Wanda Lake sits at 11,426 feet, the largest lake at the base of the pass. Rocks scattered along the shore, the surrounding peaks nothing but scree and exposed granite, the water grey-green under the storm light. No trees anywhere in the frame. No shelter. No dip in the terrain between you and whatever the sky decides.
Southbound hikers passing through said it plainly: worst possible place to stop. Death zone for lightning. The man didn’t move. Joan looked at me.
I packed up my tent and left.
Joan stayed. I thought about her the whole way down, and if I’m honest, most of the way back up too.
The trees had stopped somewhere far back down the trail and the world had changed. Granite slabs in every direction, pale as bone, thin fingers of grass finding whatever purchase they could in the cracks. Nowhere to step off and disappear. Nowhere to wait out the storm. Three or four miles of that back down to tree line alone, the lightning coming closer, the thunder hitting hard enough to feel it in your chest, past Sapphire Lake, past Evolution Lake, back through the point where granite finally gives way to trees.
Sometime in the night a young hiker asked for shelter. Her tent had flooded out. She came inside and we lay there listening to the lightning work through the dark, each strike closer than we wanted, praying it would move on without finding us.
By morning, the lightning had stopped. The sky hadn’t cleared, but the lightning had stopped, which felt like enough. Outside, the trail had become a gathering point. Everyone I had met on the JMT was there packing out. The mountain had called a meeting, and the vote was unanimous: hike out, trip over.
A man found me in the crowd, someone I had spoken to on the flight out to Yosemite at the very start of all this. A lifetime ago. His hiking partner had quit after three days. He had kept going alone. We agreed without much discussion to summit together and he went to break camp.
He came back without his pack. Wife. Kids. He was hiking out. He said I should come too. Every person around us had made the same decision. The sky above the pass was still doing things skies should not do. He wasn’t wrong to ask.
I stood there in tears while everyone packed out around me. The lightning was gone but the sky was still dark. The pass was still up there. I was genuinely afraid. Not the manageable kind. The kind where your breathing goes shallow, your stomach turns, and adrenaline floods your body until your hands shake.
Every rational thought said to give up and call it quits. Instead my feet turned uphill.
It was the same thing that had kept me moving on the first Camino when everything hurt, the bed was warm, the next town far. Not courage. Just an inability to stop.
The same miles back. Through the trees, past Evolution Lake, past Sapphire Lake, back into the moonscape. The sky was boiling. In monsoon season you just move through it and hope.
A hiker came toward me on the trail heading the same direction I was. He had been pushed back the day before, same storm, same decision point. Now he was going back up too. I asked what he thought it was going to be like.
It’s going to be a shit storm, he said.
He kept walking. So did I.
The Muir Hut sits at 11,955 feet at the top of the pass, a round stone shelter built in 1930, low against the mountain as though it grew there. The door was wood, dark and heavy, slightly open. I pushed through it.
That same hiker was inside. He had made it up first, sitting there with a camp stove and two cups.
He handed me one. Coffee.
The storm hammered the stone walls. The coffee was hot. Both my hands around the cup. Inside I was fine.
He said he was sorry for being such an ass. We laughed about that. Two people with no business being up there, sitting in a hut built to honor John Muir while the mountain made its point outside.
We walked out of the hut and the storm had passed.
Lightness and grace. After all of that, just lightness.
A few days later, Joan found me on the trail. We hatched a plan. I pulled the hundred-dollar bill tucked into my pack. Others gave what they could. We mapped her a route out. She didn’t hesitate. Some kinds of courage don’t need explaining.
Whitney was still days away. The tears at the summit were still ahead, the kind I hadn’t understood when other hikers described them. But coming down that pass in the running water, something had settled. I stopped and turned around.
The sky had gone clean and blue, a full moon already up over the granite, the trees black against the last light. I took a picture. I knew I would want to remember what it looked like when the mountain finally let me go.
I was going to finish. And Evolution Valley was still out there, waiting for a return trip in better weather. It still is.
Upon returning to Katmandu my tour operator Kiran met me at the hotel with a new itinerary. One that would lift my spirits for sure. There was another trek I was contemplating, The Annapurna Circuit. It was a 17-day trek which was more remote than the Everest one. This would now replace the Everest Base Camp Trek. Kiran then added that upon completing the Annapurna Circuit I would helicopter from Katmandu to Lukla as rotary winged aircraft had much less restrictions in terms of visibility. All in all this would fill up a month and a half and allow me to hopefully complete both objectives (Annapurna and Everest Base Camp).
As with all mountains, the weather is constantly changing and this mountain would prove no different. The previous day the hikes were cancelled due to heavy winds. Upon waking up at 0400 it was a relief to learn that the shuttles would be running that day. My campsite was just outside the town of National Park and was right along the shuttle path for a 0545 pickup and a 30-minute drive to the trailhead.
There are several routes of the Camino de Santiago, including the Camino Frances (French Way), which is the most popular, and the Camino Portugués (Portuguese Way), which starts in Lisbon or begins in Porto for a two-week shorter Camino. The Camino de Santiago is a long-distance walk or hike that typically takes 30-40 days to complete, depending on the route and the pace of the individual pilgrim.
