Boulder Fields and Sunsets
I plunged waist deep into the snow; the feeling of cold shock washed over me as my heart skipped several beats. I patted the snow around me and sighed when I realized it was far too soft to fully support my weight if I attempted to climb out. I gingerly laid my trekking poles on the surface and carefully leaned forward to pull myself out.
Imagine this little mishap happening over and over again, and you’ll have a good picture of my day of traveling with my friend, Blake Johnston, through a snowfield at the base of Mount Muriel in the John Muir Wilderness. On that day, the third in our backpacking trip, we had hiked up to a glacial basin at the foot of Goethe Cirque, a ring of high peaks.
Blake and I had planned this trip for months. We discussed visiting multiple trails, only to find no available permits for any of them in early-June. Eventually our persistence won out when I found open slots for Humphreys Basin.
It would be the first time visiting the backcountry of the central Sierra Nevada for both of us, and Blake’s first time above 11,000 feet and hiking a trans-Sierra pass. The trip also marked my first time backpacking with someone else. All my previous treks were solo affairs, partly because I hadn’t found any willing accomplices, and partly because I knew I might drive people crazy with my obsession of finding the right compositions and returning to the same location multiple times. However, since Blake was a fellow photographer, I felt more comfortable with the idea of going with someone else.
But in an unfortunate twist, Blake injured his back while moving a heavy frame a few weeks before our trip. We decided to change our itinerary if necessary, and even booked a shorter hike as a back-up. In the end, he felt fine to proceed with our original plan.
After picking up Blake in Yosemite on the first day of the trip, we stayed a night in Mammoth Lakes, opting to sleep in the next morning instead of waking for sunrise (almost unheard of on my solo trips!). That decision turned out to be a wise one. Our hike required all the energy we could muster.
We started it with some trepidation. As we drove up to the trailhead, we noticed that the weather report forecasted a chance of rain and snow that evening, with wind gusts of up to 65 mph. Blake and I worriedly discussed our next move, deciding to turn around if conditions worsened.
We prepared our packs at the trailhead as the wind kicked up a flurry of dust in our faces. A small swarm of mosquitos greeted us as we continued our hike up to Piute Pass, but they remained few enough in number that we managed to keep them at bay with some mosquito spray. We (but mostly me) struggled up the trail, swatting away bugs and battling the increasingly hostile winds as they picked up throughout the day.
As the weather grew stormier and fatigue set in, we wisely decided to save the final ascent to the pass for tomorrow morning and set up our camp by Piute Lake. The strong winds made the entire process exponentially more difficult, but after some fumbling around trying to stake the footprints into the rocky soil, we finally secured the tents from being blown away.
At this point, the light started to warm up considerably, the mix of storm clouds and golden hour light creating beautiful conditions. We wandered further up the trail in search of possible photo opportunities as the light seemed to change every few minutes. I spotted a small stream leading into Piute Lake, which framed up one of the peaks quite nicely.
Unfortunately, the sun dipped behind the clouds before what would have been prime light. Nevertheless, we returned to our tents, pleased with the conditions that day.
A fitful night of sleep greeted us as the strong winds howled throughout the evening. Even with earplugs, I woke several times in the middle of the night to the sound of the tent straining against the howling winds.
We woke up to a mercifully calm morning. Once we both got out of our tents, we proceeded down to the lakeshore to set up a shot for sunrise. Blake pointed out a cascade near him, and I ventured over to find a stream perfectly situated beneath a peak. I balanced my tripod as close to the water as I could and lined up the shot.
We proceeded to explore the area, looking for wildflowers and other close-up scenes. Unbeknownst to us, we had spent a good two hours photographing. Satisfied, we headed back to camp, made breakfast, and prepped our gear for the day’s hike. The rest of the hike up to Piute Pass proceeded in a steady but demanding uphill climb, which included charging up a large snowfield right below the pass riddled with sunken footprints. Finally, we had made it to the top. From 11,423 feet above sea level, we peered into Humphreys Basin, with its vast expanse of talus and snowfields. The peaks surrounding the basin, which were almost all above ten thousand feet tall, looked miniscule in comparison.
We hiked further down a trail to Muriel Lake, which Blake pointed out on our map as a potentially scenic spot. Both of us hiked the mile or so down to the lake and found a seemingly ideal campsite, with a flat surface and good access to water. We set up our camp and enjoyed a leisurely lunch after a short hiking day.
As the afternoon wore on, I noticed a steady trickle of water creeping closer to our tents. I followed the stream uphill and then discovered that we had unintentionally set up camp directly below a large snowfield, and it was melting fast. After some feeble attempts to block the water with rocks, we surrendered to mother nature and painstakingly relocated our camp onto a bluff further away from the snow.
When golden hour arrived, Blake and I separated as we both decided to pursue different compositions for our photographs. I started with a set of boulders in a lake, juxtaposed neatly below Mount Humphreys. Due to the position of the rocks, I had to perch myself and the tripod precariously on top of them. I struggled with the composition—despite my best efforts, I couldn’t crop out some distracting boulders at the bottom of the frame, and switching from my 20mm lens to my 24mm made the scene too cramped. I stuck with the wider angle and centered the boulders and Mount Humphreys in my frame.
After making that photograph, I turned around, took a few steps, and then found another picture-perfect scene. A small stream flowed away from the spot I just photographed and down towards Muriel Lake. I chuckled to myself at my seemingly good luck and lined up the shot. The strong highlights in the sunlit portion of the frame made for a somewhat awkward lighting situation, as they may have proven too bright for my usual choice of a 3-stop soft-edge graduated neutral density filter. I opted to use a hard-edged filter instead. It ended up being the right decision—the film turned out perfectly exposed. The scene just lacked a bit of a gradient in the shadows, which I corrected by applying one in Lightroom.
By this point, the sun had disappeared below the horizon, so I scurried up to the other side of the lake for one last picture as Mount Muriel caught some alpenglow.
The next morning, we woke for sunrise and walked along the shore of the lake for sunrise.
After breakfast, we decided to hike up to Goethe Lake, situated in a glacial basin about a mile south of us. From our camp, the route looked steep, but doable. We had to traverse a snowfield on our way up and continue up a steep grade until we reached the ridgeline overlooking Goethe. As we made our way around Muriel, we came across a set of cascades where the water from the lake flowed downstream into the lower portions of Humphreys Basin. Blake and I stumbled upon a proverbial gold mine; the area had lots to photograph. We explored, snapped some scouting photos on our phones, and planned to return at sunset.
We proceeded up the ridge towards Goethe Lake. Luck was on our side, as we crossed the snowfield before the sun could turn the snow beneath our feet into mush. After reaching the lake, we stopped for a quick lunch, and then explored the area. The two of us found a stream perfectly positioned underneath the peaks of the Goethe Cirque and decided it could make for some great photographs.
We found a small nook in the rock wall and rested there as we waited for the light to change. It would be about six hours before sunset. After an hour of waiting, Blake expressed some doubt about whether the light that afternoon would work well for the scene. We discussed the merits of staying for the rest of the day, and eventually decided against it. As we packed up our stuff, I discovered that the rocks on which I sat had torn the threads stitching together my pants pockets. I stowed away my wallet and keys in my pack and wished I had been more careful.
We debated whether to complete our circumnavigation of Muriel Lake or to turn back the way we came. The snowbank we had ascended had likely softened from the midday sun. Meanwhile, we had seen two hikers successfully cross the snow and boulder field on the other side of the lake to reach our location. We decided to go with the latter option. We slowly wound our way down a steep talus slope, mindful of not slipping down a gully on our right. Once we had descended to the shoreline, my heart sank when I realized that the snowfield in front of us turned out much deeper than we anticipated. At this point, turning around would have been a riskier option. We had no choice but to push on.
Blake ventured ahead to scout out a path, and I followed behind him. Blake had some experience hiking through snow; I did not. The inexperience quickly showed when I inadvertently stepped near some boulders and promptly plunged into an air pocket in the snow. After picking myself back up, I fell again a few minutes later when I repeated the mistake. Soon the hike turned into a slog as snowmelt soaked through my socks and clothes. The microspikes I had attached to the bottom of my boots became hopelessly clogged with wet snow, rendering them nearly useless.
Once we escaped the snow, we faced one last obstacle before we could set foot on solid ground again. A boulder field covered this corner of the lake, and we needed to find a path across it. Both of us hopped from boulder to boulder in a clumsy, wilderness version of parkour. Finally, we spotted one last jump and we landed on solid ground again.
We had finally made it! After a much-needed breather back at camp, we returned to the cascades from earlier that morning just as the warm light of sunset began to bathe the landscape. I immediately set up my camera and jumped from boulder to boulder trying to set up the compositions I had scouted in the morning. In between shots, I looked up at the surroundings, stunned by the beauty in front of me.
Once the alpenglow faded and mosquitos started hovering, we decided to begin hiking back to camp. On our way, I spotted one last composition as the Earth shadow inched higher on the eastern horizon.
The following morning, we returned to the same location to photograph the area in different light.
The rest of the morning proceeded smoothly. We returned to camp, ate breakfast, and then packed up our gear. The hike back to the other side of the pass went off without a hitch. We initially planned to camp that night at Piute Lake, near the campsite from the first night. Indeed, we had even already set up our tents, but Blake’s back pain had flared up again. He broached the idea of descending down to our car a day earlier and staying the night in Bishop. We hemmed and hawed for a while as we debated the merits of both options and the photographic opportunities we might have. Finally, we concluded that the lure of a shower, real food, and a clean bed outweighed any possible photographs we could possibly make. We hurried down the trail, racing against sunset and an increasing number of mosquitos. We finally arrived at the car after a brisk two-hour hike. Unfortunately, because of my ripped pants from the day before, I stowed my car keys deep inside my backpack. It had been a prudent decision at the time, but now I clumsily tried to retrieve them from the middle of my pack as a horde of angry mosquitos swarmed me. Once I found the key, we unlocked the trunk, threw in our packs, hurriedly leapt into the car, and shut the door. The bugs continued to buzz menacingly outside the window, but we were finally safe.
We drove back down to Bishop, half-dazed from the mosquito mayhem, as our phones began to buzz non-stop with four days’ worth of missed notifications. For our troubles, we rewarded ourselves with Mexican food and a night’s sleep in an actual bed.
Photographically, I’m happy to count this as one of my most productive trips in a long time. But my main highlight came not from my pictures, but from the privilege of enjoying the experience with someone else. The shared moments, whether it be the excitement of seeing a gorgeous sunset or frustration at falling into the snow, meant more to me than whatever pictures I got from the trip. I’ll definitely backpack with friends again. But next time, I’m bringing a mosquito net.
Special thanks to Blake Johnston for letting me use some of his photos in this post, and to Sami Ghanem for his copyediting and feedback.
