Northern Inyos

Pictures to come later……

Ever since Matt and I hiked the Lonesome Miner Trail in 2022, I have been thinking about the Northern Inyos. There is a large roadless and trail-less section north of the Pat Keyes trail that has always drawn my attention when passing by below on 395.

I had had a very busy few weeks, juggling multiple jobs and online classes. However, when my friend John from the PCT asked me if I wanted to visit the area, I couldn’t say no.

I drove south on 395 after school got out and made a quick stop at Grocery Outlet in Bishop to pick up supplies. John and I rendezvoused at the junction of Saline Valley Road and Big Pine Death Valley Road. We left his car there and I drove back to Big Pine and south on 395. We caught up as the last light shone on the Inyos to our east. I hadn’t seen John since the summer, when him and his fiancee were passing through the area on the PCT, so it was great to catch up. He had been hard at work on his new pack company, and even kindly offered to let me test out a pack for the trip.

When we got to Manzanar, we hung a left onto a bumpy dirt road. We rattled across the Owens Valley through the fading light. There was some talk of getting some night hiking in, but I was relieved when John backed off the idea. I got to sleep in my own bed that night and had a little more time to pack. I made a quick pot of ravioli which we shared before bed. I slept soundly in the warm and pure desert air.

The next morning we did not set an alarm per John’s request. He does not believe in setting alarms on vacation. Nonetheless we were both up naturally at first light, and soon found ourselves climbing up the steep but consistent Pat Keyes Trail. The views of the first light on the Sierra were stunning as always. I am always baffled that the Inyos are not a major tourist destination. The views of the Sierra across the valley provide perhaps the best perspective on the Eastern Slope of the Range, in some ways even greater than the views within the range itself. The western slope of the Inyos rises a vertical mile out of the Owens Valley. The real secret of the range is the eastern Slope. The range falls off precipitously into Saline Valley, some 10,000 feet below. All of the canyons hide major dry falls, and lots of other treachery. This dramatic view of the steep decline is not visible from a paved road — only from Saline Valley. Despite the Inyo’s close proximity to Los Angeles, until this trip I had never seen another hiker out there. Flipping a few pages back in the trail logs quickly takes you back a few decades.

The climb was mercifully shaded by the massive Inyos towering above us. By the time the sun caught up with us, we were in the Pinyon pines, well above the Owen’s Valley below. I hadn’t hiked something like this in a month or so, but my legs and lungs felt strong from lots of peakbagging over the summer. Soon, we were atop the range and heading north off trail into uncharted territory. The going started out slowly, bushwhacking and contouring around boulders. In the first hour we couldn’t have made it more than a mile, but then the terrain opened up a bit and we were able to make our way across fields of sagebrush, with only the occasional bushes blocking our way. John remarked that the bushes were a good opportunity to test out the durability of his new packs.

The day continued in this fashion, good going interspersed with the occasional bushwhack. Snow stuck around on the north facing slopes, but luckily never posed too much of a challenge. Going up and down along the ridge, we continued on, high in the sky balanced between two worlds. The new snow on the Sierra shimmering in the midday light to our west, and the deep ocean of Saline Valley so impossibly far beneath us to our east. I frequently stopped to stare off into the expanse on either side, reliving years of trips and memories with a flick of my eyes.

As with the typical hiking style employed by those who met on a long trail, John and I became increasingly spread out. I was more acclimated from living at 8,000 ft, so I would get ahead, but John always seemed to find a better route and catch up. At one point we got separated for a mile or so and I sat down at an obvious saddle, thinking I would be waiting a while. As soon as I sat down, John appeared out of the sagebrush below. The ridge to our north looked rocky and tedious — more one mph terrain at best. We both agreed to drop down a few hundred feet to the west and follow a system of benches for the next few miles. This proved to be the right call, and we started to move more quickly. The change of terrain was welcome, and soon we found ourselves staring up at the Winnedumah Paiute Monument, a massive rock jutting up from the main ridge. After some discussion, we agreed to hike up to the monument and continue along the ridge. The monument was quite impressive, but if I were to return to this section of the Inyos, I would recommend staying lower and bypassing it.

The monument was deceptively far away, and my lungs were burning by the time we finally stood at its base. The large rock juts up into the sky, visible from both adjacent valleys. The rock is almost too large to be appreciated from such a close distance. Just like the eastern escarpment of the Sierra, its grandeur is better appreciated from afar.

We continued north for about a mile and found ourselves at the top of a large boulder field. In the distance a final 1,000 foot climb loomed: the last major obstacle separating us from our water source for the night some three miles north. The sun would set in an hour or so. I pocketed my headlamp to prepare myself for the coming darkness. John and I sat down at the start of the boulders and assessed the situation. John had only brought 3 liters of water for the almost 20 mile push. He remarked that he was starting to feel very dehydrated, and he only had a bit of water left. I gave him about half of my last liter, so that we both had half a liter left. We agreed that we would push on to the spring, even if it involved a little night hiking.

The boulder fields in the Inyos are sneakily dangerous and slow. The boulders are embedded in a sandy matrix, leading to large gaps between boulders, big holes and slippery slopes. A few times I felt like I was in the Mahoosuc Notch on the AT and I had to take my pack off and crawl through a hole. It seemed as if I was constantly choosing the worst route through the boulders. Every time I crested out of one boulder field, there was constantly revealed to be another between me and the sandy ridge which appeared so close. John had suggested giving up a few hundred feet to contour over at a lower elevation, but I had rebuffed him. That clearly would have been the better route.

Initially John and I were roughly within earshot. I would get ahead, but then take some strange route through a hole and he would emerge in front of me. Almost an hour into this ordeal though and I hadn’t seen John in a while. I had no way of knowing if he was ahead or behind me, but I began to suspect he was ahead due to my very circuitous route.

Finally, just as the sun was setting, I emerged at the base of the 1,000 foot climb. I charged up the climb, determined to catch John before nightfall. The clouds shone a brilliant deep red over the Inyos to our south. The monument, and the undulating ridge all unfurled before me. The higher peaks of the southern Inyos still held onto a lot of snow from the big October storm. I scanned the horizon for John, but saw no sign of him, so I resumed charging up the hill sure that I would catch him soon.

Finally the climb relented and mercifully gave way to some flatter ridge walking. 2mph felt like a jog after being stuck in the boulder field and spinning my wheels up the steep climb. I resolved to cover as much ground as possible through the last light. By the time I finally gave in to the night and pulled out my headlamp, I had only a mile to go until reaching the spring. The last mile was very disorienting. I was walking through the dark and checking my phone frequently. I moved through a wash, to a small notch, down and to another notch. I felt blind, mostly navigating based on the angle of the sand beneath my feet, unable to see beyond the small cone of light emanating from my headlamp.

At last, I was stomping through the snow and dropping off the east side of the range down towards the spring. I was dismayed to not see John’s footprints in the snow, but I knew he wouldn’t be far behind. For a moment I worried the spring would be buried beneath the snow. Soon though, my phone’s fickle GPS finally updated and showed that I was in fact below the spring. I scrambled up the steep hillside out of the snow and found the small pool of algae that we had been walking towards all day.

I dipped my bottle in the pool and it quickly filled with mud and algae. I had forgotten my filter and John did not believe in filters, so I would have to drink the water raw. I paced around in the dark and found a slightly better spot to fill up water up the hill a bit. There was a small flow, and less algae, but still far from ideal. I had drank the last of my water miles ago, but my thirst suddenly dissipated upon tasting the water. There was a distinct saline taste which did not bode well for my hydration.

I sat there in the dark below a Juniper Tree waiting for John, as the temperature continued to drop. I drank some of my salty water and added some salty water to some beans for a cold soak. I knew John would be here soon and we would sleep well after the long day. After an hour John was no where to be found and I began to worry. I initially resolved to set out and search for him at 9pm, but later decided that a search in the moonless night with my faint and fading flashlight would be foolhardy. There are many ways to cross the trail-less Inyo’s and my chance of finding John in the night would be even slimmer than one’s chance of finding a needle in a haystack. Instead I stayed put, and pecked out a plan and notes on my tiny phone in the event John did not arrive by first light:

John — last seen around 5-5:30 10/25

around 36.874618, -118.043484

Heading for seephole spring 

Said he felt dehydrated and was bonking, I gave him half a liter of water, offered more, he declined 

Steep endless rocks

Constantly leap frogging all day, thought he was ahead of me

I arrived to seep at 7:40pm

Plan:

Stay awake until 930pm

Wake up first light 620 am

Walk to saddle check for footprints etc

Check service 

Retrace steps

Visual check of rocks area

Yell his name throughout search

Begin hike back to car? Intiate SAR?

As I lay under that Juniper tree high up in the Inyos, I began to catastrophize. John is a very strong hiker, much more accomplished than I. What short of a catastroophe could have stopped him from reaching the spring? His empty water bottle certainly provided ample motivation to finish the day at the spring. Had he fallen in a hole in the massive boulder field? Had a mountain lion attacked him? Had he broken a bone?

Earlier in the day he told me a story of how his family member’s ex had gotten lost in the Inyos and fallen off a boulder. He lay there crumbled with broken bones for an excruciating five days until John’s family had called SAR. He was finally plucked out by helicopter, lucky to be alive. Had the same fate befallen John? I was barely able to sleep, but finally fell into a tenuous half awake doze at 10pm. I awoke startled at 11:30pm realizing that this was not some bad dream but my reality. Why had I let John out of my sight, especially after he was already out of water? How did I get myself into this terrible situation?

After another hour of tossing and turning, I finally returned to a half-sleep around 12:30am. At 2:45 I was startled awake by a headlamp, and elated to see John. I passed him my drom and he gratefully drank the saline water. He told me that around sunset, after a similarly arduous experience in the boulder fields, he had vomited, and collapsed for a few hours part way up the steep hillside. The dehydration and the altitude had taken its toll. But, after a few hours of angled sleep, he had felt partially better, albeit even more dehydrated post vomit. I was very glad to see him and grateful that I would not have to commence a SAR operation in the morning. I slept much more soundly, and we both woke up around 7am.

Now though, I was faced with a choice. It was Sunday morning and I had work at the school the following morning at 7am. I knew I could not afford another late night coupled with a long drive home. If we were to continue at this pace I would barely be getting any sleep at all — not ideal when trying to teach 20 second graders. I told John that unless he was feeling excellent, I would likely head back to my car. Unsurprisingly, after the ordeal of the night prior, he was feeling less than excellent. I offered that he could join me in hiking back to my car, or he could push on to his car and I would give him some extra food. We both decided to bail down the seep-hole spring trail to Mazourka Canyon, and then road walk on dirt roads back to my van.

The taste of defeat is always bitter, especially when mixed with bad sleep and saline water. As we were walking down the trail, we saw a figure in the distance. I had never seen another soul in the Inyos and John had only seen one other, eight years prior, so we both shared in our surprise. Soon, we were face to face with a cammo clad hunter, a rifle slung over his massive pack. He also shared in our surprise of encountering other humans. He remarked that John looked familiar, and I suspected that he recognized him from his YouTube channel. However, as it would turn out, he was the person whom John had run into on the Lonesome Miner Trail eight years earlier, and who had given John and our buddy Pepperflake a hitch out of Saline Valley. The chances of this encounter were of course astronomically low. Our spirits were both lifted by this serendipitous meeting, and I felt vindicated in our decision to bail. We continued down the trail, still some 18 miles separating us from the van. The trail wound its way down to the canyon, complete with nice switchbacks and a different panoramic view at every turn. The view of the Sierra had evolved quite a bit from the start of our hike. While we started the prior day on level about with Shepard Pass and Mt. Williamson, we were now across from Sawmill Pass, the mighty Split Mountain now much more visible. Whereas the view of Saline Valley to the east was rather constant, the views across to the Sierra changed every mile, the mountains continuously morphing and slowly revealing new angles.

Soon we were out of the wilderness. The hunter had told us where he had hidden his keys and offered us anything in his truck. We were touched by his trust in total strangers, but we decided to walk past his truck without disturbing it. Walking down Mazourka Canyon road, I began to plan my next trip in the Inyos. I resolved to return and complete the full traverse, now armed with beta and the unique drive that only comes from unfinished business. The miles were flying by now, and we looked up at the rocky undulating ridge high in the sky, unsure of how we were able to move up there at all.

We passed a small mining cabin and waved at the tall pair working in the yard. They invited us in for some water, we gratefully stepped over the fence and I poured out my saline drom. The taste of their spring water was incredible, and it sated a repressed thirst after liters of unsatisfying salt water. I had almost convinced myself that the salt taste was in my head, but now after tasting real water again, I knew that was not the case. They told us stories of their family visiting the cabin for generations, and the old mine that lay beneath their property. Even the pair though had not heard of the Pat Keyes trail or Seep Hole Spring far above them. They gave us each some fruit, and we thanked them and continued along our way.

Our bodies turned into machines now and we quickly covered the last 11 miles on dirt roads. Each step exactly mirroring the last, settling into a rhythm that to disrupt would feel odd. I continuously stole glances back up at the Inyos a vertical mile above us. I was glad now that I would get to return someday soon, totally transfixed by all of the beauty hidden in that unassuming range.