Noctuidae

By

Ray Purcell

When I got home the first thing I did was yard all of our gear out of the back of the truck. It would have been the second, no the third thing I did. The first thing I would have done was shower, and the second would have been open a beer; except that my son beat me to the shower, and I think my daughter may have taken my last beer- but she knows better than to cop to it. So I made the best use of the remaining daylight and spilled the contents of my backpack out onto the garage floor. As I separated out the garbage that I had packed out from our trip to Shepard Pass, a moth rolled out and fluttered about on the slab floor in a crazed Saint Vida's Dance.

I suspect that I might be similarly disposed to flop about in such a fashion had I been sacked into a nylon bag, dropped down some 8000-feet in altitude, and then unceremoniously dumped onto a garage floor. But I wasn’t, so while the moth was still fibrillating I ran into the house to fetch my copy of Sierra Nevada Natural History, An Illustrated Handbook, so that I could see what kind of moth it was. The book, written by the now deceased Tracy I. Storer and Robert L. Usinger, and now out of print, was THE field guide to take into the backcountry during the 60‘s and 70‘s. The guidebook just stays at home now, like an elderly uncle who is too frail to travel, and is only consulted at the end of the trip.

I plopped down onto the floor next to the suspected moth. Ok, no clubbed antennae, definitely a moth. Dun color with nondescript wing patterns; not much help, could be anything. Wings that look like they’ve been cut out with pinking shears- Bingo. Closest match, the Owlet Moth, a member of the species Noctuidae and “the commonest moths in the Sierra.”

I couldn’t help but think that this moth had been auspicious of this past trip into the Sierra. After all no creatures are more emblematic of metamorphosis than moths and butterflies, and this trip was certainly about changes, but not the way I‘d have thought at the outset. I am a certifiable “type-A” personality, goal oriented, and bordering on the obsessive. My wife encouraged me to grow my hair out and get an earring, the idea being, look mellow, feel mellow, and to a certain extent it’s worked. But when it comes to achieving a summit I am relentless, though not past the point of the futile or the fool hearty.

Late last winter my friend Matt invited me on a backpacking trip he was planning over Shepard’s Pass and into Williamson Basin. The goal being to bag two of the Sierras 14,000-foot peaks, Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndal. I had climbed Mt. Williamson in 1985 when I worked for the U.S. Forest Service at the Mt. Whitney Ranger District. Where I oddly didn’t remember much about the climb it’s self I do remember having been in a backcountry pissing match with a co-worker named Keith Waterfall, who, incidentally, still works on the Inyo National Forest in backcountry. Anyway, if Keith did it I had to do it.

In fact, about all that I did remember was that to get to Williamson Basin you had to go over Shepard’s Pass. Since the trailhead is at approximately 6000-feet above sea level, and the first camp is at approximately 10,000-feet, this is no trail for anyone but the most fit and seasoned backpacker. Though I had no reason to be concerned about success. Matt is a tri-athlete, and a backpacker who is part mule. Also joining the party was Duane Percy, also a tri-athlete, and accomplished mountaineer, and another friend of Matt’s, John Johnston, also a long time backpacker, who was new to peak bagging. To Matt’s credit he never plans a trip like this without including his kids, Grant and Stephanie, and each of whom are gifted athletes in their own right. My son Sean signed on as the last member of the party and he, enviably, has a natural level of fitness that seems to come with a disgusting minimum of cultivation.

I’m like an agoraphobic in the backcountry, and prefer to travel either by my self or with one other, so the prospect of a backpacking trip with six other people felt like a Sierra Club outing by comparison. We left the Symmes Creek Trailhead reasonably early and by eleven AM gained the saddle that divides Symmes Creek from Shepard Creek. After an early lunch we grudgingly accepted the hike down into the Shepard Creek Drainage which amounts to a painful, approximately 500-foot elevation loss. Its like a loan where you have to pay the interest of before you can pay on the principal.

The group began to separate into two groups at Mahogany Flat when Matt’s daughter Stephanie began to feel a worsening, painful, tightness in her thigh. While Matt, John, and Duane hung back with Stephanie, and shared her load. Sean and Grant calmly hiked on with a seeming indifference to the pitch of the trail and relentless elevation gain. I knew we weren’t far from Anvil Camp, where we had planned to spend our first night. So, I entered the “Trudge Zone“. A state of empty minded, intransitive, resignation to monotonous physical discomfort well known to backpackers and distance runners.

I was relieved when we reached Anvil Camp to find that, where there was still a large cover of late spring snow, it was far less that I had expected, and there were some bare patches of ground to set our tents on. Also, it was too blessedly early for the clouds of hemoglobin depleting mosquitoes that I’m sure would be exponentially hatching in the next two weeks. Our group didn’t take long to rejoin and we hastily set up our tents since a squall line seemed to be pushing up over the pass from the west with indeterminant intentions.

Once assured of shelter, regardless of the whims of the capricious clouds, chef Matt assembled his kitchen. We sipped hot cider and chocolate while dinner was prepared, and discussed changes in plans, since Stephanie’s leg didn’t seem up to hauling a pack over Sheppard Pass the next day. Matt was unwavering about keeping Stephanie company while encouraging the rest of us to day hike to Mt. Tyndal. With the Beef Stroganoff rehydrated we supped hungrily on ample portions which were further supplemented with mashed potatoes. With little light remaining Sean and I retired and slept the sleep of the just through an oddly warm night.

Well past Sunrise I awoke, which is odd since on the typical day I more than beat the Sun to the best part of the day. Matt was already boiling water for oatmeal and proffering coffee. Where I was at least thinking of hiking, the warm Sun and steaming coffee made it difficult to overcome the inertia of a comfortable morning. So, once we were all well feed and caffeinated, we left Matt and Stephanie for a Sierra Start on the day.

We started up to the pass and tried to stay on the north facing snowfields to avoid climbing over scree and boulders. But the snow was softening and we served our penance for a late start by postholing up to our knees a few times. I had brought skis and climbing skins but deferred using them for the bother of putting them on, only to taking them off and on again. I ultimately parked the skis below the pass rather than lug them over for uncertain use on the other side. The pass itself was fully covered with snow, which was soft enough to not require crampons, though our ice axes increased our security on the high angle slope.

We topped out on the crest of Shepard’s Pass, and the Sierra was suddenly laid out at our feet. There was easily enough snow for a skier to complete the High Route. Before us was Mt. Tyndal, and beyond, on the horizon, the distinctive beer can shape of Milestone Peak and the landmark Kaweahs to the South. More due to a late start than slow progress it was time for lunch, and we dove into the bag of cheese, salami, and crackers that Matt had supplied us with.

From the pass it was an easy walk down the gentle slope of the Upper Tyndal Creek drainage to the base of the second class North Ridge Route on Mt. Tyndal itself. We paused at the base for snacks and water, when the pain of a headache became evident on Grant’s face. Grant is loath to complain and generally sturdy, which made us all take his complaint seriously. So, when the headache didn’t ease with fluids and food Duane volunteered to accompany Grant back to camp.

John, Sean, and I remained, and began trundling up over the boulders and scree, which dominated the terrain of the North Ridge Route. I had been both admiring and wary of the towering cumulonimbus clouds that were forming to the North and over the Western Divide. About half way to the summit it began to appear that our Sierra Start and casual pace had conspired to alleviate us of the option to continue to the summit lest we get electrocuted for our indiscretion.

Returning down the pass we found that the snow had become the consistency of Cream of Wheat, with many point releases evident. As we descended we were treated to the boom and clatter sound that warned us of cornices breaking free from the cliffs that boarder the pass to the North. The speed of our descent was aided by a slushy glissade. From the bottom of the pass we saw another large point release where the snow slope had slid completely off of the underlying ground and fully exposed snowless gray earth. It appeared that the frequent and relatively wet snowfalls of late Spring never bonded to either the underlying ground or the snow. This created avalanche conditions that are uncommon in the Sierra this time of year.

I returned to my parked skis and was determined not to have hauled them all the way up here in vain. I clipped in and shoosed down a few hundred yards, removed the skis, and repeated the process. I finally found a fairly substantial run, but found that if I skied too close to the margins of the field that, even with skis on, I wound sink up to my knees in the unconsolidated snow.

Walking and skiing both became a slog, and I began to wish for the snowshoes that Sean had brought but didn’t bring on this trip. I continued our descent through posthole hell, with slush so wet that we were practically wading. John ingeniously created the technique that I’ll call the Johnston Flop. This maneuver is performed when the snow mired hiker powerfully leaps out off his/her posthole, pikes, and then flattens out, so that when the hiker lands he/she is in an inverted snow angel position. Then the hiker merely rolls down the fall line in log roll fashion with too much surface area on the snow to posthole.

Since I had brought my light skis I had worn my leather Asolo Snowfield boots. Where I’ve lovingly cared for these boots over the past fifteen years, the snow seal simply wasn’t up to this amphibious trip. By the time we walked back into camp my toes were squishing and the boots were sodden. When I pulled my feet out I poured off water and my toes looked like albino prunes.

The day had been a wonderful time spent with friends, but, but I had turned my back on a summit. It’s just not like me to walk away gracefully. I performed the ritual therapeutic positive self-affirmations: My son and I had bonded, we had not recklessly continued into a dangerous electrical storm, I was free in the wild, etc., etc, yada, yada. BULL SHIT! I hadn’t bagged the DAMN peak! I became petulant and the gathering gloom of the swirling afternoon clouds were no match for the storm that my own bad attitude was building.

Being in a large group I mightily fought off my self-indulged funk. So, when Matt brought up the next day, I didn’t throw in. I was like a mad child who, not getting his way, kicks the wall, only to discover that he has no shoes on. Besides, Tyndal isn’t that aesthetic of a peak any way, not that much of an accomplishment, I though to my self. Besides I knew that my boots wouldn’t be dry and wearable in time for Matt’s proposed Alpine start. The problem was that no one else was that excited to go again either the next day. Matt’s face betrayed his dejection. The tension stretched into a taunt eternity, until John ponyed up to go again.

“Ray, can we use your snowshoes?” Before I could answer, Matt, with his usual exuberance, told us how great it was hiking with Stephanie in the forest about our camp in the snowshoes that Duane and Sean had brought up. “We didn’t sink in at all!” “If John and I had those tomorrow we wouldn’t posthole at all.”

I was caught in that fourth dimension where the pause between question and answer dangles painfully. Selfishly I thought, “but I want you to posthole... JUST LIKE WE DID.” I was immediately ashamed, and awkwardly went off on a tangent about how dangerous the rock fall and snow slide conditions were. I was digging myself in deeper, and I knew it. I looked at Matt’s face, which I had been avoiding, lest he see my eyes had turned green. He was looking perplexed by my response. “But, can I borrow your snowshoes?”, he softy repeated. I replied “Uh, yeah, of course.”

Two pairs of snowshoes, two travelers. As the evening progressed I regretted not going, even with wet boots. I was sure that Matt would summit. He had thoughtfully planned the day to allow every opportunity for success. Not like the leisurely and social day that our own had become. But, I had approached today accepting those conditions. Like a phobic who has graduated therapy, and has to pet the snake or walk in the crowded mall. I though I had gotten past being so pathologically goal oriented. I wanted to be past being goal oriented. I had become weary of driving myself with expectation and in the end suffering ether the manic and addictive elation of success or dejection of “failure”. I want to be phlegmatic like my son, Sean. Well, back to therapy, but until then I knew the next day would be torment.

We slept well and I crawled out of the tent into the well-risen Sun. Matt and John were long gone, and I started water for coffee. I focused my mind on how pleasant the day was going to be, sip coffee and bask in the grandeur of a bright Sierra morning, lay out on a rock and luxuriate while reading. I thought, “yeah in your dreams, you’ve never been able to sit still that long”, and then I tortured myself by checking my boots. “Maybe they’re dry enough, maybe I could catch up.” I picked up the boots that were heavy with water and pinched the squishy leather between my thumb and forefinger; sadly I repositioned them in the Sun.

I’ll have to admit that for most of the morning I did fairly well being master to the beast of alpine ambition. Duane emerged from his tent, and I may be wrong, or not maybe wanting to suffer in solitude, but I sensed that he was a fellow traveler. That we both endured the same malady, and were perhaps in different phases of recovery. I think that we both saw it in each other, and through the day past positive thoughts to each others way like a life ring flung off the stern to a drowning man.

As I laid out on the glacially polished rock, pretending to read, I sensed myself sinking again. I was practically vibrating in my confinement. So, I walked back up to camp, Duane was sitting on a bear canister. Sean, Stephanie, and Grant were playing cards. Ah, how I envied them. I paced about trying to appear purposeful instead of fidgety. I tortured myself by checking my boots again- they were dryer. I regained focus, took a deep breath, and reaffirmed to myself that I couldn’t have gone with Matt and John in soaking wet boots. Then I looked at Duane; he had that look too. He started to talk about fixing lunch, and then about fixing dinner, then he started to read the labels on the freeze-dried food packages... aloud.

By the time Duane got down to reading the Recommended Dietary Allowances on the package’s nutritional labels I was stuffing snacks, water, and clothes into my daypack. My boots were dry enough; I pulled them on, shouldered my skis and headed out. I skinned up the snowfield on the North-facing slope. Clearly a lot of snow had melted since the previous day. I could see where my ski tracks had become truncated on dry ground. I meet two guys returning, who had climbed the pass the previous day. They had had the same plan as we did, to camp in Williamson bowl and climb both peaks.

They shared how they had climbed Tyndal by the Class 3 East Rib Route, and fled the summit as the dazzling lightning display that was striking the summit of Mt. Whitney turned toward them. They said that they were camped above the bowl and that when the clouds arrived it started to snow sideways. The storm passed quickly and they enjoyed a perfect sunset. Feeling that, in retrospect, summiting both peaks was too ambitious they had decided to return. Despite all reports affirming the correctness of our retreat the previous day, I still lamented not being with Matt and John today.

I skied up to the last terminal moraine before the pass, it was three-o’clock and there was no sign of John or Matt. There was no indication that an afternoon storm was forming and that calmed my concern. I sat on an enormous glacial erratic and took in the spectacular cirque while cornices collapsed sending cascades of snow and rock pouring down precipitous chutes. The boom, whoomp, and clatter reverberated across the parabola of the cirque. At last I clipped back into my skis and was thrilled by a number of good turns in the snow that had consolidated since the day before.

Back in camp a subtle tension mounted as five-O'clock approached. We waited expectantly. Finally Matt and John emerged from the trees. Clearly dog-tired, they announced that they had summited and that it had been more exciting than they had expected. They too had chosen the North Ridge Route and once they had gained the summit ridge found that they couldn’t pass a large gendarme because of a high angle and exposed snow patch that blocked the regular route. So they climbed over the top of the gendarme with an exposed and precarious down climb so they could continue out the summit ridge. They continued out to the summit over the ridge on positive holds and narrow catwalk like paths, which fell away on either side. Spending little time on the summit, they sadly found the summit register completely filled, and returned via a down climb of the East Rib.

Listening to their account of what in my mind was a wonderful adventure, I once again fought becoming sullen and morose. I clawed myself away from the brink of being self-absorbed. This was Matt and John’s moment of glory and, truly, I was happy for them. Where I didn’t know John well, I’d never seen Matt like this; he was clearly changed by their experience- they both were. I can relate. I’ve stood in this place myself, and it is one of the very best parts of climbing.

Matt has the physical strength, focused and cautious mind, and emotional maturity of a good climber. He and John had entered what climbers call the “adventure zone”, a place during a climb where the climber approaches the upper limit of emotional comfort and physical skill, and then pushes beyond. It’s an experience that places the climber in the lead, and it’s different from the same experience with a more experienced partner. It’s the difference between leading on the rope and following, a completely different headspace, a completely different reward, a metamorphosis. But, a metamorphosis that does not mark a last stage. Unlike a moth, this change is not a cycle that ends on its self, this is change that extends on like a helix, where you can never go back or loose what you’ve achieved.

How did I change? I’m not sure yet, besides this isn‘t about me anyway. But I did discover something, that when your friends are having an epic it’s hard being stuck in camp.